Being a fan of their music, one was often met with derision. It took so long for the group to be voted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, it was almost an embarrassment when they were inducted in 2008. Joel Stein, writing in the Los Angeles Times, made a joke at their expense when they failed to get enough votes the previous year: “Monday, the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame turned down The Dave Clark Five for allegations of totally sucking. Even the sluttiest sixties groupie didn’t want Dave Clark getting glad all over her.”
Pop music fans had no concept that the exciting and charming rock bands that they saw and loved performing on TV and in concert may not have played on their records. Of course, it didn’t matter. The records were judged and enjoyed on their own merit.
Mike Nesmith broke the code when, troubled that The Monkees were prevented from playing on their own records, he voiced his frustration in an interview with the Saturday Evening Post. As musicians were being perceived as artists, that session musicians might have been used in their stead knocked points off their credibility.
When, years later, I heard that noted session drummer Bobby Graham had played on most of The Dave Clark Five’s hits, I felt betrayed. Through the years I had been defending the group’s records, I promoted them when I was on the nominating committee of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, and I championed Dave as a skillful drummer.
No musician as part of a band wants to be replaced by a session man. It means that you’re not good enough. When George Martin replaced Ringo Starr with Alan White for the recording of The Beatles’ first single, “Love Me Do,” because George was unsure of his ability, Ringo was devastated. Dave assessed that his drumming was only adequate, and wisely realized that hiring an accomplished drummer would help to make a better record. In listening to the recordings, Graham’s superiority is evident. Graham also drummed on hits by other rock bands, including The Kinks, Herman’s Hermits, Them, and even on Brian Poole’s “Do You Love Me.”
Despite their dull personalities, the DC5 were no cretins, and they distinguished themselves on many counts. In the first place, they were the only successful band of the time to be essentially self-managed, by Dave himself. In the category of drummer as composer, he’s probably credited with more hits than anybody else from that era. The band’s Coast to Coast album was the first by a British group to feature all original songs. And the identifiable sounds of the group’s records, with uncommonly loud drums, were influenced by Phil Spector, and owed much to experimentation. “Anyway You Want It,” “Can’t You See that She’s Mine,” and “Catch Us If You Can” were the most chaotic hit records of their day.
I met Dave during a visit with Mike Chapman in the studio when Mike was producing Smokie. As it was during a session, we didn’t talk much. Dave mentioned that he had been taking acting lessons with Sir Laurence Olivier, and explained that his arm was in a cast because of a skiing accident. Before the band happened, Dave had wanted to be an actor, but was relegated to stunt and extra work. He appeared in forty films and TV shows. His interest initiated TV projects for the band as well as their feature film. Given an opportunity to star in the band’s own film, he realized his limitations when he saw the results. After his musical projects diminished in the early 1970s, he studied acting.
Dave channeled his aspirations into theatrical production. In 1986 he achieved the rare feat of cowriting and producing a hit West End production. Time, a science fiction musical, broke ground with its use of multi-media and special effects. It starred Cliff Richard, who was succeeded by David Cassidy.
By the mid-1980s, The Dave Clark Five hits had been unavailable in America for ten years. Dave refused offers to release the masters even after the proliferation of the CD format. He reasoned that, the more he kept them off the market, the more pent-up demand would become. Dave didn’t need the money—he’d invested well in real estate—and could afford to wait for the huge advance he desired. Starting in 1984, I wrote him yearly for five years expressing our interest in releasing his catalogue. Only in the last year did he send a letter saying he wasn’t interested. He didn’t anticipate that, by keeping the records out of the stores, he would diminish their value. Oldies radio programmed fewer of the hits, as they were not available to the stations. Similarly, the records did not get exposed in other media such as feature films, TV shows, commercials. He also was insensitive to music fans who wanted to hear the records. Some wore out their vinyl copies; others replaced their turntables with CD players. Much of the band’s great music faded from memory.
In 1989, the Disney Channel made a deal with Dave to program the 1960s English music show Ready Steady Go! during evenings, to attract adult viewers to the kids’ cable channel. Dave had purchased the existing shows—only a small percentage of those produced—and reedited them, adding footage of the DC5. He taped new introductions that were shown before each show.
Although Disney’s in-house record label was successful in the fifties and sixties, by the 1980s it was relegated to issuing soundtracks of Disney movies. The new regime, wanting to cultivate teen and adult record buyers, formed Hollywood Records to break new artists. This was similar to Disney establishing Touchstone in 1987 as a separate film division to attract more adult and mature teen movie patrons.
In the first two years of its existence, the label was a disaster. The president, Peter Paterno, acknowledged as much in a letter to Disney’s chairman Michael Eisner and president Frank Wells, dated October 31, 1991. He referred to the perception of the label as “the Titanic captained by the Three Stooges,” expecting losses in the coming year of between $20 and $30 million. Paterno understood that profits from catalogue sales could finance new artists until they become profitable. He signed Queen to release a new album, as well as their catalogue. In the letter, he refers to the Dave Clark “fiasco.”
