“Hip-Hop and R&B Fans Embrace Streaming Services”

Read this. It’s the most important information about the music business online today. Which means that you’ll probably never see it, you’re probably still reeling from that faux article in the “Tennessean” saying that the co-writer of “All About That Bass” only made $5,679 from streaming:

“‘All About That Bass’ writer decries streaming revenue”

That article’s wrong, Kevin Kadish was misquoted, that’s the PANDORA number! And for those not paying attention, which seems to be just about everybody, the rate for radio and for choose your own songs on Spotify are completely different…

But the song remains the same. You’re gonna get paid on listens, and if you ain’t got none…

The sales paradigm is history. In 24 months it’ll be de minimis, inconsequential. And when we go to the streaming metrics a whole bunch of artists are gonna get a whole lot poorer, and the readers of this newsletter who are attached to the ancient paradigm of yore are gonna tear their hair out.

You know, rock bands who write their own material and release it as one long album…

KAPUT!

Actually, that formula got murdered by disco, after it got long in the tooth as corporate rock.

But then MTV rescued the rock business until hair bands softened the sound, made us all queasy, and it became all about hip-hop and pop.

And that’s where we are today.

I’m not saying you can’t make your old music in the old way, I’m just saying don’t expect anybody to listen to it, don’t expect to get rich.

We’re in the middle of the great transition.

The baby boomers are about to emit their last gasp. Everybody but the titans has already been eliminated. Unless you’re running the operation, you’re gone.

And there are some Gen X’ers with power, mostly in the live sphere, but we’re getting ready to skip generations and hand the baton to the millennials, who have no allegiance to classic rock, radio or the rest of the b.s. we hold so near and dear.

As for Sisario postulating that hip-hop is being driven by Beats 1, that’s ridiculous, Beats 1 is part of the old game, the only difference is that it’s international. Radio is a second-class enterprise because you can’t hear what you want when you want, it’s not on demand, it’d be like being limited to one television network and having to endure the commercials, you’d freak if you’d experienced today’s zillion channel universe. Hell, Apple eviscerates ads on the hand-set and Beats 1 is trying to jet us back to the last century? Who’s driving this bus?

Certainly not the people streaming podcasts via Bluetooth in their automobiles.

First they came for the CDs.

Then they came for the cable.

Don’t be married to the old carrier, be married to content. And the truth is these hip-hop and R&B acts are speaking the truth, and the popsters create catchier music than the old farts with their guitars. And never forget the Beatles were catchy, the Stones too. You start with the hit, everything else comes thereafter.

Furthermore, Sisario is casting a wide net, hip-hop is one thing, R&B another. This is not marginal music, you know that if you listen to the Weeknd. But it is the sound of today.

Does it frequently have boasting lyrics with no interior monologue, no reveal of inner thoughts and demons?

Yes, and that’s sad. Once upon a time music was integral to our lives because of its soothing quality, the songs understood us in a way nothing else did.

But that was back before money became God and the educated middle class left music behind. Believe me, interior monologue is coming back. But I can’t tell you when.

But I will tell you that sales are now a meaningless metric. One can argue they always were. Because to be in someone’s heart and mind you’ve got to be listened to. And today, you only get paid if someone listens. That should be the target of your campaign, to get people to listen. And one song is enough, you build on that. In other words, one hit is worth much more than ten GOOD tracks. A hit drives listeners to check out more.

It starts as a singles business.

And the competition is fierce.

And despite the vocality of the old farts, the power resides in the youngsters, because they are the ones streaming the tunes. They’re not just talking, they’re listening.

And the kids don’t care about history. They’re just like you were back when when you were addicted to the radio, when you were addicted to MTV, you were drawn to the hit. Made by people parading their fame all over the universe.

And in an era of chaos, that which breaks through sustains. Expect number one to last longer, at least on the streaming chart, which is the only one that counts. And tracks go slow, like Fetty Wap’s, or fast, like Bieber’s. Fame will gain you notice but you’ve got to deliver. If you’re starting out, it’s a long hard slog.

