The Making of a Saint: The Meteoric Rise of Pete Santangelo (excerpt)

Submitted by Jane Carroway for

The view from the apartment where I'm standing is stunning. Incredible, even. In fact, if you looked up "million dollar view" online, you'd probably see what I'm looking at right now.

The confluence of the Hudson and East Rivers can be seen, with Lady Liberty off in the distance. The rest of New York Harbor gleams behind her. There are tantalizing peeks at the top of the Brooklyn Bridge supports, and even glimpses of the Manhattan Bridge, possibly, though that might just be wishful thinking. All of southern Manhattan is spread out in a sweeping vista. Numerous tall buildings where other lucky people are no doubt enjoying equally spectacular views dot the horizon.

It must be a glittering wonderland at night.

There's also a huge terrace that looks like a lush, tropical garden. It's a well-known fact that Pete has quite the green thumb.

This reporter is floored. This reporter is just a humble thing from the hinterlands of New Jersey, so it doesn't take much, granted, but wow.

And no one's even entered the room yet.

Speaking of the room: There are books everywhere. Every flat surface has something printed lying on it. There are also floor to ceiling bookshelves on either side of the bison-roasting-on-a-spit-sized fireplace, the kind with the cool attached ladders, and this isn't even taking into account the actual presence of a library in the open loft. It looks colorful and cozy up there, with a couple of squashy and comfortable looking chairs that beg to be sat in with a cup of tea and a lap rug.

Whoever lives here has serious reading addiction issues, in addition to having gobs of money.

Other than the plethora of reading material, this huge, beautiful, dare I say perfect room also contains a mammoth grand piano, finished in shiny mahogany, and a very sophisticated looking sound system. In this day and age of iPods and music on the go, it's refreshing, comforting, almost, to be in a room with a turntable, and LPs carefully stored next to it.

Over the aforementioned fireplace is a nearly life-sized photograph of five children, each child completely adorable in a different way from the others, ranging in age from maybe ten years old, right on down to a baby. They appear to be dancing in front of a wave on a beach.

The floors are gorgeous polished wood, and numerous rugs designate the various areas, along with a huge, long sofa that could seat possibly an entire baseball team.

So, this room is amazing, even before the owner of it has entered.

And speaking of the owner, here he comes now, pulling a shirt over his head as he arrives. His head emerges from the neck as he shakes his glorious hair back out of his face.

"Hi, I'm Pete," he says, holding out both arms, just inviting this reporter to step into them.

Which she does, post-haste, holding the embrace long enough to slyly inhale a huge whiff of the most alluring scent. Let's call it "Essence of Pete," shall we? It's swoon-inducing, ladies and gents, for real. A combination of who knows what—cologne, deodorant, shampoo? And something magical.

Does he greet everyone this way?

"Please, please, have a seat," he invites, gesturing to the wonderful sofa. He sits next to me, smiling, blinking, running his hand through his hair in another attempt to get it off his face.

Pete Santangelo is a truly stunning example of a person with charisma. Even if he weren't drop dead and go to heaven beautiful, he would still have that charm, that magnetism that some people are born with, that ability to make you feel comfortable and at home, happy to be in their presence. You know, like George Clooney, maybe? Or the Dalai Lama? Yeah, like that.

However, in addition to this mysterious je ne sais quoi, Pete does happen to be beautiful, with a lean build, with green eyes, miles of eyelashes, and these cheekbones...Okay, this reporter is going to hear from her significant other when he proofreads this piece, unless she locks this down, right here, right now.

Which she is doing.

Ahem.

"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting," he continues, shaking his head. "We knew you were coming, of course, but time got away from us in the kitchen." He gestures behind himself, to a bright, cheerful kitchen, where a fluffy cat is sunning herself on a windowsill.

"We were making Baba Ganoush," he explains.

What?

"One of my daughter's classmates did a report about the country she's from, and Baba Ganoush was one of the native dishes she talked about. It sounded interesting, so we decided to make some," he finished with a smile.

Is this a common occurrence at the Santangelo house? Cooking interesting sounding things for fun?

"Absolutely," he answers with a nod. "I want my children to be open to trying anything, you know? Not just burgers from Five Napkin or whatever, though those are wonderful, veramente."

Did this reporter mention that Pete's hotness factor gets multiplied exponentially when he speaks Italian? Because it does.

Ahem.