Five months earlier, Hollywood Record’s Bob Reitman had sent a letter to Dave enticing him in many areas. He expressed interest in rereleasing Dave’s catalogue, and referred to the “high priority” the company would have to get his songs in Disney, as well as other studios’ feature films, and in TV shows and commercials. There were enticements relating to the theme parks, Disney stores, TV specials, and trailers plugging the product in movie theaters and Disney home videos. It was enough to make one’s head spin, or in this case, for Dave to extract an agreement with Paterno for two million dollars. When Frank Wells heard about the deal, he blew a gasket, and nullified it. Paterno scrambled together a settlement, for a scaled-down deal paying Dave an advance of one million for two audio releases.
My partner Richard Foos and I had a good relationship with Wesley Hein, who, with his brother Bill, had started Enigma Records. Wes wanted to break out from the company, and in 1989 accepted a job as an executive vice president at Hollywood Records. Knowing Rhino’s expertise with catalogue, he called Richard to see if we wanted to be part of the deal. It was smart of him. Between Gary Stewart, Bill Inglot, and me, we had three knowledgeable DC5 fans who could make suggestions on the repertoire. Comparatively, Hollywood had no DC5 fans. And Rhino’s involvement and contribution to Hollywood’s advance meant that their risk was diminished.
Richard made the deal with Wes. I was happy to be involved, happy that we might help create a package that would be much better than if we didn’t participate. Our $300,000 advance seemed like a lot for the rights we were getting, made all the more questionable when Shelly Heber, the cohead of Image Marketing, predicted, quite presciently, that sales wouldn’t be much more than one hundred thousand. Richard lessened our risk by making a deal with Warner Music Enterprises, one of Warner’s two mail order divisions, guaranteeing an order of a certain amount of albums to be marketed through TV commercials.
Dave knew about Rhino’s involvement. In the contract it stated that we had exclusive rights for direct sales to customers through a TV-advertised campaign, as well as non-exclusive rights to sell through mail-order companies. Hollywood retained the much
larger retail market. Dave didn’t know that we were directing the creative elements of the release. By mistake, Dave was sent a layout of the proposed package, created by a Rhino designer, that hadn’t excluded Rhino’s standard “manufactured and marketed by” credit. He caught it and had it changed, and quizzed Wes Hein on any larger Rhino participation. Wes mollified him. We were otherwise careful not to credit any Rhinos for their involvement.
It was a good package, but not up to Rhino standards. First, the package itself was cheap, two CDs in a jewel case (as the boxes are called) that normally included one. In order to scrimp on the number of pages of the booklet, small type was used, ignoring the diminishing eyesight of the original, now much older fans, who would most likely buy the album. It was Hollywood’s call. They were trying to save money to recoup their advance. We provided track suggestions to Hollywood, who then relayed them to Dave, who had the ultimate decision. There were better tracks than some he included, but at least we got him to add “Try Too Hard,” a number twelve hit in the States that he excluded. Bill Inglot also had problems with the mastering relating to a number of tracks, but, again, it was Dave’s call.
The History of The Dave Clark Five only sold 110,000, which disappointed everybody. Even though the contract didn’t terminate until 2002, Dave wanted to get the product off the store shelves early. He embarrassed Disney into deleting the album from their catalogue, but he failed to consider the rights that Hollywood had given Rhino. We had over thirty thousand pieces of inventory that we had paid for. Although sales were light, we had the rights to sell it to our own mail order customers and to other companies.
By 1997 none of the executives Dave had dealt with were still at Hollywood Records. I wrote him a letter expressing our desire to succeed Hollywood’s deal—after all, Hollywood never issued a box set—or to make a new deal. Dave faxed us a curt reply that he was not interested. Given that we were highly respected in the industry, were enthusiastic Dave Clark Five fans, and willing to put a substantial amount of money into Dave’s pocket—although not as much as he wanted—he could have at least been courteous.
When Dave became aware that Rhino was still selling product, it bothered him. He couldn’t tie up loose ends and move on. It wasn’t as if he wanted to make a deal with another company. In November 1998 he was in town and invited me to lunch at the Bel-Air Hotel to talk about it. I looked forward to spending more time with a man whose musical contributions I respected, but I was put in an uncomfortable situation. Rhino had not made a deal directly with Dave, and his desire put us in an adversarial position. It was a mostly pleasant lunch, sitting on the patio. Dave reeled off a few stories, but he was not an enthusiastic conversationalist. Or maybe he was focused on trying to alleviate the Rhino horn that suddenly poked his side. He kept reiterating his position, seemingly attempting to verbally bludgeon me into submission.
A year later Dave was in town, and I invited him to visit Rhino so he could see that we weren’t a rinky-dink operation. In my office, I told Dave the extent that we had helped Hollywood with the album. He explained that Disney had all but promised him so much more than a label like Rhino could have delivered. From how things turned out, he admitted that he should have made the deal with Rhino instead.
