Siren Song_My Life in Music

by Gareth Murphy

  As my hunting trips to London became more frequent, I stumbled on an effective calling card—Turf cheesecakes, the tastiest in New York City. I’d first discovered them at the Turf restaurant and Jack Dempsey’s, both on the lobby floor of the Brill Building. I found the bakery uptown, which of course was the cheapest place to buy them in bulk. When Richard and I began arriving at record companies around London carrying boxes of top-class cheesecake straight from New York, we were welcomed with open mouths. For some reason, cheesecake was a rarity in London, so there wasn’t a boss, junior staffer, or secretary that wouldn’t wolf down every last chunk like they were biting into the Big Apple itself. Sire hadn’t yet exported a single record, but that cheesecake was our first American hit in England. The more we delivered, the easier it was to walk out with bargains, such as our second big EMI license, the Climax Blues Band, a group of electric bluesmen from a country town called Stafford in the British Midlands. We only had to pay £1,000, a sale price tag compared to what we’d make back.

  And the cheesecake kept opening doors. From Polydor’s London office, I picked up a psychedelic singer-songwriter named Twink, whose wacky Think Pink album featured some of the Deviants. That record later evolved into one of London’s great cult groups of the seventies, the Pink Fairies. From Spark, an indie on Denmark Street, we also picked up an electric blues band named Killing Floor. It was at EMI, however, that my name was spreading through the grapevine. I started getting contacted by EMI’s European affiliates, who’d obviously heard I was a sucker for obscure records. Suddenly, they all wanted me to release their French, Italian, and German shlock in the States. I knew I’d be poking around for a needle in a haystack. It takes a something special to scale the Berlin Wall of foreign language, but strange surprises do occasionally happen, so I kept my ears and office door open until I eventually found something.

  EMI’s Dutch company, Bovema, had a hot little imprint called Imperial that had released an instrumental album called Talent for Sale by a guitarist named Jan Akkerman. When I heard the amazing guitar playing and a stand-out track named “Ode to Billy Joe,” I telegrammed Amsterdam. “I don’t have much money,” I explained, “but I’m interested in putting out Jan Akkerman’s record in the United States.”

  “You can take it for free,” Theo Russ replied. “Just pay us a royalty. However, we can’t include any option, because he’s just left us. We hear he’s returned to his old Focus bandmates.”

  To find out what was going on, I jumped on a plane to Amsterdam and found Jan Akkerman and the rest of Focus earning a living by playing in the Dutch production of Hair; the problem, however, was that they’d already signed a publishing deal with Radio Tele Music, a Benelux publishing company owned by Radio Luxembourg. Part of that deal was that the publisher had a say over which label got the recording rights. So, I called its main man, Hubert Terheggen, who knew he couldn’t do much for Focus in a country the size of a shoe box.

  “Do you go to Midem?” he asked me.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Well, let’s do this deal in Cannes.”

  I took the train down to Paris and telephoned my French connection, Lucien Morisse. Not only was Lucien a presenter on Europe 1, France’s most popular pop radio station, he ran the record label Disc’Az, which my old friend Barbara Baker still worked for. I’d been introduced to Lucien by Barbara, so whenever I was in Paris, I’d call into their fabulous office overlooking the Arc de Triomphe. Lucien was a real-deal record man who’d married French pop star Dalida and discovered an important French singer-songwriter named Michel Polnareff. He was Jewish, and one of our little traditions was to eat at his favorite kosher restaurant on Île Saint-Louis.

  When I played him the album, he offered me $10,000 for Focus’s French rights, and when I met Hubert Terheggen in Cannes, he asked for only $5,000 to grant me the worldwide rights, excluding the Benelux. So, just by running around between Amsterdam, Paris, and Cannes, I flew home to New York with Focus’s rights and a profit of five grand before we’d sold a single copy. And that’s how Sire got Focus, a deal that would eventually change our fortunes and put us on the map.

  The logistics of licensing finished European records into the United States were pretty simple. We’d either take the masters on the plane back to New York or receive them by special courier. We’d adapt the sleeve artwork and send everything to our distributor, who’d press and ship to stores. I make it sound so easy, but try carrying a stack of cakes all the way to Europe in economy class, then spend days sifting through shitloads of major company dreck. Do this twenty times and I swear you’ll deserve your one-hit wonder.

