Waiting on the Moon, page 24
On my first day there, I rode up in the elevator with Ben E. King, singer-songwriter Brook Benton, and King Curtis, the beloved and brilliant saxophonist, who ran all the studio affairs.
I always made it a point to check out the sessions that might be happening in the studios, and I got lucky several times, catching Aretha Franklin on one day and Rahsaan Roland Kirk on another. (Kirk was the first person I interviewed when I was a late-night disc jockey on Boston radio.)
In 1973, the Geils band was performing several shows in LA when I found out that Ahmet was in town, staying in a private bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel. The next afternoon, I called his room. The phone was answered by his close friend Earl McGrath, then head of publicity for the label. I knew Earl from the New York offices, and many times he and I would end the day at a local watering hole. Earl, pleased to hear from me, said, “Ahmet has stepped out, but you should definitely come over at five, and we’ll all have drinks.” Earl later confided that Ahmet had actually been in the bathroom, and upon hearing I’d be stopping by, he became terribly annoyed, not only because he didn’t know me well but also because he rightly assumed I was visiting with a business grievance.
I had often seen Ahmet walking the hallways at the Atlantic offices in New York, usually smoking a small, thin cigar. With this in mind, I went to an exclusive tobacconist in Beverly Hills and bought their most expensive box of small, thin cigars, which neither I nor the band could afford. When I arrived, Earl answered the bungalow door and told me Ahmet was on a phone call to London. I was thankful that Earl was there because I knew he understood my nervousness. “Hey, man, have a drink and relax. Ahmet is glad you offered to stop by—we got vodka, red wine, white wine…”
At that moment, Ahmet appeared. He was a tidy man, balding, with an immaculately trimmed goatee. His clothing, from his eyeglasses to his velvet Gucci loafers, exuded wealth. He had a princely air, having been born into a distinguished Turkish family. Educated in the finest boarding schools and universities in Europe, he spoke and read five languages fluently. His father was the Turkish ambassador to the United States, and he and his brother, Nesuhi, grew up in Washington, DC. As teenagers, they became obsessed with jazz and the music of New Orleans. They held dance parties at the Turkish embassy, hiring their favorite musicians for entertainment—artists such as a young Duke Ellington, Cab Calloway, and Louis Armstrong. In the late 1940s, with money borrowed from their dentist, they started Atlantic Records, which quickly became one of the most distinguished independent record labels of its time.
I handed Ahmet the box of cigars, which he graciously received. He asked if I’d care to join him and Earl for a drink. I, of course, accepted. Earl, already several glasses in, asked, “So what do you need to see Ahmet about?”
“Well, Ahmet, we’re playing out here, and we’d love it if you and Earl would come and see the band perform tomorrow.” (We were headlining a bill at the Santa Monica Civic Auditorium with Little Feat opening.)
Earl knew from our New York bar chats that we were being grossly underpaid. So, pouring his third vodka and soda, he blurted out, “What’s your royalty rate?”
You could tell from Ahmet’s face that he had been caught by surprise. He gave Earl a cold, hard stare, which Earl, stirring a drink with his finger, pretended not to notice.
“Maybe several points per album with no advances,” I nervously replied.
“What? Holy shit—and that’s supposed to be split six ways?” said Earl.
Ahmet, not about to get trapped, intoned, “Well, perhaps Earl and I could come and check out the band.”
Just then, Ahmet was saved by a knock at the door. He rushed to open it. Standing there was a small, sturdy man, well dressed, in a smart suit with a shirt open at the neck. He looked to be Latino. Ahmet introduced him to me as Edson. Earl poured more drinks, then Ahmet mentioned that he and Earl had a quick meeting to attend and invited Edson and me to either stay in the suite or go to the hotel bar. He suggested we all meet at eight that evening at Mr Chow’s restaurant, adding, with a saturnine gleam, “Don’t forget—Mr Chow’s. We’re gonna have lots of fun—trust me, baby!”
When they had gone, Edson asked, “Do you wanna stay here or grab a drink at the bar? The bar might have some pretty ladies to look at.”
“Sounds like the right move to me,” I said as I finished the tall glass of vodka Earl had poured.
