Along with Ken Kushnick, I took David Byrne to the calypso carnival in Trinidad during Mardi Gras of 1978, knowing David would love the color and warm sounds of the West Indies. Shortly afterward, Talking Heads set up in the Bahamas with Brian Eno and took their time to record More Songs About Buildings and Food, their second album, which we released that July. The unusual choice of location was partly their manager’s idea. Gary Kurfirst was an old friend of Island Records founder Chris Blackwell, who agreed to rent them his Compass Point studio at buddy rates. It was a comfortable, state-of-the-art studio being used by a host of Caribbean stars like Burning Spear, Althea & Donna, and of course Bob Marley. From those warm, bigger-sounding sessions, a cover of the Al Green song “Take Me to the River” became Talking Heads’ first hit on U.S. radio. David Byrne’s songs were still as lyrically inventive as in the CBGB days, but as a band, their sonic focus took a big step toward funky rhythms and Eno-style art rock.
I think Warner bought into Sire, when punk first blew up, because it was the way to get hip and to do it pretty damn quickly. Mo wanted punk and new-wave acts all to himself. He personally ran around for months chasing Malcolm McLaren to sign the Sex Pistols to a big North American deal, which always struck me as a wild-goose chase. Once the Sex Pistols dumped their songwriter, Glen Matlock, only to replace him with Sid Vicious, who couldn’t even play, I always suspected they wouldn’t last. A band can’t survive on clothing and publicity alone; you need songwriters to keep the engines firing.
There was one new-wave band, however, that Mo snatched right out of my hands. Michael Rosenblatt—whose father, Ed Rosenblatt, was head of marketing and sales, one of the most senior positions at Warner’s, and great friends of the Ostin family—had discovered the B-52’s. The honeymoon, if there ever was one, was officially over.
The story began thanks to one of my junior staffers, Michael Rosenblatt, who was only twenty-two at the time. I’d hired him as a favor to his father, Eddie Rosenblatt, who was Warner’s sales chief and a key player to have on our side. In the early days of the joint venture, we’d been invited to a Rosenblatt barbecue, and Linda picked up the hint when Eddie called over his son and gave us chapter and verse on how much Michael loved underground music. Looking back, Eddie had the good sense to get his son a break in a smaller, hotter label in a different city. I’m sure Eddie could have got Michael a job in Burbank, which probably wouldn’t have turned out as well. Anyway, when we got back to New York, it was Linda who kept barking at me to offer Eddie’s son a job, and I’m glad she did; we’d all benefit from the exchange.
When young Michael arrived in New York, he was so eager to learn, he ventured down to CBGB one Tuesday evening in December 1977. Sitting on his own, he watched a gang of men and women take to the stage. “Hello. We’re from Atlanta, Georgia,” announced the singer, and the B-52’s launched straight into “Planet Claire.” Michael skipped into work the next morning with news of this wildly original party music he’d heard in CBGB. The problem was, the number they gave him was the Greyhound Bus Station in Atlanta, where two of the musicians worked. The B-52’s were so broke, they didn’t have a telephone.
After a bit more investigation, I flew down to Georgia to see them play and thought they were an absolute hoot. Not only did I want to sign them, I wanted to make sure they had a manager, the plan being—like all our new-wave bands—to keep them touring and developing professionally. While setting up the deal, I introduced them to Gary Kurfirst, but what does he turn around and do? In the negotiations between the B-52’s and my corporate masters, Gary caves to Mo, who wanted to sign them directly to WBR.
What apparently happened was that Gary was trying to broker some kind of a territorial split whereby Sire would get North America and Island would get the UK. Mo, however, looked straight at him and asked, “Why are you going to so much trouble, Gary? Sire and Island come through us anyway. You might as well sign your band directly to us.” And because Gary was already managing Talking Heads and needed to keep everyone at Burbank sweet, it was easy for Mo to get his way. In fairness, Gary asked for our logo to appear on the record, because, apart from the guilt-acknowledging gesture, Sire was a stamp of new-wave quality that scenesters recognized. Mo, however, refused and took the B-52’s all for himself—pretty cavalier considering they were Michael Rosenblatt’s first A&R scoop and Mo was an old friend of the kid’s father.
