Not For Punks: Music Biz Adventures

A place for me to share my experiences as an artist manager - the fabulous moments along with the more strenuous ones - so people can have an understanding of the entertainment business rooted in realism. To keep it fun and light, I'll be interspersing my experiences with commentary on some of my favorite things - fashion, travel, music and much more! Ciao!
How will I remember Dick Clark?  In so many ways.  I will remember him through my mother’s eyes, via grainy black and white footage of the Supremes singing a medley of hits at Big Bear Lake for one of his many 60s TV specials.  I will remember him through my own eyes, helping me to usher in many a New Year’s Eve in grand tradition.  I will remember him as a music impresario who helped music transcend all barriers.  Tastemaker.  Rock N’ Roll Trailblazer.  Fixture.  Legend.  Thank you, sir and Peaceful Journey…

How will I remember Dick Clark?  In so many ways.  I will remember him through my mother’s eyes, via grainy black and white footage of the Supremes singing a medley of hits at Big Bear Lake for one of his many 60s TV specials.  I will remember him through my own eyes, helping me to usher in many a New Year’s Eve in grand tradition.  I will remember him as a music impresario who helped music transcend all barriers.  Tastemaker.  Rock N’ Roll Trailblazer.  Fixture.  Legend.  Thank you, sir and Peaceful Journey…

the reanimated dead are never the people they were before. Oh, they sing the same, and rap the same, and have the same distinctive tattoos and hand gestures. But they don’t have the complexity, or the humanity, to really compel our interest. They’re ghosts — ghosts in a new machine, perhaps — but at best they are no more than the shadow of the shadows that they cast upon us, back when they were alive.

Perils in Payment

It’s been a minute since I wrote a purely music-related post, but some things are so shocking to the conscience, that the compulsion to write reaches fever pitch.  

A client recently played a date for a singer whose management is based on another continent.  The agreement was to pay my client by wire transfer, half before the engagements and the remainder after performance.  I sent this entity the requisite banking information and asked - as is standard practice - for them to confirm details with me before initiating transfer.  

The days leading up to the performances came and went without so much as a peep from the artist’s management.  When my client failed to receive payment a few days following performance, I inquired into the status of the transfer and received a wire confirmation with banking information that was antiquated by over three years!

So essentially, rather than using recent information duly furnished by me, these bright lightbulbs went with outdated information.  I can accept this, these sorts of clerical mishaps happen in business all the time.  I cannot, however, accept what happened afterwards.

I kindly advised this artist’s management team that they erroneously transferred my client’s pay to the wrong account, re-forwarded my client’s current banking information, and asked them to kindly remit payment. The artist’s manager advised he would do so that day.  He did not.  His underling emailed me the following day to advise  that they would not remit payment until they got the money from the erroneous wire.  

Excuse me?  YOU made a mistake and avoided all actions that could have avoided this disaster, and you expect my client’s pay to be delayed for your mistake?  No.  Pay up now, you recoup your money from your error later.  This is what happens in any normal business.  But then again, who said the music business was ever normal?  Le Sigh.

Once again, our First Lady always strikes the right tone.  She went fun and sparkly, but not juvenile at last night’s Kid’s Choice Awards.  Incredibly chic.  And her hair game remains on point, per usual.

Once again, our First Lady always strikes the right tone.  She went fun and sparkly, but not juvenile at last night’s Kid’s Choice Awards.  Incredibly chic.  And her hair game remains on point, per usual.

There are three stories about Marvin Gaye that I absolutely love.  One is told by Smokey Robinson.  The two men are on the road at a time when they are both young, married soulful sex symbols.  They are having a conversation about the solicitous women on the road, and Marvin says something about how lady parts “call” him, and he can’t help but to answer.  On the other end of the spectrum, the other is from another Motown artist, a dear friend of mine.  When she was signed to the label after winning a local contest in Detroit, she prayed for an opportunity to see the Dreamboat that was Marvin Gaye.  After the official tour of Hitsville, she roamed off to herself to hear piano playing in the room.  It was Marvin Gaye.  Careful not to be seen or heard, she peeked into the room to watch him as he played.  After he finished the song, he uttered, presumably to an audience of no one, “Th-th-th-that’s all folks” a la Porky Pig.  She was disappointed that her hot guy would do such a silly thing.  Still another story comes direct from Berry Gordy himself.  Marvin was asked to appear on the “Ed Sullivan Show,” a boon for any artist in the swinging 60s.  Marvin told Berry “no.” Paraphrasing, he explained, if they really want me, when you tell them no, they will make a big fuss to get me.  Berry, who had enjoyed a great rapport with Ed Sullivan ever since the Supremes made their legendary first appearance, did not want to concede.  Finally, he did.  He told Sullivan’s folks that Marvin didn’t want to do the show, and they indeed begged and cajoled for him to do it.  This dichotomy, the slick fella who succumbed to feminine persuasion and the little musical boy who could just play around at the piano and the highfalutin’ artist who needed to have the ego stroke of saying no, is the most endearing thing in the world to me.  I guess I have a thing for complicated, “Stubborn kinda fellows,” for whom Marvin is an obvious patron saint.   In any case, as we celebrate his tragically symmetrical life - born April 2, 1939, died April 1, 1984 - I honor this man in full measure and am grateful for personalized memories his music has brought me.  Memories of me and “the boy” (aka Deliverer of Love and Pain) dancing to “Sanctified Lady” in our favorite LA boutique hotel.  Are they an island receding into the past, or a destiny to be fulfilled?  Who knows.  But in any case, thank you, my dear Mr. Marvin Gaye.  

