Siren Song_My Life in Music

by Gareth Murphy

  When I finally met Ice-T and his young Bolivian manager, Jorge Hinojosa, I couldn’t believe he hadn’t been signed by anyone. In that meeting, I was asked a very simple question, which I don’t think was meant as any kind of personality test. “What is it about me that you like?” asked Ice-T, which is a great way of putting a record exec on the spot.

  “I think you tell great stories,” I replied tentatively, “but you know what? At the risk of losing you, there’s something about you that makes me think of calypso.” Ice-T looked back at me a little confused, like he’d only heard the reference but no actual calypso records. “Can I play you something?” I asked him.

  I had to rummage around my legendarily messy office, which was always jam-packed with records, magazines, and antiques. This probably wasn’t the meeting Ice-T’s razor-sharp manager was expecting, but they sat there watching me. The first calypso record I played him was the 1956 hit “Jean and Dinah” by Mighty Sparrow, a song about the troubled prostitution market after Trinidadian independence. With its great lines about “the yankee’s gone, sparrow take over now,” it’s a humorous yet poignant portrait of a particular time and a place. The next record was Lord Kitchener’s 1978 hit, “Sugar Bum Bum,” which can only be described as a tribute to the “fat behind” of a lady called Audrey. As all this sexually charged West Indian music poured into the room, Ice-T sat there smiling beside his manager. Calypso was weird prehistory for a young rapper, but he suddenly grabbed me. “I want to sign with you!”

  It was an unorthodox way of recruiting Sire’s first great rapper, but he’d asked me an honest question, and I gave him an honest answer. Ice-T knew I wasn’t pretending to be an expert on his scene, but he at least saw that I understood the irony in his lyrics—which not everyone did. There was a tendency in rap’s early days for white onlookers to take rap more literally than the artists meant it themselves. I’m also sure Ice-T thought I was half-nuts, but the fact I came from Brooklyn, I think, added to the growing affinity between us. We both came from humble beginnings, and yes, that usually does create a certain trust. Needless to say, Ice-T went on to sell many millions of records.

  Warner’s sales sheets were now full of Sire monsters. Symbolically, moving into 75 Rockefeller Plaza in 1988 marked Sire’s ascension into big business. Our new office was on the twentieth floor and had such a commanding view of the plaza, even I started looking forward to Christmas. As every New Yorker knows, Rockefeller Plaza is the site of a giant Christmas tree that every tourist and Midtown family flocks to see as a sort of annual winter pilgrimage. Every year, when the lights flicked on for the first time, whoops of joy would ripple around the office, and we’d all rush to the windows. We were looking down on the very epicenter of Christmas, knowing that Santa Claus would deliver millions of our records to kids all over the world. Call me sentimental, but there’s no business like show business.

  And the smash hits just kept coming. That year, my big Canadian star was k.d. lang. Before making any records, she’d started out as a Patsy Cline tribute singer and gradually began writing songs of her own. On first listen, I was hooked by her incredible voice and signed her up to a long and successful relationship. One of the artist development managers out in Burbank, Carl Scott, was a huge fan and deserves due credit for supporting k.d.’s cause. People say she was the world’s first lesbian pop star, but of course, there were others long before k.d. who had no choice but to keep their sexuality private. I’m proud to have helped such a beautiful voice reach such a large audience, albeit for reasons entirely musical. I honestly wasn’t attracted to gay artists; I just didn’t let their sexuality get in the way of my ears. I hear what people have inside. I never judge musicians on anything but their music.

  The icing on the cake was a surprise at the end of the decade. Nearly every one of the British indie musicians I’d ever signed, including a few American bands like the Replacements, had grown up listening to the songs of Lou Reed. For a guy who’d struggled so much in his early years in the commercially unsuccessful Velvet Underground, Lou Reed had grown into the prophet of the indie generation. Thanks partly to Sire’s success with all these alternative rock bands in a period that was otherwise synonymous with cheesy pop, I got a phone call sometime in 1988 from Lou Reed explaining that he was sick of RCA, who were also sick of him. He’d been floundering through the eighties and was in urgent need of a new label, new collaborators, a new plan. And that’s how Lou Reed’s so-called New York trilogy knocked on my door.