In the Polo Lounge, Edson and I, accompanied by several burly men who, I assumed, formed his entourage, sat at the bar and ordered some drinks. There were indeed attractive ladies there, all in the company of much older men. Edson said, “Some very pretty scenery around here. How do we get them away from their uncles?”
The busboy was staring intently at Edson and rushed over to the other busboys at the end of the bar. Soon thereafter, a bunch of faces peered out from the kitchen door, staring at us. The look they gave us made me think they had spotted a bank robber with a million-dollar bounty on his head. Edson didn’t seem to notice.
He told me he thought this place was too stiff and maybe we should try another bar. As our entourage walked toward the valet parking station, every hotel worker stopped and stared. When the valet took the ticket, he stood, open-mouthed, as if he were in the presence of one of the twelve apostles. The car quickly arrived, attended to by ten valets, who surrounded us and spoke in what sounded like Spanish. As we slowly pulled out to leave, it seemed as if the entire staff had gathered by the driveway, all waving and shouting.
Approaching the Sunset Strip, I asked my new drinking buddy, “Say, what’s going on? Seems like a lot of people recognize you. What do you do?”
“I play football.”
Not being a sports fan, I wasn’t surprised that I didn’t know him. But I thought, Okay, we’re both a little drunk, and he’s pulling my leg; he seems too small to be a football player.
We stopped off at two other nightspots. At the second, a statuesque blonde sidled up to Edson, and she was soon joined by several of her lady friends, all equally stunning. It was almost time to meet Ahmet, but the swarm of admirers made our exit difficult. The crowd followed us outside as Edson’s entourage helped get us safely into his car.
When we arrived at Mr Chow’s, we found Ahmet seated at a long table with some very recognizable celebrities. Earl had saved a seat for me next to him and poured me a full goblet of wine. I asked him, “Who is this Edson guy? Is he really a football player?”
Earl, with cigarette and drink in hand, said, “What Muhammad Ali is to boxing, he is to football. Hands down, he is the greatest soccer player in the world. Ahmet calls him by his first name, Edson, but the world knows him as Pelé.”
Later, the party moved to the home of actor Dennis Hopper. As the sun was rising, Pelé, with a car full of partygoers, offered me a ride back to my hotel. Ahmet and Earl did come to see us play the next night, but in all the following years I spent with Ahmet, the question of royalties never came up again.
Once we were back in New York, Earl invited me to join him and Ahmet on many of their late-night sorties through the city. A typical evening would begin with a dinner party hosted at either Ahmet’s East Side brownstone or an extravagant restaurant such as La Côte Basque or La Grenouille or, for less formal dining, at Mr Chow’s or Mortimer’s. Often we would make a quick stop at the Carlyle hotel for yet more cocktails and a performance by the society staple Bobby Short (who was also an Atlantic artist), singing from the Cole Porter songbook. Then over to the bar at Buddy’s Place, owned by the legendary jazz drummer Buddy Rich. Performing with him one night was jazz vocalist Joe Williams. When we entered, Joe, coincidentally, was singing the song “Chains of Love,” written by Doc Pomus but credited to none other than Ahmet himself.
At some point in the evening, we would join Ahmet’s wife, Mica, at her table in Reno Sweeney, a nightclub frequented by high-fashion and high-society figures. Seated with us might be Diana Vreeland, Lee Radziwill, Diane von Furstenberg, Barry Diller, and the ever-bulging heft of Jerry Zipkin: when he smiled, something he did quite often, you could almost play on his teeth like a piano. I once asked him what he did. He gave me an extra-large grin and said, “Do? Do? Darling, I’m rich!”
I was often amused by snippets of chatter from around the table: “Oh, how I hate it when a man wears his sport jacket draped over his shoulders—it looks so tacky.” “My Lord, who did her face? She looks like she’s walking in a wind tunnel. She should have seen my guy for her eyes—he’s the best in the world.”
We would sometimes return uptown to the 67th Street apartment of Jane and Jann Wenner, owners of Rolling Stone, where we imbibed further cocktails, although some would partake in more illicit pick-me-ups. Jane and I had gone to high school together, and I would often visit Jann in his elegant and opulent office at the magazine. Jann was always generous in offering me his counsel regarding the inner workings of the music industry. I considered Jane and Jann good friends whom I looked forward to seeing whenever I was in New York.
