“Okay, Animal,” I said, “time to take the gloves off.”
The Bronx descended on the Mellencamp Football League. Two of his guys went off with bloody noses. At one point, Mellencamp went up for a pass that was intercepted. John started punching the guy who’d made the interception, then stormed off the field. We won the game. Afterward, Mellencamp’s wife walked over and unzipped the leg of her flashy white jumpsuit, took out the thousand bucks, and handed it to John. He threw it in the snow at my feet.
That moment sort of summed up our entire business relationship. Mellencamp is an amazing talent that I have great respect for on a musical level. And there was money in managing him for me and my company. But nobody likes to have to bend over to pick it up.
There had to be a better way.
VOICES
JANN WENNER
What was marketing in the old-time record business? It was: How do we get this on radio? Do we offer hookers, cocaine, or cash? That’s what passed for marketing in the old-fashioned record business.
So that had to evolve. Because the other thing that was wedded to this Baby Boomer generation was the expansion of technology. That spread to music, and what happened was the music business went from a small American industry into a more mainstream art form with other platforms and larger revenues. The music was no longer confined to radio and payola.
MEL ILBERMAN
Music executive
It was during the early eighties when the music business made a major mistake—though it didn’t show up until the late nineties. Piracy had always been a problem. There were plants manufacturing tapes in China. But when the CD arrived, it put out a much clearer sound that was just right for the pirating. In effect, the CD was the perfect instrument for the pirates. Music companies should have encoded those CDs with something to prevent copying back then. But the manufacturers were looking for profit and somehow the record companies just missed it.
ALLEN GRUBMAN
Attorney
What really affected the record business in the early eighties was the CD. It sent sales through the roof, and that led to many changes in the industry that became apparent at the end of the decade. Initially, when CD sales went through the roof, artists who were recording were able to get much bigger record deals because sales were bigger and their catalogs had increased in value.
By the late eighties, the value of the independent record companies that had these artists and catalogs had soared. Independent labels owned by creative entrepreneurs started to be acquired by major record companies. Geffen Records was sold to MCA. Island Records was sold to PolyGram. Chrysalis Records was sold to EMI.
When my firm, in addition to representing superstars, started representing the sale of these independent companies, that materially affected our growth and made the firm much more successful and powerful. The record business turned into the music industry alongside this transition from independent to corporate.
DAN KLORES
Playwright/filmmaker
Being a talent manager is as good an experience as you can get in the entertainment industry. Because when you’re a manager, especially a young manager, you’re making every mistake in the book, man. But you’re learning, you’re learning.
David Geffen was a talent man. Brad Grey was a talent man. Mottola was a talent manager. Irving Azoff was a talent manager. So why is that critically important? Because, afterward, when you walk over to the other side and become an executive, you know how to manage talent. You know what they want. You know how to cater to them, mold them, con them, make them feel as if they’re great, know when to say no, how to say no.
You’re never gonna know that if you come from the promotions or the A&R world. Never. Ever.
DAVE GLEW
Music executive
If you’d met Tommy in the early eighties during the MTV days, you would never have seen all the sides there are to him.
You’d have seen the manager, in which case you’d have bumped into the aggressive side, the generous side, the creative side. But there is so much more, and a lot of it didn’t become apparent until after he became an executive—and these layers of personality were apparent only to people who spent a lot of time around him. He’s very complicated.
He grew more and more famous with the marriages to Mariah and Thalia. But it’s impossible to get an idea of who he is if you were relying on the newspapers or the trade publications. I don’t think many people have an inkling of who he really is. People know his name. The name is magic. We’d travel all over the world and people would know his name. It’s a brand. Don’t ask me why. It just is. What people don’t understand is that brand has a lot of facets.
JEB BRIEN
Longtime colleague
Split Enz had an arrogant prick for a manager—a flamboyant fashion photographer named Nathan Brenner. One night Brenner got into a beef with Randy Hoffman. Not only did Randy work at Champion, but he was one of Tommy’s most trusted and loyal friends. A beer bottle was smashed. But it was all show. Brenner had no balls.
A few days afterward, Tommy, Randy, and I were at a Grammy party in Los Angeles when Tommy spotted Brenner. Brenner was wearing a powder-blue satin brocade dinner jacket.
Tommy told Randy, “This is going to be your payback.”
Tommy went to the bar and asked the bartender to make him a drink.
“Put it in one of those big highball glasses,” he said. “Some tomato juice. A little milk. Some red wine. Bitters. Cranberry juice. Nuts. And throw in some ice cream.”
The bartender was looking at Tommy like he’s out of his mind. But he put everything in the glass, and then Tommy told him to shake it up real good.
Then Tommy took the glass and went over to the banquet tables, added a few more ingredients: blueberries, whipped cream, coffee, cheese dip. And he nonchalantly strolled over to where Brenner was standing with this concoction in hand.
“Hey, Nathan,” Tommy said, “how you doin’?”
Brenner gave him a what-the-fuck-do-you-want look.
Tommy said: “This is compliments of Randy Hoffman.”
