Amid the thumping disco hits and innocuous adult contempo tracks that defined the sonic landscape of the late 1970s, “What a Fool Believes” stood out.
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A wry, hooky, keyboard-driven tune with clean, glorious vocals, the Doobie Brothers version of the song was No. 1 on the Billboard Hot 100 in April 1979 and went on to win Grammy Awards for Song of the Year and Record of the Year. An ironically bouncy pop lament in which a man excitedly reunites with his lifelong crush, who clearly doesn’t remember him at all, “What a Fool Believes” remains a double shot of pure yacht rock 45 years later.
It’s also the title of the new memoir by Michael McDonald, who cowrote “What a Fool Believes” with Kenny Loggins and sang it—exquisitely—as part of the hitherto stoner rock–identified San Jose group the Doobie Brothers. Like his most famous composition, McDonald’s autobiography, which he cowrote with with comedian-actor Paul Reiser, offers a polished, pleasing mix of bemusement and regret. Throughout, McDonald presents himself as a very fortunate journeyman in a turbulent creative field.
You know McDonald’s voice even if you know nothing about him. Whether you’ve heard him singing the multitrack background on Steely Dan’s “Peg” or from other Doobie cuts and solo singles like “I Keep Forgettin’ (Every Time You’re Near),” McDonald’s soulful, high yet husky voice remains instantly recognizable to anyone alive in the 1970s and 1980s. Or even younger folks: McDonald’s smooth vocals infuriated Paul Rudd in a memorable scene from Judd Apatow’s The 40-Year-Old Virgin.
The serpentine career charted in McDonald’s book might serve as a road map for mainstream musicians of that era. For better or worse, the bearded keyboardist inhabited nearly every role in the music business and suffered all the pitfalls associated with his generation of performers.
As in so many celebrity memoirs, McDonald begins his tale at a low point: a 1971 L.A. County jail stint for DUI. He admits that alcohol and drugs “seemed to be the answer to my lack of confidence,” but life on the road and the exhaustive party atmosphere of Los Angeles didn’t help.
After an initial attempt at breaking out as a singer-songwriter, the St. Louis transplant became an in-demand session player, but solo stardom proved elusive.
In 1973, McDonald was hired to tour as keyboardist and background vocalist for Steely Dan. It was a dream come true for McDonald but soon became a dream deferred when Steely Dan founders Walter Becker and Donald Fagen discontinued as a touring act and became an exacting studio-only group. McDonald contributed as needed but found himself back to the sporadic-gigging grindstone until another superstar band sought out his keyboards and vocals.
When McDonald joined them in 1975, the Doobie Brothers were mainstream rock royalty. Somewhat to the consternation of older fans, McDonald overhauled their sound, shifting the band from their bar-band roots with his sleekly melancholy harmonies. Complaints aside, those songs—“Takin’ It to the Streets,” “Fool,” and “Real Love”—were massive hits, and 1978’s Minute by Minute LP went triple platinum. Now a bona fide celebrity, McDonald found himself in rarer air: when he met Elizabeth Taylor, she whispered to him, “I understand you’re the guy to talk to about finding us some booze.”
Branching out as a solo artist, McDonald became an It guy of the early 1980s. He was sought out by big names like Aretha Franklin, Carly Simon, Burt Bacharach, Ray Charles, and even Van Halen to cowrite songs or sing duets. He eventually moved from Los Angeles to Nashville and recorded a series of Motown covers, as well participating in the inevitable Steely Dan and Doobie Brothers reunions.
If you’re looking for a gritty music-biz tell-all (the book equivalent of VH1’s Behind the Music), What a Fool Believes: A Memoir is not the book you seek. The book’s author avoids dirt and seems willing to note only his own foibles. Blandly telling the reader that music was always “my salvation,” McDonald seems amazed that his career endured despite so many “missed opportunities,” “burned bridges,” and “dumb choices.”
By the end, he shrugs off six decades of achievement with coy modesty: “If my life had a motto, it would surely be: ‘As luck would have it.’”•
Dennis Harvey is a member of the San Francisco Bay Area Film Critics Circle and a longtime correspondent for Variety. He's written for numerous other local and national outlets including 48 Hills, Fandor, L.A. Times, and the San Francisco Chronicle.
