by Bob Spitz
By early 1968, they had looked into a variety of business propositions, but nothing had come of it. Just when it seemed that they’d have to abandon Challenge International for something more concrete, a singing coach told Joel about a friend of his who was involved in an interesting project that needed completion capital. He sent Rosenman and Roberts to a man who, with a partner, had raised $66,000 for a planned recording studio. They explained that there was a severe lack of studio space in midtown Manhattan compared to the amount of contractual work offered by the recording companies.
Joel and John researched the material that was presented to them, greatly expanded on the concept to insure its financial soundness, and decided to see it through. It was something they would, indeed, be able to finance and finish; and it was both reasonable and secure. Their ensuing investigation substantiated that it was a long-term business, one that would regenerate itself in terms of profit. After checking further with John’s investment counselors, they decided to accept an equal partnership in Media Sound Studios and, by the fall of 1968, construction was underway in a renovated church that they had purchased on West Fifty-seventh Street.
It was during this time, while supervising Media Sound’s design, that they began to consider what their next project would be. Appointments had been made and kept regarding an assortment of ventures, but so far, nothing had turned up that interested them. The old anticipation began to creep up on them again, the way firemen get jumpy when it’s been quiet for too long between fires. And just when it looked as though they needed a vacation away from the financial war zone, Miles Lourie called.
CHAPTER TWO
Estranged Bedfellows
What wretched—what miserable monster have I created?
—Dr. Frankenstein
1
On February 6, 1969, already a few minutes late for their three o’clock appointment, Michael Lang and Artie Kornfeld got out of a Checker cab on Lexington Avenue and walked the short distance along Eighty-fifth Street to the new apartment building where Challenge International Limited had its headquarters. It was a crisp winter’s afternoon, one of those days when people moved briskly from the pavement to warmer enclosures.
Once past the doorman, Lang and Kornfeld took the elevator to the thirty-second floor where they spent another minute or two picking out 32-C from a maze of numerical sequences over the apartment doors. John Roberts answered the door and invited them inside. As Michael and Artie stepped into the narrow foyer and removed their coats, the four boys exchanged an embarrassing rush of introductions to circumvent the culture shock they simultaneously experienced. Roberts wore a tailored, navy blue Brooks Brothers suit; Joel, dressed more comfortably, had on a yellow V-neck sweater over a white shirt and tie and gray slacks. Michael and Artie were hippies! Artie was “head shop mod,” a suburban hippy, the diehards would call him, polished and practiced. His leather vest was expensive and covered a tasteful multicolored shirt with a pointed collar open at the neck. His bronze hair was long but sculptured, resting delicately on the back of his collar. As East Coast director of contemporary music for Capitol Records, he dressed so that he could attend conferences with artists as diverse as the Beatles and Nat King Cole without going through a costume change.
John and Joel were startled by Michael Lang’s very presence. He was . . . well, in his own words: “real groovy,” like Saint Exupéry’s Little Prince. He seemed to glide when he crossed the room, in a shuffle that allowed him to slink unnoticed into the nearest corner but, in fact, drew attention by its very peculiarity. John, leaning against the piano, stared open-mouthed as Michael crossed in front of him and took a seat on the couch. He had seen kids like Lang hanging out on street corners asking for change and in newsreels about the hippie movement, but never before had he come into such close contact with anyone of Michael’s ilk in a business dealing.
Lang, like Kornfeld, was dressed casually, although Michael’s eclectic appearance was heavily accented by the coarseness of his street clothes: worn, faded jeans ripped and patched at the knee, scuffed sneakers, and a frayed leather vest draped over a T-shirt. His small, round face looked twice its size framed by a garland of long brown curls—like an Elizabethan actor’s wig, Joel thought—and he carried a leather bag in place of a briefcase. John sized him up as an urchin. It would be a topic of amusement for the cocktail party he was going to later that evening.
“Uh, Miles told us that you gentlemen have an interesting proposition,” John said, following them into the living room.
“You got it!” Artie said, cocking his thumb and forefinger like a loaded pistol. He settled into the couch along the far wall next to Michael. “We’re onto somethin’ so dynamite it can’t miss. Man, it’s so involved, so fuckin’ outta sight.”
John and Joel chose armchairs on either side of the couch. What could these people possibly want from us? Roberts wondered.
“You guys oughta know what we mean right away, your doin’ a studio and all,” Artie continued. “We have this far-out brainstorm for the same type o’ scene but with an altogether different concept; different vibes, y’know: soft and groovy. A retreat.”
Joel’s eyes asked his partner what two hippies could possibly want with a monastery.
“Michael’s like really into this already, man. Really. He’s got his eye on this piece o’ land up in Woodstock, a place upstate where this whole load of musicians hang out. It’s pretty groovy—real rustic and laid back, y’know, and guys like Dylan, Tim Hardin, the Band, and the Spoonful live up there. The thing is, man, they’ve got no place to put down their tracks, no place where it’s cool to act natural, do a few j’s, y’know. They’ve gotta travel two hours into the city to make a new album and that’s no good for their heads. We figure we can open a place up there where they can record and where other artists can sleep and eat and just groove on the magic.”
