I bought every billboard on Sunset Boulevard from Bel Air to Hollywood. On each, I put a different picture of John, a different posture, a different mood. You could not drive to work without being bombarded. He was all over the place. By the time you heard his song, you already knew him. I met with executives at RCA. They wanted to cut a follow-up to Poems, Prayers and Promises. I convinced them to do a greatest-hits album, which was amazing, considering John only had one hit. This is what I mean by selling John as if he were already a star. They paid us a million dollars for the record--a huge sum in those days. It came out in 1977, went straight to the top of the charts, and stayed there.
We branched out from there, transitioning John to TV. Within a few years, he was almost as well known for his work on the small screen as he was for his songs. He made his first appearance on The Tonight Show in 1972. I was friends with Johnny Carson and hooked them up at a party at my house in Beverly Hills. John became a regular on The Tonight Show, appearing again and again. America was still one market, and Carson stood at the center of it--it's hard to explain just what a big deal that show was. Then, one summer, when Carson went on vacation, the producer asked John to fill in as guest host. It was a milestone for any entertainer--like the moment the mob takes you into a basement with the wood paneling and makes you swear loyalty over a book. You're a made man after that, untouchable.
In 1974, I signed a deal with ABC under which John would do five guest spots on various network shows, getting paid $2,500 an appearance. In the end, ABC only used him once, in a Chevy Special, then called and canceled the rest of the contract. In other words, they dropped him. Four weeks later, "Country Roads" hit. A few weeks after that, I signed a new deal with ABC, under which he would be paid $350,000 an appearance. Remember, when I found John, he was playing in the Village for seventy bucks a night. What happened to him, the way he blew up, was amazing.
John understood all this, and appreciated it. He paid me a fortune. There were many years in which I made ten, twelve million with John. But for me, the money was a by-product of what was a labor of love. I had many clients, some of them bigger than John--Elvis and Frank, Neil Diamond, Bob Dylan--but John and I were very close. Because I broke him, because I understood him, because he understood me, because I loved him. We started as friends but became brothers. He made me the executor of his estate, he was executor of mine. Jane and I were to take care of his children if, God forbid, anything were to happen to him and his wife, Annie.
Yet there was something troubled about John. Success and money, rather than making these things easier to deal with, often bring them to the surface. He had an overwhelming need to impress and be accepted. It probably came from his father and the fact that John never seemed to win his approval, even when he made it big. He was in search of a father, really, someone who could stand in the old man's place and say, "Yes, John, I love you. Yes." And though he wanted a father and wanted approval, he resented the fact that he wanted those things. He needed you to love him, and hated you for making him feel that need. This sowed dangerous seeds in our relationship. After all, who was I? The man in the suit who paid the bills and made the schedule. In other words, I was the father. As he became more successful, he began to resent me. He needed me, but hated me for that need. I understood this only later.
John was beloved by fans but never accepted by critics, and it drove him crazy. No matter how many records he sold, no matter how much adulation was showered on him, he needed to win and be loved by the people who had already made up their minds, who thought he was lightweight and silly. I would say, "Hey, John, who gives a crap?" Or: "You know what? Screw 'em." If you want to survive, if you want a long life and career, if you want to go wire to wire and have a decent time doing it, you need to have a deep strain of "Screw 'em." I would say, "Believe me, John, you're better with the people than with the critics. That counts if you're an actor, a producer, a politician, or a singer."
But he could not let it go. The criticism drove him wild. He was troubled, as I said. He had no identity. He didn't know what he wanted because he did not know who he was. He wanted to ditch his glasses for contact lenses. "But the glasses are part of the shtick," I told him. "The glasses are great!" I mean, if you're getting hitters out with screwballs, keep throwing the screwballs. That's the sportsman's way.
The first danger sign came in 1979, when John was on tour in Europe. I got a call from one of my assistants on the road. "John is unhappy," he said. "He's talking about firing you."
