Lose Your Heart in the Melody: the Mellow Tunes and Tragic Life of Rick Grossman
The singer reclines on the lush, green grass. The midday sun radiates off of his truly epic late-’70s ‘fro. He tries to look cool and seductive, even showing off some chest hair, but those big chunky grandma glasses aren’t helping. This will be the image that helps introduce his songs to the world. Just above his head, to the left, in all capital letters, is his name: Rick Grossman. Below that, is the title of the album; a title that is so misguided, cheesy, and awful that it accidentally reaches an unforeseen level of brilliance: Hot Romance.
This is Rick Grossman’s story: the one album that would eventually make him a cult phenomenon, the invention that would bring him wealth beyond his wildest dreams, the unbearable turmoil that would develop between his wife and son, and the shocking, tragic ending that no one could’ve ever seen coming from a guy who, according to his music, just wanted to be mellow.
Rick Grossman grew up in the Chicago area. In 1978, he scraped together some studio time and some session musicians and set out to make an album. Judging from the sounds on Hot Romance, Rick favored himself a smooth rocker. You can hear decidedly off-kilter attempts at Steely Dan’s cool keyboards, Fleetwood Mac’s willowy guitars, and Van Morrison’s overheated mysticism. But most of all, Rick Grossman’s songs are about how good Rick Grossman is at sex. How he has so many babes following him around all the time that he practically has to shake ’em off with a stick. It’s a bizarre, yet beguiling, juxtaposition: this sunny, laid-back music partnered with Grossman’s vaguely rockabilly Lothario persona. At one point, he equates casual sex with eating Kellogg’s cereal, as if that’s a thing.
Hot Romance could be charitably described as rough around the edges. Grossman’s musicians, especially the drummer, seem almost chronically unable to stay on rhythm. And then there’s Grossman’s voice: a nasal, almost comatose deep croon that sounds like no other from this era of music. Oddly enough, the closest comparison is Edwyn Collins, the leader of the seminal Glasweigan C86/Indie Pop band Orange Juice, a band that could not be any more different from what Grossman was doing.
But in spite of all this, Hot Romance is not a bad album. It’s not abrasively out-there like most lauded private-press records tend to be; in fact, it’s rather pleasant. The best tracks on the record — “The Magic We All Hide,” “Mellow Heaven Clout,” “Lazy Days,” and “Lose Your Heart In The Melody” — could’ve even been minor hits with the AM Pop crowd. Yes, it means wading through some turgid wannabe folk epics and stuff with titles like “Sweet Young Thing,” (No, Rick. Stop It.) but for patient and open-minded listeners, Hot Romance is the very epitome of a diamond in the rough.
When all was said and done, Grossman pressed up Hot Romance in a small batch, and the record languished in obscurity for a few decades. In the meantime, Grossman made his name by creating a credit card system for the shipping and loaning industry. Before long, Grossman was climbing the corporate ladder within the medical equipment leasing firm Trans Leasing International; he would eventually hold the title of President and Chairman. Having become unexpectedly wealthy, Grossman moved his wife, Susan, and their three children, into the upscale Chicago suburb of Highland Park. Sadly, the good times didn’t last for long.
In 1992, Grossman and his wife divorced. By all accounts, the split was highly contentious: in July of that year, both Rick and Susan were arrested and charged, respectively, with battery and disorderly conduct. It would not be the only time police had to intervene at the Grossman house.
If Rick and Susan didn’t get along, that is nothing compared to the toxic relationship between Rick and his son, Michael. An angry, troubled young man, Michael got into almost constant fights with his father, sometimes resulting in the police showing up. Rick tried to do right by his son — he bought him a 1997 Chevy Camaro and paid for his tuition at Lake Forest High School. But it just wasn’t enough. Although the family maintained a bright, respectable veneer to the outside world, inside the house on Keats Lane, Rick and Michael were like oil and water. Or, more accurately, kerosene and dynamite.
As the Chicago Tribune reports on October 8, 1996, one night, Rick decided he wanted to play his piano. Apparently, his piano playing was too loud for Michael, who was trying to do his homework, and repeatedly told his father to keep the noise down. Rick blatantly ignored him and kept playing. For Michael, this would prove to be the last straw. He went to the kitchen, got a large knife, and stabbed Rick repeatedly in the neck. When police arrived, Rick Grossman was lying on his front yard, rapidly losing blood. Michael was charged with attempted murder. A few days later, the charge was upgraded to first-degree murder. Rick Grossman was dead at 44 years old.
Michael wound up pleading guilty but mentally ill. He claimed that he was schizophrenic, that he had heard voices telling him to kill his father. After a lengthy repartee, Michael was deemed fit to stand trial in spite of his mental issues. In July of 1998, a Lake County judge sentenced Michael to 24 years in prison, with the understanding that the young man would likely only serve eight to nine years. From there, the trail goes cold. If Michael Grossman was released after the abridged time, he would’ve been a free man for awhile now. Wisely, he’s decided to stay out of the public’s view.
As for Rick Grossman, his legacy lives on among those who hunger for rare, private-press records. Those who spend hundreds, even thousands, of dollars on music that no one else remembers. In this case, Rick Grossman and his music definitely deserve to be remembered. So, let’s remember him not as the victim of a sad and grisly murder, but as a cocky young musician, relaxing on the grass, just trying to stay mellow.
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Rebecca Cothern