There are three stories about Marvin Gaye that I absolutely love.  One is told by Smokey Robinson.  The two men are on the road at a time when they are both young, married soulful sex symbols.  They are having a conversation about the solicitous women on the road, and Marvin says something about how lady parts “call” him, and he can’t help but to answer.  On the other end of the spectrum, the other is from another Motown artist, a dear friend of mine.  When she was signed to the label after winning a local contest in Detroit, she prayed for an opportunity to see the Dreamboat that was Marvin Gaye.  After the official tour of Hitsville, she roamed off to herself to hear piano playing in the room.  It was Marvin Gaye.  Careful not to be seen or heard, she peeked into the room to watch him as he played.  After he finished the song, he uttered, presumably to an audience of no one, “Th-th-th-that’s all folks” a la Porky Pig.  She was disappointed that her hot guy would do such a silly thing.  Still another story comes direct from Berry Gordy himself.  Marvin was asked to appear on the “Ed Sullivan Show,” a boon for any artist in the swinging 60s.  Marvin told Berry “no.” Paraphrasing, he explained, if they really want me, when you tell them no, they will make a big fuss to get me.  Berry, who had enjoyed a great rapport with Ed Sullivan ever since the Supremes made their legendary first appearance, did not want to concede.  Finally, he did.  He told Sullivan’s folks that Marvin didn’t want to do the show, and they indeed begged and cajoled for him to do it. 


This dichotomy, the slick fella who succumbed to feminine persuasion and the little musical boy who could just play around at the piano and the highfalutin’ artist who needed to have the ego stroke of saying no, is the most endearing thing in the world to me.  I guess I have a thing for complicated, “Stubborn kinda fellows,” for whom Marvin is an obvious patron saint.  

In any case, as we celebrate his tragically symmetrical life - born April 2, 1939, died April 1, 1984 - I honor this man in full measure and am grateful for personalized memories his music has brought me.  Memories of me and “the boy” (aka Deliverer of Love and Pain) dancing to “Sanctified Lady” in our favorite LA boutique hotel.  Are they an island receding into the past, or a destiny to be fulfilled?  Who knows.  But in any case, thank you, my dear Mr. Marvin Gaye.  

Two fabulous ladies from Detroit, Diana Ross and Aretha Franklin, celebrate their birthdays back to back.  This could be some small coincidence, but it is a significant one, because between the two ladies, they pretty much define the two main schools of Soul Divadom.  You have Aretha, full of gospel fire with all of her blues and soul feeling.  Hers was an earthy and sassy brand of divadom.  Diana Ross on the other hand offered a sweet, gamine, kittenish brand of divadom, pairing pristine pop and Tin Pan Alley with the well-placed show of soul fervor.  Trying to pick between these two, for me, is like trying to decide whether to go with crab or lobster.  Can’t I just have both?  Thankfully, I can enjoy them both.  Happy birthday ladies, and thank you for showing the multiplicity of Black Glam!!!

This couple never fails to make a dazzling, powerful and handsome entrance.  And Michelle never fails to look exquisite.  The jewelry is bold and present!

This couple never fails to make a dazzling, powerful and handsome entrance.  And Michelle never fails to look exquisite.  The jewelry is bold and present!

Hats off to the ones who go above and beyond.

Hats off to the ones who go above and beyond.