I got on a plane, went over. I stood with John outside the Inn on the Park in London. He had his head down and paced, the way he did whenever faced with an onerous task or crisis. He stammered. He said, "Look, Jerry. You know how I feel about our relationship, but I think I am going to have to let you go."
"Let me go? Why?"
"Well, it's this tour. I mean, nothing is right. The hotels stink, and the food is no good, and the venues are just awful, and the sound systems are terrible, too. The band is furious. Nothing is right."
I said, "Look, I just got off a flight from LA. Let me get some rest. Then let's talk it over in four hours."
"What's going to happen in four hours?" he asked.
"Well, maybe I can fix these problems," I said. "Think of all we've been through. You can give me four hours."
"All right," he said, "four hours, but I am deadly serious, Jerry."
"I know you are, John."
That night, we went out to dinner after his show.
I said, "Look, John. Before we eat, I want you to know I've taken care of the problem. Things will be different from here."
"You took care of them? How?"
"I fired Ferguson."
"You fired Ferguson? Who's Ferguson?"
"There has been trouble with the hotels, with the food, with the venues, with the sound systems? Well, Ferguson was in charge of all of that. He's been fired."
"Really? You fired Ferguson."
"I did. And I think you will notice the difference right away."
We started eating, talking, being brothers again. I was brooding, looking down.
"What's the matter, Jerry?"
"Well, I'll tell you, John. I'm feeling bad about Ferguson. Sure, he screwed up, but he's not a terrible guy. And now he's been fired, and he won't have his salary and he won't have his bonus and it's right before Christmas. For godsakes, John, Ferguson has a family!"
We sat in silence, eating. Finally, John threw down his napkin and said, "Darn it, I feel bad about Ferguson, too!"
Some time went by. I was eating, drinking, looking around. It was one of those stolid British restaurants, with brass on everything and waiters coming and going with pints of ale.
I said, "Look, I have an idea. Let's say, instead of firing Ferguson, I just move him into another part of the business. Away from people."
"Hide him, you mean?"
"Yeah, hide him. In the business, just not out front, definitely not working with artists."
"Yeah, that's a great idea," said John. "I would feel a lot better about that, it being so close to Christmas and all."
"Good," I said. "I will call LA tomorrow and take care of it. Ferguson's wife is going to be so relieved."
There really was nothing wrong with the hotels, food, venues, or the rest. John had just gotten himself in a tangle and needed to stand up for himself. Which was why we fired Ferguson. I also knew that John was very compassionate and would eventually blame himself for what happened to Ferguson, which was why we hired him back.
The next night, on the way back from the show, I asked John, "So how was the venue, how was the sound?"
"Oh, much better," he said. "I could tell the difference right away. I'm glad we could fix it without firing Ferguson."
Of course, there was no Ferguson.
Jerry Weintraub Presents
By this time, Concerts West had become perhaps the most important company in the industry, known for its live shows and productions. John Denver was just
one of many talented artists who made me a force. I did not handle all these people personally--I had partners, employees--but I was sitting over everything, experiencing the entire scene.
I loved and appreciated all my artists, and still do. There was, for example, Bob Dylan. He was a god to his fans, but to me he was just another smart, Jewish kid from the provinces. Yes, he is brilliant. I don't think he has any idea just how brilliant. The man can break your heart with a turn of phrase. But to him it is just another day of work, which is how I treated it, too. Not even a priest wants to be revered when he's away from the church. He wants to go home and have a drink, knowing the lights will stay on and the bills will be paid. And that was my job. After all, an artist like Dylan has enough fans. A man to mind the store, to keep the books, that's what he needs.
And then there was Led Zeppelin, who we signed in the midseventies. Once you start working with the Presleys and Sinatras, other people, the superstars and up-and-comers, come looking for you. It's called momentum, what people mean by the phrase "cooking with gas."
"Jerry Weintraub?"
"Yeah?"