Michael smiled in agreement. “And with Artie’s situation bein’ what it is at Capitol, he can send a lotta other dudes our way.”
John and Joel exchanged an impassive glance.
“Michael’s livin’ up there doesn’t hurt, either. He can hang out with all the music cats and make sure they work with us, y’know, bring their friends around for a little sweetening. Pretty soon, word’ll get around that Woodstock’s the scene to make. Like, wow, man, what a great place for musicians, bein’ there and not havin’ to leave and doin’ whatever they want whenever they want. They can bop into the studio any time they get the urge and don’t hafta leave until they come up with somethin’ dynamite. As a producer, man, I know it’s a group’s dream.”
“How did you and Michael come up with this idea?” Joel asked.
Artie waved the question off as though it was a well-known fact. “Simple, man. We have this thing goin’ down together at Capitol. Michael laid a group on me and I was knocked out by them—a group called Train that he’s managing—and we got to know each other super-well. We’re like brothers, man. It took me a while to realize that, when it comes to the rock business and groovy music and all, well, Michael’s a genius at gettin’ things together. He’s one of the real moving forces around rock today.”
Michael smiled again, although this time he was faintly embarrassed. “Artie comes on a little heavy. He’s the guy, though. He’s been around and knows the score. Just havin’ him along on this thing’ll attract the biggest names in the business. We’ve gotta score big on this one. Can’t miss.”
“How long have you been in the music business?” Joel asked Lang.
“Not long. I did some shows in Florida, a festival too. But other than that, I’ve only been here a few months.”
“But he’s got it all down, man. He knows everything there is to know,” Artie interrupted. “Everything.”
“How would you handle something like this with your other job, Artie?” John asked.
“I don’t intend to carry ’em both for long,�
�� Artie said more soberly. “I’ve been tryin’ to unload my gig at Capitol for a while now. And this looks like the thing I need to tell ’em goodbye.”
“Don’t you think a studio such as this in a place like Woodstock is shutting yourself in?” asked Joel. “You’re asking every recording artist to travel and bring their business to you. And that’s a risky proposition in any book.”
“No way, man. Once word circulates, artists’ll make it their business to get up there and we’ll be booked solid for years to come. It’s outta sight, man. Just what they want.”
Roberts and Rosenman looked skeptical, but Michael assured them that he was “in touch” with what was “going down in Woodstock” and how perfect a community it was. He knew what he was talking about and wanted to make his point. “A good top-of-the-line studio and a private lodge is novel. You don’t have to be a Wall Street dude to understand that. It’s innovative, and I don’t think it can lose.”
“Look,” John interjected, “we really don’t make it a habit of getting involved with something unless we can see it on paper.”
Kornfeld assured him they would have something for his inspection in a few days’ time.
“Just out of curiosity,” Rosenman asked, “what do you think something like this retreat of yours would cost?”
Michael seemed to have all the answers. “About a half million bucks. Not a lotta bread for a gig that’ll pay itself off in a year or two and’ll then be pure gravy.”
“And we can expand this sorta thing,” Artie suggested. “I have a place in Eleuthra that’s right on the water and real peaceful. It’d be a natural for a second retreat.”
“Uh, yes. Well, thank you for coming, fellas,” John said, standing up to signal an end to the meeting. The others followed his lead. “Joel and I would like to have a look at the entire dimensions of your studio idea when you get it down on paper. Why don’t you give us a call, and we’ll get together again?”
“No need,” Michael stopped him. “We’ll have it for you in two days.”
“A complete proposal? With cash flows and equity splits?” Joel asked. His business acumen told him this was impossible.
“Sure thing, man,” Artie agreed, slipping into his jacket. “How ’bout if we set something up now? Say, maybe, on the tenth—that’s Monday—at the same time?”
John and Joel looked at each other with some degree of trepidation. “All right,” they agreed, unable to give them a definite no. It was the only way they knew of getting rid of these characters.
Without another word, the meeting disbanded.
• • •
If John and Joel were the least bit intrigued by Michael and Artie’s proposition, they kept it well hidden. The notion of tackling another recording studio after getting Media Sound off the ground bored them. It wasn’t at all challenging. John thought it wondrously strange that Joel didn’t just dismiss the proposition out of hand. And, yet, Joel seemed to be of a mind to keep the second appointment with Michael Lang and Artie Kornfeld rather than begging off and moving on to something with more inspired muscle. Joel, on the other hand, was equally surprised that John hadn’t immediately pronounced Michael and Artie “crooks” because of the way they were dressed and their colorful, if somewhat incoherent, vernacular. In his estimation, the deal was uninteresting. But Roberts, though he lived conservatively, was envious of the cultural revolution and secretly wished to be a part of it. Nonetheless, they both agreed that the proposal lacked any new direction for Challenge International. Their problem was they had never learned to say no to anybody. Now they were committed to sitting through another meeting with the hippies.
