If critics hate him, fans love his music

Published 11 January 2009 in Winnipeg Free Press:

Hitman: Forty Years Making Music, Topping Charts and Winning Grammys
By David Foster with Pablo F. Fenjves
Pocket Books, 234 pages, $30

Reviewed by Mike Stimpson

David Foster makes pop music -- "pop" as in "popular," he reminds us in his memoir.

And he's been rather successful at his trade, producing and writing hits for Celine Dion, Whitney Houston, Chicago and many other superstars.

Never a critic's darling, Foster produces slick commercial fare that sticks in your head and gets heavy rotation on radio playlists. And he makes no apologies to "purists" who say his work lacks artistic merit.

"I've somehow figured out a way to tap into what the masses respond to," the B.C. native (now a Los Angeles resident) writes. "I can only be who I am, and who I am is a guy who writes music that people make babies to -- and I'm not going to apologize for it."

It's no surprise, then, that this jaunty, easy-to-read memoir offers no great insights into the creative process. On that, Foster has little to offer because he's a craftsman, not an artist, cranking out musical knick-knacks for the masses. He is to music as Gap is to couture.

Since this memoir isn't about the cerebral process of creating aural masterpieces, one might expect Foster to make it worth the $30 cover price by dishing on celebrities with whom he has worked.

Sadly, there's little of that.

Many, many celebrities -- including more than a few non-musical ones, like Brian Mulroney and Donald Trump -- are mentioned, but Hitman is almost as free of dirt as Niles Crane's fingernails.

Sure, he tells us Chicago stuck with him for three successful albums and then dissed him in the liner notes of a more recent album. But that's not dirt, that's just a minor gripe.

He discloses that Barbra Streisand is a perfectionist and Frank Sinatra was a potty-mouthed curmudgeon, which is news to no one.

The book has an anecdote about finding Madonna "in some kind of Zen pose" in a recording studio and whinging about needing "a real man."

To Foster, the story is all about the star's "vulnerability and loneliness." Others might see it as a symptom of how annoyingly self-absorbed the Material Girl is.

There is a point when the reader thinks Foster's about to deliver some serious dirt about Cher.

He tells of cutting a record with Sonny Bono and Cher, after that pair's divorce, and reports that the diva was rude and in a hurry to leave the studio.

But then he makes excuses for Cher's behaviour ("Sonny was clearly the last guy on the planet she wanted anything to do with"), and declares that "in years to come this great lady became a terrific friend."

He also writes of telling the great Stevie Wonder an album of his "sucks," and gives a few details on why his own three marriages fell apart.

That's as far as the dirty dishing goes.

Which is too bad, because without some serious dish Foster's memoir lacks a strong selling point other than the inspiration to be found in the story of a Vancouver Island boy whose hard work and perseverance brought him to the pinnacle of the music industry in L.A.

(One might expect a guy from B.C. to know Yellowknife isn't in Alberta, by the way. We digress.)

The book also would have benefited from an index and a discography of Foster's prolific output.

But, not to belabour the point, the content's blandness is Hitman's fatal flaw.

To put it in terms Foster can readily understand, this book needs a hook. It ain't got one.