  As a rule, I never signed established stars, but Lou Reed was the one guy you’d make an exception for, especially considering he was the one asking. I’d met him socially many times since the seventies through Danny Fields, so when he walked in sporting a curly mullet, we just got straight down to business. People always talk about Lou Reed’s grumpy character, but I always found him cordial. He didn’t want anyone’s fawning, but if you talked to him normally and let him be, he was friendly enough. I suspect that, like Bob Dylan’s, Lou’s bad reputation was both provoked and diagnosed by bug-eyed journalists who’d drive him crazy with pseudointellectual questions until he’d snap. He was just a quiet, brooding type who liked to observe. As with his song lyrics, there was nothing he appreciated more than simplicity and straight talk. The thing we both absolutely loved was old-school Brill Building pop. Get him onto old fifties classics, and he was in his element.

  He was born in Brooklyn just a month before I was, so I’d always regarded him as a peer. He was our local hero, but I never let my admiration get the better of me. Unfortunately, the people at WBR didn’t like him, but that’s because they didn’t understand where he was coming from. I suspect it was mutual. At the time, Lou’s second wife, Sylvia, was technically his manager, although I didn’t get the impression she was in charge of much except chores. I never really understood her role in his business. All I know is that Lou was allergic to corporate bullshit. He didn’t want to deal with any junior staffers or Warner go-betweens; he insisted on coming to me for everything. I didn’t mind—I was actually quite flattered—but his presence did make me nervous. If he was dropping by in the afternoon, my mornings always felt a little intense.

  On one occasion, he called in with some demos, but we couldn’t get the stereo working. After what felt like an eternity of fumbling around, my executive assistant, Risa Morley, came to the rescue, but Lou asked her to leave the room when she got his tape playing. He was a touch paranoid, but the only opinion Lou ever wanted was mine, which again was flattering but somewhat pointless. I was never going to tell Lou Reed to add a piano or change a syllable. It was his privilege to make songs whatever way he wanted and mine to ensure everything got paid for, pressed, and publicized.

  Did I worry that he had a reputation for drug use? Nah, he obviously had a way of functioning and working anyway. All I cared about were the end results, which was an album called New York, hailed by critics as a return to form. Next came his collaboration with John Cale, Songs for Drella, their tribute to the departed Andy Warhol. That record got even bigger plaudits. Then Magic and Loss, another concept album about friends dying. I never expected Lou Reed to make another “Perfect Day.” I knew that, like myself, he had serious mileage on the clock and was writing about old men’s concerns, but he kept his promise to pull off something worthwhile. His most loyal fans appear to agree this New York trilogy was the highlight of his later work.

  Lou Reed was the icing, but there was a cherry on top, Brian Wilson, who I hadn’t chased around with a checkbook either. His signature came together even more spontaneously. I first met him backstage at the second Hall of Fame induction ceremony in March 1987. It was my idea for Brian Wilson to induct Leiber and Stoller, whose songs I knew were a huge influence on his teenage imagination. We were both standing in the wings awaiting our cues to deliver a speech. I don’t know who was more terrified, him or me, but by encouraging each other, a bond was formed. After years of addiction, reclusion, and suffering from mental illness, he was clean
and now only beginning to show his face in public. I’d always loved his music and still think he was the greatest ever pop songwriter of that whole post–World War II era. He seemed sweet but very fragile, and I just wanted to help him climb further out of whatever hellhole he’d slid into for so long.

  While chatting afterward, I told him about a former Sire artist and friend of mine, Andy Paley, whose dream I knew was to collaborate with his number-one hero, Brian Wilson. In his excitable, almost childlike way, Brian ordered me, “Call him right now. I want to talk to Andy. Let’s do this.” We found a phone booth in one of the emptier corridors of the Waldorf Astoria. I used my credit card, and for about one hour, Brian Wilson and Andy Paley just kept talking and talking about music. I had to stand there like a voyeur, waiting to get my credit card back. It was all a bit insane, but I guess we were both feeling the adrenaline of the after-show.