Monday afternoon, when Challenge International resumed its discussions with Lang/Kornfeld, the definition of the project was steered slightly off course because of an item in the prospectus. Near the bottom of the typewritten sheet itemizing the costs of the retreat, there was a random notation, an additional expense of a few hundred dollars curtained by the heading: “Concert/Press Party.”
By this time, John Roberts had succumbed to impatience and fidgeted in his seat. He was totally opposed to becoming involved with this venture. He felt the entire presentation—the motives, the concept, the physiognomy of these so-called confederates—lacked a professional complexion; he and Joel had already agreed not to undertake a duplicate project. He could not fathom why Joel continued to pump them for additional information.
“What’s this entry here about a press party?” Joel asked, dipping curiously over their papers.
Artie explained that in order to provide the opening of the retreat with a festive atmosphere and an equally generous helping of publicity, he and Michael thought that a party for the media and other members of the rock music community was in order. They would make an event of it, in true rock tradition. They’d convince the local celebrities to attend and, if they were extremely lucky, to perform. They had also toyed with the idea of putting together some kind of concert with these artists, which would have the potential of financing the entire studio operation.
“This has real possibilities,” Joel said, completely taken by the subject. “If everyone could be persuaded to be there—Dylan, the Band, everybody—Jesus, it could very well turn into a spectacular!”
Joel, unwittingly, had succumbed to Michael’s devious talent for seizing an opportunity. Now Lang was off and running with Joel’s enthusiasm for a concert of some kind. Along with Artie, he had tailored the press party to Roberts and Rosenman’s measurements. From the very beginning, Michael Lang had envisioned a full-scale music festival to rival the likes of anything ever put on in the world. The largest facilities available, the most awesome gathering of rock talent on any stage, a massive turnout of people (his people) as thick as a blanket of autumn leaves covering the earth; his own personal party, the likes of which would never be forgotten. Now the opportunity presented itself. Michael’s planning and outlining of a blueprint for promoting such a show had already taken up several months of his life; Artie’s participation, the retreat, and his maintaining a low profile during these preliminary meetings were merely devices for achieving specific results—any results. The elements essential to his master plan, especially complete financial indemnification by a third party, were starting to fall neatly into place.
John Roberts was slowly (but very carefully) drawn into the fold. At first, he was merely an observer who graduated to being an inquirer. As the afternoon progressed, Roberts began actively participating in the formation of the game plan, often interrupting to make a clear point regarding the financing of the operation. He performed mentally a series of multiplications and arrived at some extremely tantalizing conclusions. Assuming a well-publicized event, with a super-talent drawing card, then according to the information Michael had fed them about previous festivals, they could expect upwards of fifty thousand people to attend their show. In 1967, Monterey Pop had attracted a crowd of forty-five thousand, and Newport, limited by a relatively small jazz audience, still managed to draw twenty thousand people a day. At five dollars per head, they could take in a quarter of a million dollars a day; if they were bold enough to put on a two-day show, he reasoned, they could double or triple their take, depending on the turnover.
“We can make a goddamn fortune!” John exclaimed in amazement.
Michael continuously fed the fire, dropping off bits of information like hot sealing wax to cement the even tenor of their conversation. He estimated that the cost of talent—if they went after every top group available—would be somewhere in the area of one hundred thousand dollars with a corresponding amount to cover the rest of their expenses. That would leave them a net profit of over three hundred thousand dollars, not including what they could gross on concessions, parking, and any number of ancillary businesses that they could put together along the way. Why, there might even be a film and a record sale from the concert (like at Monterey Pop) whose profits could exc
eed their wildest expectations.
The apartment had come alive with excitement over the prospects of putting on a Woodstock music festival to finance the retreat. Ties and jackets came off, shirt sleeves were rolled up, legal pads were brought out on which the four boys furiously scribbled their notes. As evening shadows crept across the living room, Joel got up to turn on some lights and casually put a record on the stereo as background music. “Inna godda da vida, honey/don’t you know that I love you . . .” Michael’s voice was an intoxicant in contrast to the droning of Iron Butterfly. With a master’s sense of storytelling, he divulged to them his organizational resources as if they were facts, and not self-aggrandizement. He assured John, Joel, and Artie that he could handle the production. His experience promoting concerts in Miami had acquainted him with an expert staff of technicians and, with a little persuasion, they could be rounded up and brought on board to assist him. Artie’s inherent sense of promotion, coupled with his industry connections, was more than sufficient to handle publicity and open record company doors; his experience in negotiating record contracts would also come in handy when and if the time came in which they had to consider a festival record deal. John and Joel would control the flow of money and arrange for ticketing. Their symbiotic relationship was, as Michael put it, “a natural.”
The first order of business, they decided, would be to form a corporation for the mutual purposes of promoting a festival.
“Isn’t that losing sight of our original concept?” asked Artie. “I really wanted to do the retreat we talked about. This festival stuff is a super idea, but the retreat, man, well—it’s a full-time gig.”
“Look,” John said, “we’ll get things moving for the festival, and the studio’ll be a piece of cake.”