The B-52’s saga was an eye-opener. Officially, Mo’s contract’s man, David Berman, was blamed for the “mix-up” on some technicality, but I never bought a word of it. I was starting to understand why the guys at Atlantic all thought Mo Ostin was Machiavellian. There may have been some East-West rivalry that our common emperor Steve Ross encouraged to get all his little arms competing, but it definitely had something to do with the way you couldn’t even talk records with Mo. Well, you could, and you had to, but there just wasn’t that common passion that binds even the fiercest competitors. Some of us grew up with music, and others just approached it as career. I mean, if you’re not playing the records you produce, if you’re not one of the fans, then why the fuck are you doing it? For the money, the power, the smug thrill of hanging out with rock stars?
Culturally, I was much closer to Ahmet Ertegun, a music addict with a childlike appetite for life. For twenty years, Ahmet had spent his own money building Atlantic from nothing into one of the greatest ever independent record labels. That meant a lot to me. Yeah, Ahmet was also the son of a senior Turkish diplomat and knew how to play boardroom politics with the same dagger-wielding intrigue as Mo. The difference was that Ahmet was always trying to corrupt those corporate stiffs in Warner Communications. He’d lure Steve Ross to gigs and play the larger-than-life showman. He’d borrow the private jet and throw crazy parties, usually with the help of his bubbly wife, Mica. With his brother, Nesuhi, Ahmet talked Steve Ross into building a glamorous soccer club, the New York Cosmos, which brought Pelé and Franz Beckenbauer to America and launched soccer as a national sport. I admired Ahmet’s attitude. He was out to have a blast and convert the suits, whereas Mo was always kissing corporate ass, more interested in learning all their Wall Street tricks to turn rock and roll into big business.
Would I have preferred to be in bed with Atlantic rather than Warner? Yes and no. The Erteguns had long-standing strong connections with music folk in the UK and Europe. Because of that, I felt I would be more valuable to WBR. In addition, at that time, WBR was also the hotter label of the whole Warner group, with plenty of talented people, most of whom truly believed in Sire.
Every few months, I’d have to fly out to Los Angeles to meet Mo and go over my business—usually money to sign bands or marketing funds to get them happening. We’d usually meet for lunch or dinner at Peppone, a great Italian in Brentwood, which was very close to his house. On a few occasions, we met up in the Beverly Hills Hotel, which was basically Hollywood’s trading floor and a popular place for record industry meetings. I’ll never forget the first time I met Mo there for breakfast. I’d already been to the Beverly Hills Hotel many times as a tourist, but everything felt so different once I was part of the local family.
One beautiful morning, I pulled up in my rented car. I strolled through the pink lobby and back outside onto a patio where a trellis wrapped in vines covered a restaurant area overlooking the pool and gardens. And sitting at the end table, there he was, the little man with the big glasses.
“Seymour!” said Mo, standing up. “Wonderful to see you! How was your trip?”
“Great,” I said. This was Hollywood, no place for the truth about feeling depressed or constipated. At home, we New Yorkers would laugh at this smiling Californian fakery, but you’d walk in and instantly become one of them. You’d even start wondering if they were actually happier than we were.
“I’m so glad we can talk things over in person,” he said. “Please, sit down. I’m all yours for breakfast.”
Since dawn, I’d been holed up in my hotel, running on coffee, which was no conditio
n to step into the ring against Mo Ostin. In such circumstances, small talk can get ugly if you don’t order food straight away. There needs to be impending hope hanging over the table. All those knives, forks, and teeth need to be given peaceful, satisfying jobs.