  That phone call developed into Brian Wilson’s solo comeback. I secured them a $200,000 budget, which was extravagant in those days but easily spent if you were hiring only the best musicians and taking your time as Brian Wilson liked to do. I just couldn’t stay away and spent a few weekends in Brian’s home, hanging out for meals and listening to them play from a respectful distance. The only dark shadow hanging over an otherwise happy adventure was Brian’s minder, the notorious Eugene Landy. He was the so-called doctor who treated Brian for schizophrenia. In fairness, Landy had probably saved Brian’s life, but along that long, slow process of recovery, Landy began to abuse his powers as a psychotherapist. He took over Brian’s life, including his business interests, and even registered some of Brian’s compositions under his own name. Dr. Eugene E. Landy, as he called himself, was a sicko who should have been thrown in jail. Brian’s adorable brother Carl was the most concerned of all, as was Brian’s girlfriend, Melinda, now his wife. We were all working carefully as a team to help Brian out of the mental grip of this absolute monster and con man.

  As soon as Lenny Waronker started hearing demos and tales about me sunbathing in Brian Wilson’s garden, he was like a boy staring into the window of a toy store. Lenny loved the Beach Boys, so when Brian and Andy ran out of money, he stepped in and encouraged them to keep going with what seemed like unlimited support. In the end, the record turned into a million-dollar folly, by far the most expensive production on Sire’s books, but nobody in Burbank seemed to mind. In California, helping Brian Wilson was considered as a noble deed of community service. As everyone could see, Brian’s only chance of a second life was to earn back his shattered self-confidence through work. Simply titled Brian Wilson, the record was a cast of thousands that disappointed some fans. Never mind, it did succeed in helping Brian Wilson seize back some of his old self.

  As the eighties drew to a close, I guess I’d finally reached the very top. Sire still had the biggest star in the world, Madonna, and as an A&R man, I was one of the hottest names in the business. On a personal level, between Brian Wilson and Lou Reed, I had also reached the best minds of my own war baby generation. To be honest, it was an eye-opener to see just how much these heroes of mine had to overcome. Their struggles probably fueled their imaginations in the first place.

  Ambition is basically dissatisfaction with who and where you are. You’re born with demons that you have to harness before they kill you. For a long time, I thought it was my sexuality, but there was definitely a lot more to whatever kept me running and hardly sleeping. Some forms of obsessive and extreme behavior can produce momentary relief. My way of scratching the itch was chasing hits. I was like a shark. Stop moving and I’d die. I knew I was a hopeless case who just couldn’t sit still or get enough action. But what d’ya do? Get a Dr. Landy? Or just keep running with your precious madness?

  9. CRAZY

  I’d be holding a telephone receiver in my right hand, talking to an artist or a manager or a label in London. With my left hand, I’d be signing off paperwork that my secretary was simultaneously peeling off my desk. In the background, a staffer at the door would be mouthing something about an important call on line two. In the middle of this mayhem, a fresh stack of demos would arrive. And all day long, the phones just kept ringing on every desk.

  This was my life in the eighties and early nineties. Morning was London time, evening was Burbank time, lunchtime was everybody-go-nuts time. My daily mission at Sire was to keep up with a level of international success that had grown fantastically out of control. Like Space Invaders on the final level, the aliens had gone apeshit. My life was to keep shooting and dodging bullets, just keep going, to stave off the inevitable Game Over for as long as I could.

  My reward was seeing how many bestsellers on WBR’s sales reports were ours. Considering Sire was basically me and a team of seven or eight people, we had a ridiculous success rate, probably the highest of any record label our size at the time. But it all came at a personal cost. For a guy who was in and out of cardiac wards, I was putting a lot of coke up my nose. I’m embarrassed to admit it at my ripe old age, but that’s how I kept rolling. The rhythm was so intense, even my staff didn’t have time for private lives, and considering the action they were getting, I doubt they even had much patience for normal civilian company. Sire was work, play, breakfast, lunch, and dinner. It was parties, gigs, traveling, everything rolled into one big fat life that most young New Yorkers could only dream of.

