Life on Planet Rock

by Lonn Friend

  “You started this thing, Eric. It seems only right that you take it to its logical conclusion, if there is one. I’m still not sure I even want to work in the record business. Clive’s kind of strange.”

  Enter the universe, once again. Westwood One was pulling the plug on Pirate Radio Saturday Night because the L.A. affiliate, KQLZ, had been sold and the station was changing to a Spanish-language format. There were signs that KLOS program director Carey Curelop was going to pick up my program, but at the last minute, he backed out. And even though I had monster ratings in Baltimore, Boston, and Indianapolis, you can’t have a syndicated rock show if you’re not on the air in Los Angeles.

  In April 1994, Eric started talking money with Roy, and I went about my business as a rock journalist with the recently added offer to cohost a syndicated morning show for two weeks with Alice Cooper produced by the Satellite Music Network based in Dallas. Z-Rock, a division of SMN, was beaming metal out into space and bouncing it back to affiliates around the country. Alice’s Attic was the brainchild of FM programming guru Lee Abrams, who would later cofound the revolutionary XM Satellite Radio network. Cooper and Friend hit the airwaves April 11 for an eleven-day run. Eric talked turkey with Roy while I talked metal with Alice.

  After several go-rounds where both Eric and I agreed the offer still wasn’t serious enough for me to abandon a well-earned media career, he called me in Dallas on April 14. “Okay, let’s just ask for the moon and see what they say. They really want you. You couldn’t be in a stronger negotiating position.” I had done some digging in the meantime, calling certain record executives whom I trusted and who had a history with Clive to ask them what they thought about the opportunity

  “One person cannot change a culture,” cautioned Sony executive vice president Michele Anthony, a former attorney who’d never missed a RIP party.

  “He’s the greatest teacher in the business,” offered Columbia president Donnie Ienner, arguably Clive’s most successful protégé. “But you’ll probably have a tough time because he won’t give you the autonomy you’ll need to develop a roster.”

  Even Michael Lippman, who worked for Clive in business affairs at Arista in the ‘80s, had reservations. “I know you and I know him. He’s controlling and you’re a free spirit. It could be very frustrating for you.”

  The last person I polled was Clive’s former head of marketing who’d risen to top of the industry food chain to become president of Madonna’s new label, Maverick Records. “Don’t do it, Lonn,” pleaded Abbey Konowitch. “Trust me. Don’t do it.”

  Arista’s final offer was huge, at least for me. My annual salary at Flynt after thirteen years was $81,000. I didn’t have the Pirate Show anymore, which had been netting me $60,000 a year, or the Headbangers Ball gig, worth $30,000 a year for the two years I was on the network. From 1992 to 1993, I composed the “Friend to All” column for the influential industry tip sheet Hits magazine and edited the “Peddle to the Metal” section, where I took a percentage of the ad revenues placed by record labels in my pages. That moonlighting adventure put about $30,000 in my pocket. Then when I jumped ship to edit the “Rawk” section of The Album Network, a competing smoke-and-mirrors industrial rag, my take doubled to almost $60,000 over about eight months.

  My income outside RIP was pretty impressive, but Arista was throwing out numbers I’d never seen before. Three-year contract: $175,000/$200,000/$225,000, with a $30,000 annual expense account, yearly executive bonus commensurate with label performance, guaranteed business-class travel in the continental U.S., and a $150,000 signing bonus—the ticket to a new neighborhood. “Okay, let’s do it,” I said to Eric. “But before I sign the contract, I need to meet with Clive personally. I have a couple concerns.”

  Arista flew me to New York, and I sat with the big man in the office he keeps at 55 degrees (the staff called it the Meat Locker). “Clive, I’m very excited about the offer and coming to work for Arista, but I have to ask you something point blank.”

  He stared me straight in the eye. “You can ask me anything, Lonn.” I was completely forthright.

  “Donnie Ienner, Michele Anthony, Abbey Konowitch, and Michael Lippman all told me that you wouldn’t give me signing power on bands. Is that true?”