Pete Santangelo was born and raised on a working family winery in Tuscany, where he helped with everything, from the spraying of the grapes, to the picking, to the crush, until he came to the Big Apple as a college student. He met and married his American wife Daisy while attending Columbia university as a music student, and began performing at clubs in the city as his family grew.

His big break came during a tour of the Eastern Seaboard and Canada, when the musical guest on Saturday Night Live had to pull out of a show, and Pete was asked to fill in on a few days' notice. He happened to be in New York City on that day, and was able to make the performance. It was epic, a life-altering appearance that caused his career to explode. He went from being a moderately successful musician and singer to being a superstar.

He's ridden this wave of fame and fortune for the last five years or so, branching out into acting, both in films and on Broadway. His accolades include many Peoples' Choice awards, too many top one hundred lists to name, and most recently, a grammy nomination.

And during all of this, he has somehow remained in his original marriage, to his original wife. They have five children (the ones doing the beach dancing), both biological and adopted, and Pete appears to be thriving.

Not that his life has been an idyll, though.

He's recently had a run of awful luck. While touring in Europe, he had a stalking incident which ended when his wife literally threw the woman off a second story balcony. There were also scandals involving allegations of improper conduct with his daughters in a public restroom (all disproven and discredited), and a sex tape of his wife from when she was in college which Pete has spent a small fortune keeping off the internet.

When asked if he's happy, however, his smile widens, if that's possible.

"Yes," he answers immediately. "I have my beautiful family, my wonderful bambini, and my wife, my Daisy, who makes me happy in every way."

Would he really have followed through with his threat to retire from the business?

He thinks, drawing his brows together and tracing a pattern on the arm of the couch as he ruminates.

"If things had continued the way they had, with our privacy being invaded on such a constant basis, with my family being threatened? I believe yes," he finally answers, nodding.

"Don't get me wrong," he goes on. "I love music, everything about it. I love writing songs, I love performing, I love my guitar, the sounds it produces. The process of pulling a song together, of arranging the parts of it for an album? Those things are an incredible gift, and I'm so happy to be able to do it. And I've recently discovered acting, which a whole different experience. The creation of a movie from a performance I've given, yeah, it's such a marvelous feeling."

He sits back, looking up at the photograph over the fireplace. "But none of it compares to that, you know? I mean, look at them. They sparkle and glow, don't they?"

Suddenly a huge pile of fur comes over the back of the sofa, landing right on top of Pete.

"Oddio, Della, calmati, per favore, calm down!" Pete is laughing as he tries to get what seems to be a ginormous dog to get off the couch and chill.

Della is beyond calming, apparently.

As with all dogs, she's mad about having company, and has to give this reporter a complete and thorough sniffing.

Everywhere.

Combined with licking.

"I'm sorry," Pete apologizes. "They were supposed to keep her back there, but someone must've opened a door—"

We hear gasps, along with the thudding of numerous little feet.

"Daddy? We're sorry."

There are two little girls standing in the kitchen, looking over at us, looking woebegone. They are of a size, standing there, hands clasped. Even their hair is the same shape, though completely different in color. In an earlier article for this magazine, these two were described as looking like "walking bits of dandelion fluff, one orange, one black," and that description still applies.

"Mommy was in the bathroom, and we just opened the door a really little bit, just to see if we could hear you maybe, and Della just, you know, ran past us, so fast."

These girls, who are named Charlotte and Sabrina, if this reporter's notes are correct, are staring at Pete, eyes roughly the size of the proverbial saucers.

"Piccola, Cucciola, venite qui, come here," Pete calls, gesturing to the girls.

The two bits of dandelion fluff come our way, still holding hands.

They have got to be the cutest kids ever.

"We're sorry." The one with the dark hair speaks, while the freckled one nods her agreement, causing her hair to bounce.

"It's okay, it's okay," he assures them, gathering them into his arms and setting them on his lap.

Della, having decided that this visitor is acceptable, has flopped down on the hearth.

Pete turns to me and takes a deep breath to say something, but he's stopped before he can get a word out.

"You guys! You're not supposed to be out here!"

These words come from the hallway, and are uttered in an accusatory hiss. They're followed by a gasp, as another voice is heard. "I didn't let them out, honest!"

Pete laughs, and in beautiful Italian, tells the owners of the voices to join us. Two more girls materialize, bigger than the first two, though no less darling. The taller one, Cliona, is almost not a child anymore. She has wavy, shoulder length hair, while the other girl, Francesca, is a curly blonde who kind of looks like a cherubic Harpo Marx. They sit next to their father and manage to look guilty and accusing at the same time.