So, so long not only record stores, but discs of all kinds. You love vinyl, great, I know some Civil War re-enactors you might want to talk to.

So long meaningless sales reports in the media. They’re gonna switch completely to streaming as soon as “Billboard” does, which will be a step too late, but is in the offing.

So long front-loading your publicity. If you can’t get people to listen over time, if your album has got no legs, you’re better off not putting it out. People know whether it’s a dud in a day. And no one is fooled by your scorched earth publicity campaign, they’re actually turned-off! The hip-hop and R&B stars lead with days worth of advance publicity, if they employ any at all!

How could they get it so right?

Because they’re in touch with the street, and they know that if you’re not busy being born…

You’re busy dying.

I wish I loved people as much as Jerry Weintraub.

Then Billy Crystal would do shtick about me, George Clooney would imitate me, Matt Damon would tell personal stories about me and Paul Anka would personalize the lyrics of “My Way” for me.

It’s a long way to the top if you wanna rock and roll. And that’s where Jerry began. Oh, he had traction before that, most famously with his wife Jane Morgan, but Elvis made him a legend. Led Zeppelin too. He promoted both and managed John Denver and ended up in the movie business and then died prematurely and what is left?

An incredible amount of good will.

People loved Jerry. He called Gerry Parsky every day at 6 AM and told him it was his friend on the line. Never mentioned his name. That’s when you know someone, when no introduction is necessary. And we’re all looking for someone we can count on in this world, who will be there for us, who will make things right…and I heard that story told over and over about Jerry tonight.

I’ll be honest, I almost didn’t go. How many people would I know? Irving and…

Well, Jerry Greenberg was there. And Joe Smith. And a lot of people you see on the screen who I recognized but wouldn’t dare speak to. That’s what happens when you’re in between fame and famine… You don’t speak with anyone you’re not introduced to.

And I was introduced to the guy who owns Il Piccolino. He was so sad, he’s having a hard time carrying on without the man with his own dish on the menu.

And Jeff Wald. Remember Helen Reddy’s husband? He was intense and didn’t want to know me but not only did his countenance befit the legend, I could tell why Helen had been successful…we all need an advocate.

A manager, an agent, we need someone to believe in us or we’re not gonna make it.

And there’s a very thin layer at the tippity-top, those who can get anybody on the phone and make everything happen, like Jerry Weintraub.

“What do you want?”

Household names were constantly asked that. He’d deliver your heart’s desire. And you believed him.

Kind of like Matt Damon. They were out playing golf, Jerry, Matt and Matt’s dad. And Matt’s father was ribbing his son about failing to graduate from college. Jerry asked Matt where he went. I thought this was a set-up for a put-down, the uneducated like to piss on the Ivys. Instead, Jerry said he could arrange a diploma, if that’s what Matt wanted. If not Harvard, how about Princeton?

Yes, Jerry had a sense of humor.

After all, he was Jewish. We Jews have been persecuted for 5,000 years. We deflect it, cope via jokes, throw our hands in the air and say WTF. You just laugh and carry on.

And keep talking.

That’s another Jewish trait. Jews can hold up their end of a conversation. You may not want to hear what they have to say, but boy do they have material.

So if you come from little and have the gift of gab you can make it all the way to the top.

Jerry was George Bush’s consigliere. The first. The one with credibility. Jane read a long missive from the ex-Pres. Who said much, but marveled that Jerry could deliver so many famous names, ones the Pres. had no pull with. Bush wanted that doctor from “E.R.” to fly to a devastated town and Jerry got Clooney on the plane. Jerry delivered first run movies, whatever the Pres. wanted, he just had to decide.

And then there was that great story about the Presidential party, at Blue Heaven, Jerry’s abode. Barbara Bush was seated at a table with Warren Beatty and a coterie of other famous Hollywood men. Jerry put his hands on Warren’s shoulders and insisted he not work his magic on Barbara, that he keep his sword sheathed. Cracked Billy Crystal up.

Who completely cracked us up.

Billy was never cool, never hip. Had two moments of transcendent greatness, with “When Harry Met Sally” and “City Slickers,” but thereafter was so busy playing nice that we couldn’t believe him.