I offered to sell him our inventory, at our cost, in order to get it off the market. His preference was that we destroy the albums, but then we would have lost that revenue. Whether or not the outstanding inventory was sold to customers—and even if it was destroyed—Dave had already been paid on both the artist royalty and the publishing. (Usually royalties are earned when a record is sold, but in this deal Dave was paid upon manufacture.) The bluff on my part was not stating the obvious, that we were never going to come close to selling our inventory. In most record deals, the company is able to salvage money on nonselling inventory by dumping it for a vastly reduced amount as cut-outs (product cut out or deleted from the catalogue). Because of our contract with Hollywood Records, we couldn’t do that.
From the meetings and phone conversations, I felt good about Dave, but when he returned to London, he became nit-picky. I received faxed letters from him, his accountant, and his lawyer for minor infractions. He ordered a CD from Collectors’ Choice, which proved that they were selling the album outside of the US, which they weren’t supposed to do. Practically speaking, how many could they have sold of the more expensive double CD when a cheaper, single disc collection was available in England and other parts of the world? I notified Collectors’ Choice that their sales were restricted only to the US, with which they complied. Next we received a letter from him complaining that Rhino mail order was discounting four dollars off the twenty-eight dollar list-price album. Forgetting that retailers had discounted the album, and even Amazon had sold it at 40 percent off list price, were Rhino’s small sales a threat? I responded to Dave’s letter, and had our mail order manager raise the price. The Dave Clark Five’s music had brought me countless hours of happiness, but I couldn’t please the man most responsible.
Prior to this scrutiny, I, on behalf of Rhino Video, offered Dave an advance of $250,000 to put his Ready Steady Go! shows on DVD. In 1989 he had released six VHS tapes—and laser discs—but they had never been on DVD. I assumed the amount wasn’t enough, as I never received a response. As of this writing, he has yet to grant a license for the format. He never made a subsequent license for his DC5 masters in the US, except to make them available to download.
Everybody lost financially on the deal: Hollywood Records, Rhino, and Warner Music. Dave pocketed a large advance that wasn’t close to recouping, but his catalogue was further devalued. The poor sales of the History of album made it appear a failure, and there was no subsequent product, which meant that his masters weren’t available to the fans, and his copyrights weren’t generating income. The group’s original albums have never been issued on CD, nor has the band’s oeuvre been appreciated in a significant box set, even though Hollywood Records had the rights to issue one.
Despite Dave’s obdurate negotiating manner, and his low-key nature, I kind of liked him. In October 2001 I faxed him a letter that I was leaving Rhino. I was surprised when he called me from London, telling me I am “a gentleman,” and wishing me “good luck.” I’m glad we left our relationship on a positive note.
Emperor Rosko and
the Pirates of Radio
In the mid-sixties few Americans knew about Britain’s pirate radio stations, so called because they were unlicensed and operated outside the country’s three-mile limit. Their only exposure, had they recognized it, was on The Who Sell Out, the group’s best album, which was released in December 1967. The idea was to format The Who’s songs as though one were listening to Radio London, sans DJs. They initially wanted to sell commercials on the record, but as only Coca-Cola agreed, The Who wrote and recorded their own made-up ones.
When in London in the fall of 1979, I picked up a remainder copy of DJ Jimmy Saville’s book As It Happens to read on the plane back to the States. I was curious about radio in the days before the BBC had its own pop music channel, primarily about Radio Luxembourg and England’s radio pirates. Saville’s book wasn’t well written and there was much less information than I was expecting. It was soon in the discard stack. Other than digging through back copies of British newspapers, where would one find background on this colorful era of radio? I had asked Justin Hayward when I interviewed him, but he had scant knowledge.
With Rhino Films established, I thought a feature about the radio pirates would fill in a bit of history as well as provide a unique setting—a bunch of crazy DJs on a ship in the North Sea—and a sumptuous rock soundtrack.
One of the prominent DJs, Emperor Rosko, broadcasted from the pirate ship Radio Caroline. Unlike most of the pirate DJs, Rosko wasn’t a Brit. Instead, he grew up in Beverly Hills, only a couple of miles from Rhino’s offices. Peter Pasternak, head of Rhino’s international department, was one of the three sons of noted
film producer Joe Pasternak. Joe had produced one hundred movies, and was known mostly for guiding a number of MGM’s musicals. Peter’s eldest brother, Michael, is Emperor Rosko. I had him set up a meeting, in May 2000.
Michael, a rowdy underachiever, was sent to military school by his parents to straighten him out. He later joined the US Navy. As a young teen, he wanted to be a disc jockey, and became one on the aircraft carrier on which he was serving. To become a professional, he needed an FCC license, so he moved to San Francisco and enrolled in the only broadcasting school west of the Rockies. He helped to get his pal, Sylvester Stewart—later known as Sly Stone—also enrolled.
Having learned French in boarding school, he found himself in 1965 working as a compere and DJ in Paris for Barclay Records’ Freddy Barclay. Most DJs created their own persona, usually with a DJ name. Michael called himself Emperor Rosko after two of his favorite Los Angeles personalities, KRLA’s Emperor Hudson (Robert Howard Holmes) and KBLA’s Rosko (William Roscoe Mercer).
My British Invasion Page 18