"You've got to help me!"
"Why?"
"Because I've got dreams!"
"All right, my boy! All right."
Zeppelin was wild. Our first concert with them was at Nassau Coliseum on Long Island. They were bitching after the show about the sound system: It did not have enough channels, not enough speakers, blah, blah. It was so loud the place was shaking. I was worried about a cave-in or structural disaster. But no, they wanted bigger, louder, more decibels, more, more, more. When these guys played "Stairway to Heaven," they wanted to build an actual stairway to heaven. The next day, I went around with a few of my guys and gathered every box on the island. We painted them black. I can still smell the fumes from the spray-paint. They made me high. We brought the boxes to the Coliseum and stacked them in huge piles on either side of the stage, hundreds of these goddamn things.
"What the hell are these, Jerry?"
"What do they look like? They're the goddamn speakers, schmuck. You want loud, you're gonna have loud."
That night, Zeppelin exploded onto the stage as if they'd been shot from a cannon, like clowns at the circus, danced and screamed and made a lot of wonderful noise, reveling in the mighty power of this wall of speakers, which, of course, were not connected to anything. If you expect loud, loud is what you are going to hear.
A lot of the time, these guys made demands just to be demanding. These were rock stars. They needed to say "Screw you!" to whoever was cutting the check or wearing the suit. It's part of the job description.
One afternoon, before Zeppelin was scheduled to play at Madison Square Garden, I went into a men's store on Fifth Avenue and picked up a gorgeous suit that had been tailor-made for me in London. I tried it on for the mirror--hand-stitched, double-breasted, beautiful--put it in a bag, and carried it to the arena, where I hung it in a closet in the dressing room, with a note pinned on the front: WEINTRAUB! HANDS OFF!
I went out front to watch the show. The lights went down, the announcer spoke over the sound system: "Now, the loudest, most dangerous rock band on earth..." The crowd went nuts, Zeppelin came on stage. Jimmy Page, John Paul Jones, Robert Plant. John Bonham, the drummer, came out last. He was wearing whatever crap those guys wore, but over it he had on a beautiful blue jacket.
What the hell?
He sat behind the drums, then, in one clean motion, ripped off the sleeves so you could see his arms and shouted, "How do I look, Jerry Weintraub? I've got your new suit." He held up the arms of the suit, then launched into "Black Dog."
It was hysterical.
For years, I handled the Moody Blues, a British group that went through various incarnations before breaking through in 1965 with the song "Go Now." (They are best known for "Nights in White Satin" and "Tuesday Afternoon.") I had a brilliant pitch for these guys: I sold them as everyone's second-favorite band. Are you a Beatles freak? Well, you're going to love the Moodies second. Are the Stones your thing? Great! Then check out the Moodies. You'll like them almost as much. We made a lot of money with that. We were, in essence, harvesting several fields at once, collecting everyone's runoff. Then these guys did a stupid thing. They broke up. It always happens. The more successful a band, the more certain its demise, as each member gets to thinking, "Well, it's because of me, it's my success, and I'm tired of sharing it."
Two of the Moodies, Justin Hayward and John Lodge, calling themselves the Blue Jays, decided to make their own record. I tried to talk sense. "We've spent years positioning the Moody Blues, and, as a result, millions and millions of people consider you their second-favorite band," I explained, "but no one has heard of the Blue Jays. You'll be starting from scratch."
Did they care?
Of course not.
When I could see they had made up their minds, I decided to get on board, pitch in. For me, the challenge was plain: get people to judge these veteran rock stars as if they were new, notice, and take time. Convincing cynical members of the establishment to rethink something they believe they already know is no small thing. You might call it a relaunch, or rebranding, but it really just amounts to a man from the Bronx yelling: Here, here, look over here! Remember this? It's still really good! They worked on their album for a year. When it was finished, I had beautiful invitations printed and carried by courier, with great pomp and circumstance, to journalists and critics all across the country. They read like tickets to an exclusive, impossible-to-get-into, one-time-only show by the geniuses behind your second-favorite band--Justin Hayward and John Lodge, playing at Carnegie Hall in New York City.