But we believed Billy Crystal tonight. It was like the Oscars, but he was playing to a room that got the jokes. Instead of playing to tens of millions, Billy was doing his act for a few hundred, and he killed. The best story was about going to the Lakers game, sitting on the floor during Showtime (and if you don’t know what I’m talking about…you’ll never survive in Hollywood). Billy saw Kirk Douglas approaching and Jerry told him there would be trouble, because Billy had taken his seat. Kirk complained. Billy was star-struck and tongue-tied. Jerry told Kirk that Billy was hotter and deserved the seat. And that settled that.

Fleet on his feet. Quick with a comeback. Some people are born with it.

Like the ability to get along.

Unlike me.

My social anxiety kicks in, I don’t think I belong, I’m afraid of saying something dumb or something not at all. I get so uptight I don’t go or I leave.

But I’m a secondary player here. I’m not Barry Diller or Les Moonves or Terry Semel. I’m not even Super Dave Osborne. But I know Paul Anka. He closed the show. Am I really gonna leave without talking to him?

So I wander to the front, evade the household names, I don’t want to look like a looky-loo in search of his brush with greatness, and I introduce myself to Paul and he says…

I KNOW WHO YOU ARE!

And he insisted we take a picture and he started telling me about his latest venture, a hologram production, and I’m asking his connection to Jerry and he went all the way back to Irvin Feld.

The circus guy? From Ringling Brothers?

Yup, that’s the guy. He ruled the arena circuit before Jerry. Paul started out with Irvin, doing one nighters. And they stayed together.

Loyalty. It’s about all you’ve got in show business. Because you’ve got to count on someone to get the job done.

And it is show BUSINESS! Sure, talent is necessary, but it’s not the only thing that gets you to the top, it’s rarely even the most important thing! There’s perseverance, and the ability to get along with people, and your team. Spearheaded by the one person who can always get it done.

Like Jerry Weintraub.

The king of relationships.

The king of favors.

There’s no one he couldn’t get on the phone, nothing he wouldn’t do. And sure, he got paid, but he let the light shine upon others, and he gave back, the list of charities he supported was endless.

A man’s man.

A citizen of the world. Filled with insight, which allowed him to triumph.

It’s not what you know so much as how you put it all together.

Not that Jerry lacked information. It’s amazing how the giants work the e-mail and phone for bits of gossip.

But it’s not just gossip, it’s people. Their fantasies and flaws. Figure out people and you can rule the world.

Jerry figured out everybody he came in contact with. And either they were a friend or a foe. You’re either with me or against me. It’s a jungle out there, I’ll treat you right, but I expect to be treated right in return.

Jerry Weintraub treated so many people right, delivered so much, that a who’s who of the entertainment business showed up to pay fealty, to watch Steven Soderbergh’s movie, to listen to stories told by those who run the culture.

But the truth is Jerry ran the culture, he pulled the strings, the public barely knew him and soon he will be forgotten.

But not by those he propped up, put forward, presented, gave advice to.

Those people know that without Jerry there is no entertainment business.

Do what you do to the best of your ability. Try not to be someone you’re not. Put one foot in front of another, unafraid to play the game.

And then if you’re lucky someone like Jerry will notice.

Jerry noticed me.

And I still feel the halo upon me.

I didn’t buy the LP because of the cover. Any band that refuses to put its mugs on its debut…makes me suspicious. Meanwhile, that girl in the photo…she seemed to be from a different era, not 1978, when New Wave was ascendant.

And then I heard the record.

That’s right, I passed up a chance to buy a promo because of the cover and the band’s lame name. And then on a long drive up from La Costa, after visiting my girlfriend’s parents, KMET, or maybe it was KLOS, played the whole first side at 10 PM on a Sunday night and I heard “Good Times Roll.”

GOOD TIMES ROLL

Let them brush your rock and roll hair

Huh?

The magic in this track is encapsulated in its sound. The lyrics are just a dollop of irony laid on top, along with the Beach Boys harmonies…WHAT EXACTLY IS THIS?