  He looked ruffled but didn’t hesitate for a second in his response. “I mentored those executives,” he said defensively. “They learned the business from me. You will have signing power and a great company behind you to help build a rock roster.” With that, I shook his hand and entered into a pact that would change my life forever. The pragmatic rebel had just made his first Faustian deal.

  Joyce had been skeptical throughout the Arista courtship. “You may regret this, Lonn,” she said. “You love being a rock journalist, flying around with bands. You hate suits. I hope you know what you’re doing.” But her tone softened when the check for the signing bonus arrived. “Before we start looking for a house, let’s do some traveling. My contract doesn’t start for a month.” First stop was Maui, where we spent two weeks in a condo directly adjacent to Shep Gordon’s property in Kihei. I swam every day with Megan, some days in the pool, others in the emerald ocean just steps from our veranda.

  On Monday, June 13, just before heading back to the mainland, a news story broke. Football star O. J. Simpson’s wife, Nicole, and a Brentwood waiter named Ron Goldman had been found murdered in front of her Bundy Drive condominium, a block from my friend (and Rolling Stone coauthor of “Slash”) Jeff Ressner’s house, who’d recently jumped Jann’s ship for a staff-writer position at Time magazine. Had he not been attending a Pretenders concert with Joyce’s Chico State pal Holly, Jeff may have broken the story of the decade. I liked to think that my friend was saved the karma of that media fiasco by rock ‘n’ roll.

  Returning to L.A., Joyce and I attended a party in Pacific Palisades in honor of our friends Karen and Ned Nalle, who’d tied the knot back East earlier in the month. That’s when a dark-haired young man in his late twenties tapped me on the shoulder and said, “You’re Lonn Friend. The new A&R guy at Arista.” News travels fast, I thought. “My family’s from Philly old friends of the Nalles.” His name was David Wike, tall, handsome, well spoken. He described himself as a part-time drummer, part-time actor. But it was his younger brother, Mark, who he wanted to tell me about. “He plays bass in a band from New York called the Bogmen. They’re the biggest unsigned draw in Manhattan. I have a demo tape here with two tracks. Just give it a listen and call me.”

  The songs on the cassette were called “Raga” and “The Doubter’s Glass.” And they were like nothing I’d ever heard before. The rhythms were tribal but with an early U2 sonic sophistication. The singer’s voice soared and fell. There were hooks everywhere. This blew away the drivel Clive had played me at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. I listened to the cassette ten times. “They’re really cool,” opined my wife. “You should check it out.”

  I called David the next day and expressed my enthusiasm. “They’re playing the Limelight on the twenty-seventh,” he informed me. That was in less than a week. “They’re going to sell it out. The actress Penelope Ann Miller is a big fan. She’s doing Letterman that night and then going to the show. The tape is nothing compared to the live performance. They’re insane. [Lead singer] Billy Campion is a superstar.”

  Again, I wasn’t looking for this, but it demanded proper attention. I booked a flight to New York, informing the label that I wanted to start my gig a few days early. There were no objections.

  At midnight, June 27, 1994, a thousand fans wailed as Billy Campion, Bill Ryan, Brendon Ryan, Mark Wike, P. J. O’Connor, and Clive Tucker took the stage. David was in the balcony with the girl who’d once tamed the hearts of Al Pacino and Matthew Broderick both onscreen, in the films Carlito’s Way and The Freshman, and off. I pushed my way to the middle of the floor, shoulder to shoulder with the throng, half of whom had traversed bridge and tunnel from Long Island—birthplace of O’Connor, the Ryan brothers, and leader Campion—to wit
ness their blue-collar heroes raise the roof of the building that once was a church but now harbored the spirits of rock ‘n’ roll.

  For seventy minutes, I was spellbound. Campion stalked and whirled about the stage like a deranged Sufi dervish. He was part hypnotic Bono, part idiosyncratic David Byrne, part lounge-lizard Sinatra. He commanded every eyeball in the room as the five competent musicians behind him created a tapestry of melody that reached down into the solar plexus and stole the breath away.

  They closed the set with a bizarre and infectious breakup ballad called “Suddenly,” which drove the audience nuts. I wasn’t thinking about my past or my future. These unknown musical entities had me fixated on the present moment.