“Excuse me,” I said to a waitress. “Can I get a cheese omelet?” I said, handing the unread menu to the waitress.
“And I’ll have the fruit salad,” added Mo.
This was typical Mo Ostin. He’d drag you out to California for a happy-family breakfast, but he ordered like he’d eaten at home before coming. Thankfully, the food arrived after a tolerable amount of small talk about my flight, my hotel, the weather, my daughters, his wife, anything except music.
“How’s your omelet?” he asked like he actually cared.
“Great … Listen, Mo, why is it so difficult to get money out of Warner? Anytime I try to sign anything, your guys tangle me up in red tape.”
“Really, do they?”
“Yeah, they do.”
Mo had this clever trick of silently shaking his head whenever he wanted to appear shocked and surprised but didn’t want to express an opinion. I knew he was orchestrating all these procedures as a method of control. I also knew my nickname inside Burbank: “Seymour Stein, see less money!” For Mo and some of his directors and managers, I’d always be the cheap-signing record man from Brooklyn. Yes, I chose to operate in modest means and would have been happy to make a small profit on a new band just by word of mouth and have the time, belief, and patience to break them on the second, third, or even fourth album. That’s what being an indie, to me, is all about. They must’ve known that was the label and philosophy they bought into with Sire. That was the way the record men I admired, like Syd Nathan, the Chess brothers, and Ahmet and Jerry at Atlantic, did it. When you’re gambling with your own money, it’s not the same, believe me.
As I was talking, I noticed that Mo seemed distracted by something behind me. I turned around and saw Clive Davis sitting at another table, eating by himself. I had great respect for Clive. No other lawyer I knew had successfully made the transition to music man the way Clive Davis did. Paul Marshall was the lawyer I respected most because he understood the inner workings of the music business and personalities, and he also kept a close eye on what was happening all over the world. It was apparent to me, even then, that Clive had great ears and had made the right decision moving into A&R. That said, and while I had great respect for Clive, the late seventies hadn’t been easy for him. His Arista label almost went bust, but in my opinion, the German indie/major Ariola, a subsidiary of BMG, had made a wise decision to come to his rescue.
“Do you know he’s losing the Germans a million a month?” Mo said gloatingly. Where I came from, people’s money problems should never be laughed at, and I half listened to Mo’s gossip until he popped the question a lot of people were asking at that time. “Do you really think he’s gay?”
“As far as I know, he is,” I said carefully.
“Well, I don’t get it. On several occasions while at conferences on the road, we both wound up chasing some ladies. I think it may have been Clive’s idea. Anyway, Seymour, I’m going to have to invite him to join us for a bit. You don’t mind?”
“Okay, Mo. Fine with me.”
As Mo sauntered over, Clive’s face lit up. Mo patted Clive’s back with one arm and with the other extended a welcome toward our table, a hearty gesture straight from Little House on the Prairie. I stood up and greeted Clive, although our relationship had not yet developed too far beyond formal gestures. Once reseated, the conversation went straight to the big retail season ahead. Mo asked what Clive had teed up for releases that fall.
“I’ve got some strong releases I’m counting on.”
“Do you have anything new from Barry Manilow?” asked Mo.
“Unfortunately, I don’t.”
“What about a Barry Manilow greatest hits?” I innocently suggested, but the look on Clive’s face turned the air blue.
“I couldn’t possibly do that!” he quickly replied.
“Do you not have the contractual provision?” asked Mo.
“Oh, no, no.” Clive who was, after all, a top lawyer, smirked. “It’s a personal thing.”
“How so?” inquired Mo.
“Barry is a wonderful human being, but he’s terribly sensitive. I know a greatest hits would go platinum, at least, but I couldn’t do that to him as a human being.”
I caught Mo’s eye. He was as lost as I was. “I don’t get you,” pressed Mo.