  The days were so long and fast, none of us saw much of our apartments, which only really served as a locker and a bed. You’d have a suitcase wide open on the floor, with half-unpacked clothes pouring out. That was your portable wardrobe. I was such an elusive creature in my own home, the NYPD could have conducted exams in my kitchen. It was like an uninhabited snow world of footprints and eerie silences. Student detectives could have been assessed on their forensic skills by matching every half-drunk coffee cup in the sink to the unopened letters piled up on the table.

  You came, you slept, you showered, and off you buzzed back to the bright lights, happy as a gnat on a midsummer’s night. If you went out to a gig until two, which you did several times a week, you had to be in the office the next morning at nine. Standing up at your desk, you’d man the decks until Burbank went home, which was about ten at night in New York. Every day took forever, because your main job of finding new acts and promoting new releases was constantly being interrupted. With the amount of Sire bands on tour, people were always looking for tickets or backstage passes, including the odd surprise like James Brown asking to see Madonna. There were lunches, events, Hall of Fame business, helping people out. You took all these calls, because no matter how busy you were, you had to remain friendly.

  The only way to make the space to actually listen to demos, read magazines, and snoop around for fresh product was to put in these manic eighteen-hour days. So, if you had to be in London the following day, you couldn’t waste a good day by taking an afternoon flight. Hell no. You squeezed a full day into ten hours and then grabbed a night flight. You continued working on the plane and arrived frazzled for a full day’s work in London, typically followed by a gig. You just kept going because it’s true, folks: the early bird really does catch the worm.

  And no matter where you went, those ringing telephones followed you everywhere—London, Paris, Los Angeles, Sundays, vacations, religious holidays, visits to the hospital. In my usual Chinese restaurant in London, the Gallery Rendezvous, they’d kindly put a telephone on my table and allow me to work away while eating. Flights were my only out-of-reach moments, so I’d use the undisturbed silence to get certain chores out of the way, like expenses. One of my little quirks was to stuff my receipts into a barf bag, where they belonged. Planes were perfect for dictating letters to my main assistant, Risa, who’d often travel with me. Possibly the most crucial part of my job was to rally support for my artists, so thanks to the invention of the fax machine, my trick was to write what I hoped would be inspirational memos to Mo and other WBR people, many of which I’m sure were written in vain.

  I’m sure Mo hated
receiving these two- or three-page word bombs. It suited me, however, to come across as the mad professor. All I ever wanted was money and green lights, so in roundabout ways that weren’t obviously confrontational, I had to keep reminding Mo that I had more musical vision than he ever did. If Mo could save face by telling his colleagues I was insane, but to shut me up with whatever I wanted, it was a fair bargain. I’d earned a reputation inside Warner as the company maverick, and I knew that soldiers on the battlefield all felt honored to be formally addressed and shown how their daily missions mattered to the overarching war effort.

  When my faxes arrived into various departments around the Burbank complex, I’m sure staffers thought that I was doing blow while writing these giant monologues—and it’s true that my writing skills occasionally needed an extra lift. Few, however, could question my knowledge, my sincerity, and above all, Sire’s track record of pointing the way. To get my outcast artists the attention they deserved, I had to stir things up and motivate troops who weren’t under my direct command. In the age before emails, a carefully written and nicely typed-up letter carried far more weight than a phone call. Plus, of course, my letters got passed around.

  In the middle of all this sleepless activity, Linda kept bursting into frame and adding to the chaos. If I was late on paying her money, she’d torture my assistants until I coughed up a check. “Where’s His Majesty?” she’d whine at them in that Bronx drawl that sounded so much like her mother’s. An integral part of working for Sire was coping with my ex-wife, which, to their credit, they all did with good humor. Although they wouldn’t tell me until years later, my staffers said what they all found so weird was how Linda and I would insult each other, but just as sincerely, we’d start laughing and smiling together when we met up socially, which we did often. Ours was an incomprehensible love-hate relationship that somehow never died. There was such static between us, innocent bystanders felt their hair spiking upward.