Billed as the aforementioned “New Wave,” the Cars’ music was not. Rather it was rock with new sounds. They may have been wearing skinny ties, but this sounded nothing like the angry young men coming out of the U.K., never mind the leather-jacketed youth from NYC.

And there hadn’t been a new hit band from Boston in years.

But it was really all about those synths. Before they became overdone and burned out.

How could you employ one of the most famous song titles of all time and create something brand new?

That’s the magic of “Good Times Roll.” Never mind leaving out “Let The”…

And the irony was they didn’t sound like such good times. It’s as if the most alienated man in the world was sitting on a couch reflecting. This album with the obvious cover was suddenly the coolest thing around, it resonated.

MY BEST FRIEND’S GIRL

Like a Shadow Morton production transposed into the eighties. Street, yet the more it played on the more fully-developed and modern it became.

And when Ric Ocasek sang…

But she used to be mine

That was the hook.

Simple, yet so right.

JUST WHAT I NEEDED

Just what we need right now. A track that starts off in your face, grabs you by the neck and won’t let go. There’s no crime in writing a perfect hit. It might seem obvious, but it’s so hard to do. A 3:46 minute ditty, “Just What I Needed” is irresistible, and it attaches itself to you and won’t let go the more you play it. You could crank it on the radio and it would fill the space. It was new, but it was not thin, “Just What I Needed” hooked all those who weren’t paying attention. They were suddenly fans. This is how you make a star.

YOU’RE ALL I’VE GOT TONIGHT

It was heavy. This presaged the hair band ballads of a decade hence, but sans the calculation and the wimpiness.

Well, it isn’t exactly a ballad, it’s not really slow, but it’s not really fast either. Beavis & Butt-head might make fun of “You’re All I’ve Got Tonight,” but they would be unable to stop themselves from banging their heads to it.

And there you have the magic of the Cars. Whatever you thought of the band intellectually, you couldn’t resist the music, you were drawn in.

BYE BYE LOVE

I actually prefer this to “My Best Friend’s Girl.”

It’s denser, yet even more simple. It’s a blend of modern and the Beach Boys, except for that magical pre-chorus. Where did they come up with that?

This was back when it was no crime to be catchy. Why does everybody who doesn’t make Top Forty music refuse to be catchy today? When did catchy get such a bad rep?

Those synths, those drums, those guitars, that vocal, that chorus. A pocket symphony a decade and a half hence!

MOVING IN STEREO

Slower, darker, made for your bedroom more than radio, it showed the Cars’ range. I got into this track last, but that was the pleasure of diverse albums, when LPs weren’t over an hour long and you could comprehend and digest them, that which you passed over ultimately became your favorite.

Dark and dreamy, with an underbelly you wanted to caress and lay down next to…”Moving In Stereo” is subtle yet it enraptures you.

The very next day I went to the record store in Westwood. I was afraid I’d missed my chance, was that promo copy of “The Cars” still available?

It was. Word had not yet gotten out.

I came home and dropped the needle and fell into immediate bliss. That was the magic of the Cars, their music wasn’t obvious, but it did not require repeated listenings to get into.

At this point we did not know that Ric Ocasek was the genius, even if Ben Orr was the face. Ben sang some of the songs, but not all. And that was David Robinson on drums, to the cognoscenti forever the man behind Jonathan Richman.

The band had cred.

They’d also paid their dues.

In the late seventies paying your dues still counted. We were not inundated with wet behind the ears pre-adolescents, pop didn’t rule until MTV dominated in the eighties. Rather this was the age of AOR, the behemoth stations that were hip and owned their marketplace. They were not eager to move on from corporate rock, but bands like the Cars eased the way, made it easier for angrier stuff like Elvis Costello and Joe Jackson. Then disco came along and blew the paradigm apart.

Not that the Cars helped themselves.

Every album got worse.

And then, when it looked like it was nearly over, they hooked up with Mutt Lange and released “Heartbeat City,” which was all over MTV and the airwaves back in ’84.

But the debut was produced by Roy Thomas Baker, before he lost the plot, before Mutt inherited his mantle as the go-to guy.

And on one level the Cars’ debut sounds dated.