Then he tipped the glass over Brenner’s head and emptied the entire contents all over him.
Brenner was freaked. He didn’t know what to do.
“And another thing,” Tommy told him. “You are hereby banned from entering the United States. You are never allowed to come back into this country unless I say you can.”
Which brings me to the brilliant, funny, articulate, twisted, blessed, cursed, powerful, instigating, addicted, charming, and vulgar man who never seemed to be more comfortable than when he was in the middle of a fight. That description, by the way, only mildly sums up Walter Yetnikoff. Walter was also the chairman of CBS Records Group at the time. Which means Walter was a king.
Unlike a manager, the kings running the big music companies didn’t rely on a single artist to release a platinum record every year in order to prosper. They didn’t have to deal with the situations I dealt with: like having Hall & Oates onstage in Australia while I was running around trying to track down a band member who hadn’t shown up, and finally finding him doing heroin with some whores on a bus station bench. And then having to drag him onstage while the concert was in progress and listen to the asshole start playing Jimi Hendrix’s version of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” They didn’t have to pick up money thrown down in the snow by their artist’s wife. The kings running the big music companies had contracts that paid them handsomely, that rewarded success with bonuses and offered security during the lean years. And that was where I ultimately wanted to be. That was it. My eye was on the prize.
There was one slight problem: the people who became kings didn’t usually start out as musicians. They generally graduated with big credentials and diplomas from prominent universities, and many of them had law degrees. They worked their way up a corporate ladder or were plucked from the legal departments. But that actually made a guy like me very valuable to them. No, I was not anot
her guy in an office. I had my ear to the street and I could find, develop, record, break, manage, and promote talent. Ultimately, that was the key to success at any record company.
It was very easy for me to strike up a friendship with Walter Yetnikoff. We hit it off right away. He had a law degree from Columbia, and his mind was the sharpest tool in the box. His timing was perfect. He moved into the top job at CBS after an accounting scandal pushed one legend, Clive Davis, out the door, and retirement eased out another, Goddard Lieberson. Walter took over in 1975 and got the most out of a roster of talented superstars, which would have been a staggering achievement for anyone at any time, but doing it while the record business was turning into the music industry made it monumental.
Walter’s boardroom antics were notorious. He would show up for a very serious 9 a.m. suit-and-tie meeting wearing a schleppy suit and carrying a bagel and cream cheese after a night of revelry, shaking and crinkling the bag, and eating it with cream cheese coming out of all ends in front of the likes of William S. Paley and Dr. Frank Stanton and other powerhouses on the CBS board. He was a loose cannon. When Walter went to war, he went nuclear. And when his abuses overran him, he was totally insane.
While his timing was right, in many ways he was in the wrong place. The things he wished to accomplish were limited by the structure imposed by the starched executives above him and the power struggles between the fiefdoms below. I’d never had my vision narrowed by a corporate ladder, and I was able to give him ideas that would never have otherwise crossed his desk. Walter understood and appreciated what I did, and he began to think about what I could do for him. From the very outset, he looked for a way to bring me into the fold.
I can’t recall exactly where we met—it must’ve been at some function back in the midseventies. When Walter saw what I had accomplished with Hall & Oates, the Savannah Band, and Odyssey, he was quick to offer me my own label. I accepted, and there was a celebratory party at the ‘21’ Club packed with big shots from around the industry. But I hadn’t counted on the ramifications. When the new head of RCA, Bob Summer, found out, he was furious. I’d signed a production deal with RCA not long before, and though there was nothing to legally prevent me from making the CBS deal, Summer felt betrayed. RCA had ponied up big-time for Hall & Oates, and basically funded my management company. Summer felt that RCA should be getting all of my talent and energy. He was prepared to pay more for it, but he didn’t want me to leave. Remember, RCA was mocked at that time as the Recording Cemetery of America, and it was in dire need of fresh talent.
I didn’t fully realize what a difficult spot I’d put myself in—along with Daryl and John—when I’d clinked glasses with Walter and Grubman over dinner to toast the deal. My allegiance to CBS could’ve had a negative effect on the way RCA promoted Hall & Oates. And my first priority and my loyalty was to them. If I needed to go back and ask for more advances for Daryl and John, Summer might just say no. That was not a good position to be in.
Grubman and I went back to Walter, explained Summer’s reaction, and asked him to let me out of the deal. Walter was a real mensch about it, a stand-up guy, and he let it slide. I could tell he wasn’t happy, and he put some distance between us for a while. But I always wanted to make it up to him, and after a few months our relationship began to rekindle. By the mideighties, we’d become inseparable. I’d meet him at his office at the end of the workday three times a week and head off into the evening with him, which, for Walter, invariably led to all the excesses associated with rock ’n’ roll.
Eventually, Walter’s behavior led to his own downfall. I couldn’t do anything about that. But one thing I was sure of: I did not want to go down with him. And he was definitely going to go down. We’ll get into that later. But let me set the record straight here. Night after night during the mideighties I made sure he got home okay no matter what condition, and I mean no matter what condition he was in. And believe me, it was not pretty. He was my friend. In fact, our relationship gave me one of the few ways I could connect with my wife at the time because Lisa felt comfortable at weekend dinners with Walter and his wife.