Sometimes we headed downtown to the Lower East Side cold-water loft of Earl McGrath’s longtime friend Larry Rivers, the so-called godfather of pop art, who loved to throw parties and honk on his sax to a crowd of both highbrow and lowbrow fellow midnight travelers.
The night always ended at Earl’s cavernous midtown apartment. Earl was one of the wittiest men I’ve ever known. He could walk into any venue, whether an elegant dining room or a cheap sawdust-on-the-floor bar, and in no time become the center of attention. Joining our gatherings were assorted roaming strays who always latched on to our group during the evening’s safari. Earl’s apartment was well stocked with liquor and whatever else one might desire. His art collection was fit for a museum, and all his acquisitions were given to him by his artist friends: David Hockney, Cy Twombly, sculptor Robert Graham, Brice Marden, and the omnipresent Andy Warhol.
This period of roaming the city ended several years later, when Studio 54 exploded onto the scene and absorbed celebrity nightlife like a black hole enveloping an entire universe.
On one occasion I was Ahmet’s guest at a charity fundraiser. Record executives were big on charity events. They would donate the company’s money—which they had at their disposal because they owned the lion’s share of profits from their artists’ recordings, so if the truth be known, it was really the artists’ money—to various causes large and small. At that point, the Geils band had finally made its last contractual recording for Atlantic Records, and I was still managing all its business affairs. I often found it difficult to reconcile the friendship-business aspect of Ahmet’s and my relationship, so with drink in hand, I approached him.
“We’re friends, Ahmet, but could I have your ear for a business-related question?” I paused for effect, then continued. “The band would love to maintain its relationship with Atlantic. We just finished our last recording. What do you suggest is the best way to proceed to keep us on the label?”
I was under the impression he would say, “Why don’t you have your lawyer call our lawyers? Let’s work something out.”
Instead he did something very cunning. He replied, “Listen, baby, why don’t you go out and speak with other record companies and see how much they’re willing to offer you? I don’t want to present a deal that might be unfair to the band.”
At first I thought that was very kind of Ahmet, but in hindsight, I realized he was being a strategic chess player and banking on the fact that our albums had achieved only minor sales and we had no major hit singles. Who would want to sign us to a deal worth very much?
That almost turned out to be true.
It fell to me to meet with various label presidents and A and R staff. My first step was to hire a lawyer. Music lawyers back then were becoming celebrities in their own right. I met with almost every lawyer I’d heard about, and many of them said they’d do a deal, but it would be costly. One lawyer, who worked for Paul Simon and Bruce Springsteen, said he’d help us, but it would cost the band fifty thousand dollars. This colossal sum was unrealistic, considering that we were severely in debt.
I met with every industry bigwig of the time—lawyers who worked with David Geffen, Bob Dylan, Joni Mitchell. None was interested. My mood was pessimistic, but during a stretch in Los Angeles, I happened to run into a lawyer named Abe Somer, whom I’d once met at a party. We arranged a meeting at his office.
Abe was several years older than I, of medium height, and very thin, with slicked-back hair and a hooked nose. Along with my troubles, I brought a sandwich to his office. When I finished my tale, Abe was stunned. He said, “You guys have worked for so long and put out so many records—I can’t believe that you’re coming to see me with your lunch in a brown paper bag, telling me you’re in the red. You have no money, and you didn’t really make a cent off Atlantic Records. This is crazy!” He added, “Look, I’ll help you, and I won’t charge you. I’ll get you a deal, and once we get a deal, whatever you think is fair to pay me, you pay me.”
This was an offer I couldn’t refuse. Abe was one of the top lawyers in the music industry. He worked with the Beach Boys, the Mamas and the Papas, the Doors, Harry Nilsson, and George Harrison. Most important to me, he had just negotiated a very handsome deal for the Rolling Stones, who were also leaving Atlantic Records.
Abe gave me a list of label presidents with whom I should meet. He believed that an in-person one-on-one between an artist and a top executive would be more meaningful than a call from a lawyer. I later realized that this was his way of having me do all the legwork. First up was Walter Yetnikoff, president and CEO of Columbia Records. A meeting was set up in New York, and as I entered his office, he said, “Peter, it’s funny you walked in here. The Geils band is one of the bands I want to sign. You and Bonnie Raitt are two amazing artists from New England. I’d love to sign you both.”