(Source: thesmithian)

This is the face of a beautiful and innocent young man, cut down way too soon.  Trayvon was interested in aviation.  One of my nearest and dearest loved ones is planning to obtain his pilot’s license next year.  Trayvon skipped out of the house to pick up a bag of Skittles and an iced tea.  I have nephews with similar appetites for junk food and drink.  He was an ace football player.  Two of my “tweener” nephews won their Little League Football championships.  My point in reciting these similarities between Trayvon and several of my loved ones is that indiscriminate killing of innocent Black men hits home on a profound level to many of us. Any one of the dynamic and wonderful Black men in my life could have been “too black suspicious” for George Zimmerman’s taste.  Any one of my incredibly accomplished friends and relatives would have found that their sterling resumes couldn’t keep them from being harassed by George Zimmerman.   This is not an isolated incident, but it’s an uncomfortable reality we all live with.  Trayvon is, sadly enough, every Black man in America.  With everyday that passes without George Zimmerman behind bars, the message sent becomes abundantly clear:  Black men’s lives - no matter how notable, beloved or accomplished - are simply not valued in this society.

This is the face of a beautiful and innocent young man, cut down way too soon.  Trayvon was interested in aviation.  One of my nearest and dearest loved ones is planning to obtain his pilot’s license next year.  Trayvon skipped out of the house to pick up a bag of Skittles and an iced tea.  I have nephews with similar appetites for junk food and drink.  He was an ace football player.  Two of my “tweener” nephews won their Little League Football championships.  My point in reciting these similarities between Trayvon and several of my loved ones is that indiscriminate killing of innocent Black men hits home on a profound level to many of us.

Any one of the dynamic and wonderful Black men in my life could have been “too black suspicious” for George Zimmerman’s taste.  Any one of my incredibly accomplished friends and relatives would have found that their sterling resumes couldn’t keep them from being harassed by George Zimmerman.  

This is not an isolated incident, but it’s an uncomfortable reality we all live with.  Trayvon is, sadly enough, every Black man in America.  With everyday that passes without George Zimmerman behind bars, the message sent becomes abundantly clear:  Black men’s lives - no matter how notable, beloved or accomplished - are simply not valued in this society.

The Anima Sola is a story that was introduced to me, eerily enough, by way of my erstwhile inamorato.  One day, he texted me to ask what the words Anima Sola meant, knowing that I have an affinity for Latin.  I told him it meant solitary or forsaken soul and thought nothing of it.  He told me the phrase had lingered in his mind after a dream.  When I looked it up, out of natural curiosity, I was shocked.  The picture references a female soul in purgatory, chained and in flames.  The backstory is that the woman foolishly but earnestly seeks love, leading her to this infernal scene.   I remember the conversation vividly, and asked him jokingly, “I hope you have better plans for my heart than this, buddy!”  He reassured me said at the time for that moment, that he would never leave me in such dire, fiery straits because I am that precious to him, and earning my heart was among the best things that ever happened to him.  I made him a better man, he often said.  Well suffice it to say, never was not as definitive to him as it was to me and precious is relative because sure enough that is figuratively where I am: in flames and in chains, left wondering what it was that led to this, what did I do wrong, where in the giving of the love did I earn such a fate?  Not a fun place to be in, I assure you.   So to all my lovers in the house I urge you to be kind.  To listen.  And not to ignore or turn your back on someone when the darkness of their emotions becomes too real because of some pain you have caused them.  The random dropoff into sadness and gloom is unnecessary and unwarranted.  Just because others do it doesn’t mean you should pick up a bad habit that could potentially leave someone in pain.  That’s all. 

The Anima Sola is a story that was introduced to me, eerily enough, by way of my erstwhile inamorato.  One day, he texted me to ask what the words Anima Sola meant, knowing that I have an affinity for Latin.  I told him it meant solitary or forsaken soul and thought nothing of it.  He told me the phrase had lingered in his mind after a dream.  When I looked it up, out of natural curiosity, I was shocked.  The picture references a female soul in purgatory, chained and in flames.  The backstory is that the woman foolishly but earnestly seeks love, leading her to this infernal scene.  

I remember the conversation vividly, and asked him jokingly, “I hope you have better plans for my heart than this, buddy!”  He reassured me said at the time for that moment, that he would never leave me in such dire, fiery straits because I am that precious to him, and earning my heart was among the best things that ever happened to him.  I made him a better man, he often said.  Well suffice it to say, never was not as definitive to him as it was to me and precious is relative because sure enough that is figuratively where I am: in flames and in chains, left wondering what it was that led to this, what did I do wrong, where in the giving of the love did I earn such a fate?  Not a fun place to be in, I assure you.  

So to all my lovers in the house I urge you to be kind.  To listen.  And not to ignore or turn your back on someone when the darkness of their emotions becomes too real because of some pain you have caused them.  The random dropoff into sadness and gloom is unnecessary and unwarranted.  Just because others do it doesn’t mean you should pick up a bad habit that could potentially leave someone in pain.  That’s all.