Clive Davis breathed in deeply, like he was getting ready to unload some awful burden. “Because I picked all his hits. I found the songs. For Barry, seeing the words Barry Manilow’s Greatest Hits written across that sleeve might embarrass him. Because he and I both know it should really be called Clive Davis’s Greatest Hits.”
I must admit, I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. A muscular spasm in my left leg kicked Mo under the table. Clive Davis’s ego was legendary even in the record business where XXL is the regular size. Clive’s greatest gift, as it was later proven, was picking songs, which he did an exceptional job on, not just for Barry but for many artists he worked with over his long career.
When Clive eventually disappeared back to his room for a phone call, Mo rolled up his trouser leg and showed a bruise forming on his shin. “Look what you just did to me!”
Mo laughed, and admittedly, I chuckled a bit. In that fabulous Beverly Hills moment, I knew how lucky I was to be seated at the big boys’ table.
Right then, Mo made his move. He signaled to the waitress for the check and looked into me as only bosses can do. “Seymour, getting back to us, please just call me whenever you’ve a problem with any of my guys, okay? I’ll do my best to fix it.”
This was life in my new adoptive family. You’d call Mo with a problem, so he’d invite you here, and now you were here, he was telling you to call him next time you had a problem. Mo Ostin was so very smooth. The guy could have sweet-talked a pack of rabid wolves over a cliff. They’d have wagged their tails and jumped.
I guess like Napoleon, Mo had figured out that choosing the battleground is usually the secret to winning. If you had good reason to be pissed off about something, he’d always meet you somewhere exclusive, public, and on his own turf. I’d stayed at lots of beautiful hotels. My favorite palaces in Paris and Cannes were probably a class above the Beverly Hills, but a sentimental Brooklyn boy who’d grown up on classic movies was never going to throw a complete tantrum on Hollywood’s front lawn. God forbid, Paul Newman might suddenly turn around.
How things had changed. I was thirty-six, right at that hilltop of life where you look down and see a belly bulging over your belt buckle. This, the other bulge in my pockets, and the news I’d get from my folks about their declining health were making me look at my own life differently. Whatever I still wanted to do on planet Earth, I’d better not waste any more time getting there. That’s what success does—you get to where you always wanted to be and realize there was all this other stuff further down the priority list that probably should have been higher up. Even for a shellac-blooded shark like me, you just can’t eat and sleep records twenty-four hours a day, certainly not in the afternoons, which I found was the soggy part of my working day. Without even realizing it at first, I was developing a new obsession, especially on my frequent trips to London.
I’d always been picking up antiques since I first started making money. At first it was mostly Chinese, ivory, and netsukes, also Qing Dynasty porcelain, all of which I’d learned about from Syd Nathan. I’d always loved Cantonese and Szechuan food and felt a personal connection to the Orient. Since I was a teenager, the intricate beauty of Chinese porcelain just sucked me further down that Silk Road of the imagination, but it wasn’t until I discovered the London auction houses like Sotheby’s, Christie’s, and Phillips that my curiosity became a full-blown passion.
As so often, it all began through a series of accidents. There was
this English executive I knew from the sixties who I’d kept doing business with; his name was Roland Rennie, a talented record executive who’d been gradually losing his way. When I first met him in the sixties, he’d been perfectly normal and had almost single-handedly steered Polydor out of its old-school past into the heart of the swinging sixties. His office scored so many major hits with the Who, the Bee Gees, Cream, Jimi Hendrix, and others, his German owners kept flying over to London to celebrate. They’d have these grotesque, thigh-slapping lunches and expect everyone to drink themselves sick, an annoying German habit even the English found tiresome. Over time, all the success got to Roland. He had to be moved around the company and first went to Phonogram, where he found success and also groomed the talents of Nigel Grainge (elder brother of current Universal supremo Lucien Grainge), who had started as a clerk and ended up one of the top A&R men in the business, with his own label, Ensign, a joint venture. He finally wound up running the publishing division at the time, Chappell Music.
Siren Song_My Life in Music Page 16