“Great, Walter,” I replied. “Why don’t you have your guy call my guy?”
But time went on, and no phone call was made. Abe said, “He’s just shucking and jiving. I don’t think he’s interested, so let’s move on.”
I exhausted the list: Joe Smith at Elektra, Mo Ostin at Warner Bros., Jerry Moss at A&M. Executives at United Artists and RCA. I even went to smaller labels such as Casablanca Records. They had a few big artists, including Kiss and Donna Summer, alongside some other disco artists who were selling like hotcakes. I called the president of the company, Neil Bogart, who seemed happy to hear from me.
Casablanca was located in Los Angeles. Still not knowing how to drive, I took a taxi. It’s always strange taking a taxi in LA, since most industry people have their own car or a driver. I walked into the lobby, where several security guards were posted. In those days, this was not a common occurrence. One guy wanted to pat me down for weapons, which I thought was even stranger. Upstairs, the motif was the Sahara desert. The office was resplendent with plastic palm trees, murals of camel caravans, and actual sand dunes. In this oasis, I was escorted by teams of glossy disco-style secretaries, each one exotically attired, before finally being presented to Neil Bogart. I could smell the pungent aroma of marijuana in the air.
Neil sat behind a wide desk. Several other people were lurking in the room. “Man, we are big fans; love that you came over to see us,” he said.
“Thank you, Neil. We have no more albums with Atlantic, and we’re looking to find a new home.”
He said, “Let’s do something. It’ll be great.” Then he continued, “Listen, why don’t you guys make a demo recording and let me hear what you sound like?”
I said in surprise, “A demo?”
“Yeah. All the new bands we sign send us demos.”
I replied, incredulously, “Neil, we have ten albums out on Atlantic. I can send you the catalog—that’s our demo.”
I realized that these guys were so stoned, so lost in their own success, that nothing regarding Geils was ever going to happen with them.
Leaving Casablanca’s tawdry offices, I was despondent. After visiting every major label and several minor ones in New York and LA, I had nothing to show for it. Finding a pay phone on the corner, I called Abe and groaned into the receiver, “Weeks are now turning into months. There’s nothing out there, Abe.”
He suggested we meet for dinner at the Palm, the epicenter of the entertainment industry in LA. Like many of the popular restaurants in the city, it had “power tables” where only people of great importance were seated. Abe certainly was one of them. Once there, he tried to keep my spirits up, but I was past the point of believing anything would ever happen. I was certain that unless our final Atlantic album, Monkey Island, sold magically well, it would probably be the end of the Geils band’s recording career.
As we sat contemplating this dim future over a couple of large, cold martinis, a fellow with greased-back hair and a mustache, in his thirties, wearing blue jeans and a silver satin bomber jacket emblazoned with CAPITOL RECORDS on the back, approached our booth and asked, “Are you Peter Wolf of the Geils band?”
I nodded, and he responded, “Wow, man, I’m such a huge, huge fan!”
I thanked him, and he continued. “I’m Jim Mazza; I’m from Detroit. I’ve seen you guys about ten times. You’re one of the greatest front men in rock, and the Geils band is the most hard-driving band in America.”
That, coupled with the gin, made me even more depressed. I thanked him for his kind words and introduced him to Abe. Jim said, “Yeah, you know, it’s so funny. I just got out of a meeting with Bhaskar Menon.”
Abe quickly piped up. “Did you say Bhaskar Menon?”
“Yeah. We’re starting a new record label, and Bhaskar is having me run it for the company. It’s going to be a small boutique label, and I always dreamed about signing a band like Geils.”
I looked at Abe, and Abe looked at me. Our eyes locked in delight, both of us thinking: Could this be the moment that Lady Luck has finally smiled upon us? Abe asked Jim to sit down and tell him all about the new label, prefacing the conversation with, “Well, you know, before coming here tonight, we just got out of a big meeting with Columbia Records. I’m representing the Stones on their new deal, and they are also extremely interested in signing Peter Wolf and the Geils band.”