  After the performance, David walked me back into the tiny dressing room and introduced me to the guys, as well as to Penelope, who was absolutely gushing. “When you guys get signed, I’ll talk to David Letterman. He’ll love you!”

  The band was all smiles and fully charged after delivering what they knew was a slam-dunk set. They teased me about my new job. “So, what do you say we break in that new expense account?” laughed the Captain, the band’s nickname for Campion.

  “Why the fuck not?” I responded. An hour later, we were in my suite at the Parker Meridien hotel on West Fifty-seventh, ordering food and drink as if the boys hadn’t eaten in a week. Maybe they hadn’t.

  Around 2 A.M., I estimated the party tab was approaching a grand, but I was feeling omnipotent and falling in love at the same time. These boys were so genuine, alive, untainted by the trappings of fame and fortune. I’d spent the past eight years observing and cohabitating with artists who’d already gotten their chance to show the world what they had to offer and, in many cases, had broken though. There was something refreshing and exhilarating about being here at the beginning, before the journey had even begun.

  After hours of conversation, I found myself standing in the middle of the room clad only in my boxer shorts, an illustration of how comfortable I felt, when the urge to get up on stage hit me. It wasn’t the Forum on my birthday in front of twenty thousand mad-eyed Guns N’ Roses fans. It was the morning before the first day of my new job in a $250-a-night Manhattan hotel room, and the audience was considerably smaller but far more attentive. “Listen, fellas, I need to tell you something. I haven’t even started my gig yet and I’ve no fucking clue what I’m doing, but I don’t believe in accidents. What do you say I try to sign you guys to Arista Records?”

  “More beer!” cried Bill Ryan.

  “Listen, Lonn, I know who you are. You were editor of RIP magazine.” The drummer, Clive Tucker, was the only metalhead in the band. The others didn’t know or care where I came from. “I saw you in the Red Hot Chili Peppers Funky Monks home video. You’re telling Anthony that the whole Blood, Sugar record is about sex. ‘There’s a boner in every groove’—awesome line.” That’s when I looked around the room and noticed the Captain was no longer on the bridge. “Where’s Billy?” I asked.

  “Try the bathroom,” said P. J. with a smirk.

  Sure enough, that’s where I found the eccentric and clothed young Mr. Campion, faceup in a tub full of water. He looked unconscious and it freaked me out for a minute. “Billy! We just met, man. Don’t pull a Cobain on me!”

  One eye cracked open. “Lonnie, I’m just napping. It’s nice and warm in here. Don’t worry. I ain’t going nowhere.” No one but my mother ever called me Lonnie.

  Most of the boys crashed out in various parts of my hotel room, with the exception of Campion, who was still out cold in the tub, though the water had been drained. I, on the other hand, didn’t sleep a wink. In the morning I went downstairs to use the telephone in the lobby and called the New York office, asking to speak to Roy. “He’s on holiday in the Hamptons, but I’ll make sure he gets your message.” Four hours later, the phone rang upstairs. I informed Roy of my magical evening and asked him if I was insane to want to sign the first band I saw.

  “Well, not if they’re the real deal,” he replied. “It is unusual, but if you believe in this band, go for it. I suggest that you call Clive and articulate to him your thoughts. He’s on vacation in Capri, but Rose will find him for you. When Clive and I return in a week, we’ll figure this out. In the meantime, get to know the managers, gather up all their demos—follow your instincts.”

  “Tell me about this group that blew you away, Lonn.” Clive was on an island in the Mediterranean, vacationing with the rich and famous, and I was interrupting his rest with what must have sounded like the rantings of a lunatic. Nevertheless, he listened to every word I said about the Bogmen and did not dismiss my excitement. He asked me if I thought Billy was a star, and I replied, “Unquestionably.” “Do you think their songs fit into the modern-rock format? I would love for your first signing to be a modern-rock band, Lonn.”

  I felt pumped up after talking to Clive and spent the next week in New York getting to know the people at the label. Arista’s West Coast branch had a couple dozen employees. Besides me, the only other vice president back home was Jacquie Perryman in the soundtrack division, whom I’d had considerable interaction with during the Airheads campaign. But the nuclear core of Arista resided inside a narrow eleven-story building located at 6 West Fifty-seventh in midtown Manhattan.