Walter started watching what I was doing very closely in the mideighties. I worked with Diana Ross on an album called Swept Away, which went gold after her previous album didn’t get off the ground. Diana had a difficult reputation. But from my point of view, the experience couldn’t have gone smoother.
Then a great opportunity came to help Carly Simon make a comeback, and we signed her to Champion Entertainment. Carly is an incredible, killer songwriter. How could anybody not love “Anticipation” or “You’re So Vain”? But “Anticipation” came out in 1971 and “You’re So Vain” was released in 1972. There were few hits on her five albums between 1979 and 1985, and when acts went cold like that there was a tremendous resistance at radio and retail when you tried to bring them back.
We had relentless sessions at Champion to figure out the right way to do it, but it all starts with the music. Carly came through with such a great song in “Coming around Again”; it then became the theme for the movie Heartburn, which starred Jack Nicholson and Meryl Streep. That was big, but we really wanted to push Carly over the top, and we came up with a way to do just that. We had recently produced two HBO specials for Hall & Oates. So we began to plan how we would set one up for Carly in the form of a homespun concert, although we knew she wouldn’t respond well to the word concert. It was widely known in the industry that performing live was her greatest fear. But I was able to put it to her in a way that made her stop and consider.
“What if you could get a million dollars,” I asked her, “and all you had to do was play in your backyard?”
“Really?” she said. “What do you mean?”
Of course, I explained, the million dollars wouldn’t go straight to her. It also had to cover the execution of the concept. The idea was to have her sing in her backyard for an intimate audience of family and friends. The more we talked about it, the more she loved the idea and began to turn it into her own. It was her idea to shoot it in 35 millimeter, to have people come up to tell stories and read poetry. Something inside her bubbled to life.
Jeb Brien got the task of directing. We brought in an eighty-man production crew to build a set in the middle of a fishing village on Martha’s Vineyard. That provided a great backdrop and we were surrounded by the panorama of Menemsha Harbor. About seventy-five of Carly’s friends and family came to the event and watched it while sitting in beach chairs. It was more than a success. It was a blast for everyone, and it became the highest-rated concert special HBO had ever televised.
Walter never saw the sincerity in Carly’s face when she thanked Jeb and me for helping to restore her career. But he got the big picture. Around the same time period that all this was brewing, he asked me to come in and produce the sound track for a movie project he was working on called Ruthless People. Walter was friends with the guys making the movie, and he got a producer credit. He also brought me in as music supervisor, and I immediately saw a way to take Daryl Hall down a new path. Daryl, as usual, was searching for new canvases, and working on another solo album with Dave Stewart of the Eurythmics. So one day when I was in the studio with them in London, I asked them to write the movie’s theme song. We brought Mick Jagger in as part of the team. Daryl, Dave, and Mick wrote the song and sang it, and the directors loved it and everything else on the sound track. The movie, a comedy starring Danny DeVito and Bette Midler, was a blockbuster hit. Walter couldn’t have come off looking or feeling better about it.
This made him feel even more that I could help him big-time, and he knew he needed the help at the big monolith—CBS Records Group. He was the King, and his roster was stacked, but new acts weren’t breaking through, and there was another king across the street at Warner Communications named Steve Ross whose group of experienced music impresarios—Ahmet Ertegun, Mo Ostin, and Joe Smith—were lighting up the charts with new talent and leaving CBS in the dust.
As every
thing converged, all of this was registering with Walter big-time. This made him feel that I could really help him to push the big monolith forward. Walter was looking for new blood, new ideas, and new energy. It was the perfect storm for both of us. We were just the right match… for a time.
I want you to fully understand what I mean when I say that Walter’s mind was the sharpest tool in the box.
Here’s a perfect example—a single situation. Walter was the chairman of CBS Records Group. But CBS Records Group represented only a part of the larger kingdom of CBS, Inc.
In 1986, the majority stake in the larger kingdom was purchased by Laurence Tisch. Tisch was a billionaire who started out by amassing a fortune in hotels and movie theaters and eventually became synonymous with the name Loews. He became the majority shareholder of CBS, Inc., with the blessing of William S. Paley, who over decades had turned a small radio outfit into the most respected radio and television networks in the world. Let me give you an idea of Paley’s enormous clout: when John F. Kennedy was assassinated, the country turned to broadcaster Walter Cronkite and the CBS correspondents to find out what had happened. Which meant that at the bottom of it all, the nation turned with trust toward what William S. Paley had created.
When Tisch took over CBS, Inc., there was some deep cost cutting. This made it even harder for Walter to compete with the powerhouse across the street at Warner. Naturally, this pissed Walter off, and Walter was not a guy to turn the other cheek. Walter’s father had once whacked Walter’s head against a wall when he was a kid, and the rest of Walter’s life seemed to be a daily exercise in fighting back. Walter hated Tisch with a passion, and he became highly irreverent toward both Tisch and Paley.
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