  There was one afternoon in EMI’s head office, I was so jet-lagged, I must have fallen asleep on a desk. I woke up to find the whole building dark, deserted, and locked. It was still early enough to telephone my main contact John Reid, but unfortunately, he didn’t have a key. He had to call a senior boss named Ken East, who later dropped in accompanied by his wife, Dolly, with John Reid in tow. They found my situation so hilariously pitiful, they took me out for a late-night dinner.

  Ken and Dolly East were a well-known socialite couple, especially among gay show business characters whose company and wit they seemed to love. There were rumors about Ken, because he’d once turned up to an EMI party in drag, but I don’t think he was gay or bisexual. He was just a dandy who enjoyed speaking the gay slang they had in London. It was a century-old jargon called Polari that had evolved between gay men to avoid being understood by eavesdroppers at a time when homosexuality was illegal. According to the most plausible theory, it was first begun by Punch and Judy puppet masters, who were mostly Italian travelers. From there, it spread into the navy and theatrical circuits and continued evolving and growing. To my American ears, it sounded as incomprehensible as the slang in A Clockwork Orange, but I was nonetheless fascinated. It’s certainly an indication of how strong the gay subculture was in Britain.

  The more I was accepted into the EMI gang, the more I couldn’t believe how many characters in the British music business were gay. In New York’s music business, it was always “Did you know he’s Jewish?” whereas in London, it was “Did you know he’s queer?” Nearly all the managers behind the British Invasion were gay. The Beatles had Brian Epstein, the Who had Kit Lambert, the Yardbirds had Simon Napier-Bell, the Bee Gees and Cream had Rob Stigwood—who, although Australian, worked out of London. The Stones had Andrew Oldham (known as being very flamboyant even if he wasn’t gay). Ever wondered where the sixties’ fashion of long hair originally started? Yep, blame gay managers, especially Brian Epstein, who was both gay and Jewish. The tradition went even back even further. In the fifties, a guy called Larry Parnes was a hugely successful gay impresario behind most of Britain’s rock-and-roll stars, such as Tommy Steele, Billy Fury, and Marty Wilde. There was also Joe Meek, the mad-genius producer behind the Tornadoes 1962 smash, “Telstar,” the first-ever British number one on the Billboard Hot 100.

  Even the almighty chairman of EMI, Sir Joseph Lockwood, was gay. Since the fifties, Sir Joe, as everyone called him, was the banker and strategist behind Britain’s incredible rise as a pop superpower. It was Sir Joe who bought Capitol in 1952 and also Sir Joe who promoted a working-class prodigy named George Martin to revive EMI’s ailing Parlophone imprint. With all the Beatles money that kept pouring back from America throughout the sixties, Sir Joe then invested heavily in TV production, which changed the BBC forever after. The British should erect a monument to the man.

  Sir Joe always seemed like an upright British gentleman, and I wonder if there’s any truth in the rumors that he liked a bit of rough stuff with some of the impresarios he helped. Probably scurrilous gossip, but you get my point; in London, it was no big deal to be gay, because so many important players were. And it wasn’t just the record business; it was the same in the BBC, which had plenty of hugely talented gay actors, producers, and radio deejays. The West End theatrical scene was the gayest community of all—that’s where the cu
lture originated. In fact, both Larry Parnes and Robert Stigwood were theatrical agents before they moved into pop music.

  Even my new Scottish buddy John Reid had gotten his job at EMI through these networks. His superior was a friendly guy named Phil Greenop, who was also a fixture of that Ken and Dolly East social set. I guess John Reid sensed I was gay and invited me out to meet his new lover, a young musician named Reg Dwight, who was performing under the stage name Elton John. Needless to say, when I first met him, I didn’t immediately see Elton John’s lucky star flashing across the restaurant table. That all changed when I heard “Your Song.” His career as a recording artist had barely begun, and we were just a bunch of guys hanging out after work. Amazingly, the independent label that had just signed him, DJM, was owned by the same Dick James who built the publishing company behind the Beatles, Northern Songs. Back in 1962, Dick James had pointed a desperate and demoralized Brian Epstein to George Martin and was later rewarded with their publishing. Beat that for a lucky streak; the year before the Beatles broke up, Dick James signed Elton John for both publishing and recordings. For some people, the good times don’t stop rolling.