  During my first week, I received a crash course in big-label infrastructure, visiting the different departments and shooting the shit with dozens of the company’s more than two hundred East Coast staffers. I mentioned the Bogmen to every person I met, most notably Tom Ennis, head of artist development. He had been at the Limelight show but left before we could meet. “The Bogmen!” he exclaimed as I pranced into this office.

  “I feel like I already know you, Tom. Will you help me on this one? I’m not exactly sure what I’m doing.”

  He shook my hand and replied, “You’re doing exactly what you should be doing, buddy. And I’m right there with you.”

  It came down to personality, something I’d always relied on to get me from point A to point B. The entire month of July, I ate, slept, and breathed the Bogmen. Those efforts culminated on August 2, when band and label reached an agreement. As synchronicity would have it, they were playing Irving Plaza that night, and I spent the entire day networking my New York Rolodex to get people out to the celebratory show. Clive and Roy stood behind me 100 percent, unprecedented behavior, I was told, since neither one had yet to see the band perform and rarely signed off on a two-LP, half-million-dollar deal before having the live experience.

  The club was jammed to the rafters that night. Bogmen fans were loud, intoxicated, animated, knew every word to every song, and had no qualms about singing along with Billy whenever the urge hit. I was standing in the VIP balcony next to the soundboard. Clive arrived around the fifth song with Andy Schuon, head of programming for MTV He told me they were having dinner together. This was an extraordinary show of faith. The band was on fire. Billy resembled an artist who’d toured the world five times, exuding a comfort and confidence onstage far beyond his pedigree. When the left-field resounding ballad “Dr. Jerome” came to its crashing end, Clive put his arm around me and yelled into my ear, “Lonn, I love them. I would have signed this band. Congratulations.”

  I felt like I’d just been knighted. “Thanks, boss,” I said.

  “Lonn, I’m going down to the pit. I want to experience them up close. I’ll see you up here afterward.” Clive Davis was heading for the pit at Irving Plaza to get down and dirty with the Bogmen faithful. You could have thrown a blanket over me.

  A few songs later, an old friend appeared in the balcony. It was Michael Goldstone, the A&R visionary who’d signed Pearl Jam and introduced me to his brave new star, Eddie Vedder, a few short years before. “They’re great, buddy,” said Goldie. “Your front man is incredible. Good luck.”

  The Bogmen became a top priority at Arista. With the exception of a quirky novelty hit by a Canadian band called the Crash Test Dummies, the label had nothing going on in rock. No one ex
pected me to sign a band so quickly, especially one this unique. Now that I had, however, there was no turning back. Clive and Arista wanted the Bogmen to hit, and hit fast, with their debut LP, an aggressive approach that could destroy the organic magic that helped cultivate the group’s huge local following.

  “The Luncheon” took place every Thursday at 1 P.M. in the executive conference room and usually lasted about four hours. All label department heads gathered there to go over the progress of each and every record that Arista had out there in the marketplace. Attendance was mandatory, unless you were on the road or had been hit by a taxi walking to work.

  Forty executives arrived with extensive memoranda and other pulp tonnage depicting what records were getting airplay how much they were selling, who was getting press. You name it, if it involved the commercial aspect of a title, it was discussed. Statistics were everywhere. Clive sat at the head of the table like King Arthur as his knights spouted off one by one how well or poorly certain releases were doing. The topics ranged from video concepts to the minutiae of individual retail-outlet sales in certain markets.

  This is where Clive stood apart from other music industry executives. He made the selling of music an exact science and drilled into his staff the philosophy that if you worked a record hard and long enough, it would have an impact. The sheer gravity of commitment to a project would ultimately result in success. That philosophy only worked, however, if the universe was also down with the plan. This was the conundrum faced by Arista with respect to rock music. It didn’t adhere to formula. You could produce pop records according to a time-honored script and create inoffensive, saleable Top 40 hits and instant stars who were here today and gone later today.