Critics and producers and celebrities turned up from all over the world. The show was in the afternoon. They took their seats. You could feel a tremendous buzz as the lights went down. Everyone was excited. But when the curtain came up, instead of rock stars and their band, there was just a huge, fantastic sound system. You could see tremendous speakers, but no band. Then I played the record, from start to finish. All along, people were yelling, "Down in front! I can't see!" But there was nothing to see, just all the hardware. I wanted to play the songs--I wanted these people, these influential people, to sit and listen to them, really listen, as the record unfolded. Yes, I could have had the Blue Jays perform (they would have been great), but the critics knew Hayward and Lodge, or thought they did. They would watch the show, like it or not like it, and move on. But this night, with that record playing on stage, well, they would never forget it. Some would denounce me, sure, but, with each denunciation, they would mention the record and the band.
I held a press conference after the show. The critics filled the room. They were furious. Jann Wenner, the owner and editor of Rolling Stone, and a great guy, was the first to speak. "You, sir, are a charlatan," he said. He was red with anger. "You have tricked these people with a stunt, made them come all this way, and for what? To sit and listen to a record? They could have done that at home and saved the money and time and fuel. You are P. T. Barnum."
"Okay, okay," I said, trying to calm everyone down. "You've had your say. Now let me have mine--after that, call me whatever you want. The fact is," I explained, "we've spent an entire year of our lives working on this record, and we're proud of it, and think it deserves to be heard, really heard. So what are we supposed to do? Send it to your house so you can put it on the record player? Well, maybe your stereo stinks and the sound stinks, and maybe you had a fight with your wife, and maybe your baby puked on you. So it plays, but it does not get heard. Well, now you have heard it. So go home and say whatever you want about me, but remember the effort that went into this record."
Rolling Stone ran an editorial about the show. It filled half a page. I was called many terrible names, but, in the end, they said, well, you know, he kind of has a point.
We were remaking the concert business in those years. Starting with Elvis, we took an industry that had been regional, divided among fiefdoms, with each territory
controlled by a single promoter, and made it national. In the process, we cut out the middlemen. It was just me and the artist, working as partners, cutting deals directly with the owners of concert halls. Costs fell, everyone was enriched. As a result, artists sought me out, wanting to cut the same deal. Which increased my power. I was now able to go to the owner of Madison Square Garden and say, for example, "I'm going to give you thirty nights of shows this year--what kind of break can you give me on the hall?" In this way, overhead fell, and, as overhead fell, profits rose, attracting still more artists, which meant still more dates, which meant still better deals, which meant still more profits, and so on.
Remember how I said everyone was enriched by this process? Well, that is not exactly true. The fact is, when my business took off, the men who ran the old system, the promoters and operators, first got squeezed, then went under. In the academy, they call it creative destruction. I had invented a newer, more efficient model, which meant the old model was doomed. On the street, they call it pain.
The old promoters and middlemen grew to resent me. I was their bogeyman, the devil. The table is covered with settings and piled with food, and here comes Weintraub to pull out the cloth. They called a big meeting on Long Island. (I don't remember the exact year.) You want to feel persecuted? Imagine dozens of record men boarding planes all across the country with a single goal in mind: putting you out of business. The meeting was organized by Frank Barcelona, an agent with a personal beef. He represented Zeppelin. When I made the pitch to promote the band, I went around him, directly to their lawyer--Steve Weiss--who cut a side deal with us, which was a tremendous threat to Barcelona. (Zeppelin was real money.)
The charge against me went like this: "Weintraub doesn't build artists. The local managers and promoters build artists, then Weintraub swoops in and takes them away."
When I Stop Talking, You'll Know I'm Dead: Useful Stories from a Persuasive Man Page 11