  What immediately struck me about Elton John was his deep knowledge of music, not just songs and artists but the whole family tree of labels and genres. There was a touch of the musicologist about him, and I’m sure it’s why John Reid introduced us: he knew we’d talk the same language. Before Reg became Elton, he’d served customers for years in Musicland Records on Berwick Street, one of London’s very best record stores. I can only presume all his research and record collecting earned him high standards as a listener, which he eventually put to the service of his own music. It’s a side of Elton John he keeps to his private life, but he’s always been a true fanatic who spends hours every day listening to other people’s records and keeping up with new artists and releases and industry business.

  Life is partly what we make it and partly made by the friends we choose. I was only twenty-seven, but through trial, error, and plenty of lucky mishaps, I was building up an international network of young and old players whose talent and ambition fired me up and kept me believing in myself. You can’t succeed on your own; we all need a circle of like-minded crusaders to stay fired up and relish the daily battle. Although we hadn’t scored any major hits yet, I felt I was part of a community, and that sense of support and belonging made me feel secure about Sire’s future.

  The time had come for Richard and me to our move office and stand tall in our own building. The small amount of rent we were paying for King’s former New York office became an issue once we were dealing with Syd’s estate. Jack Pearl didn’t throw us out, but the feeling of overstaying our welcome got me thinking about how Syd had tied up his money in real estate, usually cheap, run-down buildings that he’d turn into business outposts. It made perfect sense. By owning the building, you stopped wasting profits on rent, and you could even pay wages and cover office costs by renting out the space you didn’t need. And unless the Russians nuked Manhattan, the building would go up in value.

  Considering Sire had become so synonymous with international rock, the whole Broadway district didn’t matter to us anymore. We bought a pretty brownstone at 165 West Seventy-Fourth Street on the Upper West Side and named it Blue Horizon House, confident that the slightly run-down neighborhood was too near the prettiest parts of uptown Manhattan to not go up in value. It was one of the smartest moves Richard and I ever made.

  Our international connections began throwing up surprises. On one of my London trips in 1970, Ken and Dolly East introduced me to an Australian producer named David Mackay, who was behind one of Britain’s and Australia’s pop hits of 1970. For months, no Englishman or Aussie could escape this novelty song that was all over the airwaves like a jellyfish epidemic. Called “The Push Bike Song,” it was Mungo Jerry–styled bubblegum, written and performed by an Australian group called the Mixtures. It was a bit goofy but fiendishly catchy, so I gobbled up the American rights, and hey, presto, flew home Sire’s first little pop hit on the Hot 100. It peaked at forty-four—not bad at all.

  What Sire needed a lot more than lucky singles were long-term album artists, so we reinvested the profits into our main acts, including Jan Akkerman’s group, Focus. Their first record in 1969, In and Out of Focus, had a dreamy, psychedelic sound, but it lacked punch. Knowing the band had gone through personnel changes and were hungry for bigger things, I called Mike Vernon and asked him to go to Holland to check them out. Mike tracked the band down to a giant hangar in the Dutch middle of nowhere and called me back from a phone booth, saying he liked what he heard and wanted to produce their next album. This was my revenge for Jethro Tull, because the organist and singer in Focus, Thijs van Leer, also played the flute. “This time,” I joked, “like it or not, you’re gonna produce a flautist and you’re gonna enjoy it!”

  With all this traveling and office moving, I’d forgotten about the third-grade schoolteacher, but in early 1971, my niece Robin telephoned the new office. “Miss Adler is back from France, and she asked about you!” So, I called Linda, and lo and behold, she’d changed completely. We caught up with each other’s adventures over the previous year and suddenly got along just dandy. Whether France had changed her, I don’t know, but the first night we went out on a date, I slept with her.