Clio sees the dog lying on the bricks and turns back to her little sisters. "And you let Della out, too, you guys! Daddy said not to—"

Pete shushes Clio before the little ones can burst into tears.

"It's okay, it's okay," he repeats. "You're all here now, so let's just chat and wait for your mamma and Finn, hmm? I'm sure she'll be joining us shortly."

Sure enough, before introductions can be completed, we're joined by Pete's gorgeous wife, Daisy, and his youngest child, and the only boy, who looks exactly like Pete in miniature, right down to the eyelashes and dark hair.

"Pete, I'm so sorry!" she says, shaking her head and looking worried. "I just went into the bathroom for a minute, I swear." She looks at her brood, unable to suppress a smile.

"Come on, guys, let's go," she says, making shooing motions with her hand as she balances the baby on her hip.

"No no, cara, please, just sit down," Pete says. "We were talking about family, anyway, and I want her to see and know you in person, so she can understand what I'm talking about, veramente." He nods at his wife for emphasis.

Daisy sits down after being assured that her presence and that of her children is welcomed.

"So now you see, right?" Pete gestures to the people around him. They resemble a modern version of the von Trapp family, updated for the new millennium.

Daisy is benevolent warmth personified, and it's no wonder that Pete is so crazy about her. Everyone relaxes and settles down, and soon every child is cuddled into one adult or the other, in physical contact, like a woodland creature settling in for the night with a parent.

"So, as I was saying," Pete continues, gently stroking one child or another. "This was threatened, and I can't have that. I could and would walk away without a backward glance to protect it."

He glances at his wife, who has quietly begun to nurse their baby.

"Luckily, I don't have to," he says. "My fans really came through for me, you know?"

He's referring to his recent efforts to scrub the video of his wife. He sent out an open letter to his fans, asking them to report all uploads of the video to a special website. He also went after the person who made the video, and the original distributor of the post, suing both. He has managed to get it off the internet, and no new postings have appeared in the past few months.

So does this mean that the free concerts he promised, both here and in Europe, are a go?

"Yes, that's right," he responds. "I'm so excited about this. We're making a film of the entire process, both shows, and all the profits from sales will go to one of my charities."

Pete has recently established a foundation to support numerous worthy causes, like the global clean water initiative, and hurricane relief.

It's really not a coincidence that his last name is what it is, you know? He's revered the world over by his fans and supporters, who buy his music and see his films in droves. The free concert, to be held right here in New York City's Central Park, is expected to draw tens of thousands.

When asked what one word would best describe her husband, Daisy, who is still nursing little Finn, doesn't even have to think before she answers.

"Patience," she says without hesitation. "When we first met, I had a few personal issues to work out, and I really made a mess of some things, you know?" She looks at this reporter out of the same blue eyes she has bequeathed to two of her daughters. "And when the smoke cleared, Pete was still here, just waiting for me to get my shit together." She smiles at her husband. "And I honestly don't remember a time when he's just, flown off the handle at one of the kids."

All around them, the children are all nodding in agreement.

Pete Santangelo has never, ever, gotten angry and impatient with his children?
Ever?

"Even when Clio almost died climbing a tree to save a bird that flew away," Francesca informs me.

"And she had to get all her hair cut off, remember?" Charlotte asks, as if it happened long, long ago, instead of within the past year.

"And then we went outside with the scissors and all cut our hair off so she wouldn't feel alone and bad," Sabrina adds.

Did that really happen?

"Oh yes," Daisy affirms.

Finn has fallen asleep while nursing, and Daisy cuddles him as she speaks.

"I came home from the emergency room with Clio, where they'd basically shaved her head to get it to not look so terrible, and we walked in and the first thing I saw was all of them, Francie, Lottie and Brina, standing in a row, bald as cueballs."

"And then, and then, Finn got so so sad because he still had all his hair, remember?" Lottie adds, looking at her sleeping brother.

She turns to me as she continues talking. "He saw his reflection and got all sad, you know? He touched his head and went, 'anch'io,' and that means 'me too' in Italian," she informs me.

So what did they do?

"We cut off all his hair," Brina tells me, as if it should be obvious. "We didn't want Finn to feel left out, either."

Pete smiles again. "This is our life, my wonderful life, every day," he says. "How could I ever want anything else more?"

The complete interview with Pete Santangelo (and his family) will be available in the next issue of Rolling Stone.

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