  What surprised me was that I had no problems screwing a woman. In fact, I was rather proud of myself that I could keep doing the business whenever Linda wrestled me into bed. Very quickly, she started dropping whopper hints about marriage. This of course threw me, but, I was flattered. Linda saw a winner in me, and whatever about my own sexual confusion—my self-confidence was doing somersaults. I guess I’d bottled up my true desires for so many years, all I consciously cared about was success, which, for me, didn’t mean money. My vision of success was a type of wide-screen, Technicolor lifestyle, and I could see that Linda hungered for the same. She wanted to know about every rock star and kingpin I’d met. She’d sit there, eyes on fire, hanging on every name and detail like her life depended on it. She wasn’t just listening politely like my mother did; Linda was studying, asking all the right questions, remembering names, following the news like a reporter, and often offering smart tactical advice.

  Our dating was getting serious, but I now understand why an aging father will advise his twenty-eight-year-old son to take a good look at his girlfriend’s mother. I didn’t need Sigmund Freud to figure out where Linda picked up her commando traits. Her mother, Mabel, was an iron lady even by the standards of Bronx matriarchs. It’s a pity nobody told me that Mabel’s own mother had died young; I might have better understood the Adler glitch. Deprived of a mom, Mabel hadn’t had it easy as a kid and grew up tough as nails. All I noticed was how Linda’s henpecked father, a lovely man named Ira, seemed to protect his girls from the mother’s forked tongue. Considering how gentle my own mother had been, I just found Mabel terrifying. Once, my phone rang in the middle of the night as Linda lay asleep beside me. I fumbled for the receiver and croaked, “Huh-low,” half-unconscious but thinking it was London.

  “Sorry to interrupt you, but I know you’re fucking my daughter!” was Mabel’s 3:00 A.M. greeting. As wake-up calls go, it was like Sandy Koufax throwing a wet cloth at your sleeping face.

  At first, I didn’t agonize over the glaring question marks of our impossible relationship, but as soon as I bought us tickets for a vacation to Bermuda, I was suddenly overcome by fear and guilt. I knew I had to tell Linda the truth about myself before she stepped on that plane. I kept putting it off, but on the morning of our flight—a little late, I admit—I stood before Linda in the hallway of the Adler home. Her suitcase was packed and waiting, all the Adlers were out, and right there, I told Linda the truth. I was attracted to men; I’d slept with men, not just once or twice but several times. I’ll never forget the scene. She fell into silent shock for about ten minutes like the Bronx sky was draining into a sinkhole that had collapsed inside her. Then she erupte
d into wails of “No! No! No!” while punching her own head with two clenched fists. Her whole life was spinning down the existential toilet bowl. Shock, shame, hatred of me, self-hatred, everything, all at once. Cool Miss Adler, the third-grade teacher, thought she’d met her Mr. Rock and Roll. It was all so perfect. Now this.

  Witnessing Linda’s complete meltdown, I hadn’t expected my own reaction. I suddenly felt even guiltier than before. And terrified of losing her. All my life, I’d wrestled with the same riddle. Maybe if I gave it a chance, I’d learn to desire women? Maybe my attraction to men was just something I could fix? I still didn’t know, because I hadn’t tried. Dear reader, I know what you’re thinking, but please try to understand. Just because I may have been gay didn’t mean I wasn’t Jewish. There’s a saying in the Talmud that you are not born by your mother or father but by your children. Even for nonreligious Jews, even for show business Jews, our culture is all about passing the flame to the next generation. We’re meant to have families. It’s engraved into our dreams. “The show must go on!”

  Something profound happened that morning. Two egotistical misfits realized they held the missing piece of each other’s obsession. “I can change,” I promised her, and I truly meant it. I didn’t want to be gay; I wanted to have a family and make my parents proud like all Jewish sons and daughters want to. “I’m glad you told me,” Linda eventually said. My secret had knocked the living shit out of her, but if there’s one thing Linda understood, it was the frustration of being trapped in the wrong body. She was twenty-six, she’d been through college, she’d traveled the world and danced till dawn in a thousand dives. But behind her loud mouth, Linda felt ugly, overweight, inferior to other women. She had her faults and weaknesses, but fear was not one of them. In fact, Linda was probably attracted to danger.