On another, it exists in its own ether. Nothing ever sounded exactly like it, either then or now. As a result we’re left with this masterpiece which gets no accolades, that seems to have been lost to the sands of time, but will never be forgotten by those who were alive and aware back in ’78.

It was just what we needed!

Rhinofy-The Cars

He was a team player in a world where stars dominated. The press was all about Mickey, but it was Yogi who we loved. And kept on loving long after his playing days were through, because although he was a member of the jockocracy, Yogi danced to the beat of his own drummer, he was not beyond feuding with George Steinbrenner, because winning isn’t everything, it’s how you play the game that counts.

But back then the Yankees were winning everything.

It was so different from today. No one flew, never mind went to spring training camp. But we couldn’t wait for the season to begin. We’d camp out in damp basements watching exhibition games when the snow had already melted but it was still too cold to go outside. We flipped baseball cards. We bought books. Baseball was the National Pastime.

Before the players grew moustaches and gained free agency. Before we discovered their foibles. Sure, Joe Namath transcended the stars who preceded him, he played both on and off the field and won in both arenas. But before that athletes were two-dimensional.

And then there was Yogi.

Maybe it’s because he was involved in every play, catching the ball. Sure, Bill Dickey had preceded him, but at this point stars were outfielders, pitchers, maybe shortstops, catchers were just part of the battery, integral but insignificant.

But Yogi could not only field, he could hit. You could count on Yogi.

He won the first game I ever went to.

That’s right, I was a baseball fanatic. Every day after school I walked down to the park for a pick-up game. I practiced with this contraption made of mesh and rubber bands that bounced the ball back to you. I owned my own glove and my own bat and my own ball. And although this made me privileged, it was a way for my dad to make up for the fact that he was the least athletic man in the neighborhood. We stopped playing catch in kindergarten, I’d superseded his ability. And he never came to my Little League games.

But he took me to Yankee Stadium.

When Schaefer ruled and no one you knew had season tickets and even though the bleachers were under a buck you never sat there. The outfield was for city kids. You can hear their stories everywhere, about a hardscrabble life of collecting returnable bottles so they could go to the game and get the autograph of a player. I grew up in the suburbs. After all, it was the sixties. When the economy was flourishing and our first generation parents wanted to provide a better life.

My father owned a liquor store. And brought home the wares for us to consume. And there was Cott grape and Schweppes ginger ale but also Yoo-hoo. With Yankees on the bottle. Gil McDougald, others just before my time, and then Yogi.

Whose fame only grew with the namesake bear. Being first, everyone believed the Hanna-Barbera animated character was a direct reference. Forget having your own video game, even your own E! show. Yogi was bigger than the Kardashians because you never saw him working it, he just was. And he didn’t take a victory lap and he didn’t pooh-pooh the accolades, he just laughed.

He was our favorite.

Because he endured.

Roger Maris broke the home run record. My dad took me to that game too, October 1st, 1961, the very last day of the season. It was a line drive to right, it didn’t clear the wall, which wasn’t even chest high out there, by much. I felt I’d witnessed something special, long before attendance at Woodstock was a badge of honor. The stadium was far from full. The game was meaningless, the Yankees had already sewn up the pennant. Mickey had fallen out of the race, he’d gotten hurt and his production went down and Roger was carrying the flag. Unloved Roger, who was challenging Babe Ruth’s record. He was soon traded away and forgotten, but no one alive back then didn’t know he broke the home run record. When the NFL was still a fledgling sport and if you made news, we knew it.

My mom and dad took me to Old Timer’s Day that year too. Three games in one season! Tickets were scarce so we had to sit in the upper deck. This was long before escalators, you had to walk up. And I stopped halfway and refused to go further. Because I’d been to the stadium and I knew on the third deck the seatbacks were bolted to the concrete and your legs swung free. At least it looked that way to me, the only other time I’d been at the ballpark. Lord knows how my ‘rents convinced me to keep climbing. And I felt embarrassed I’d cried, but I ultimately felt triumphant that I’d been there.

But back to that first game. In the spring. The women went somewhere else, the men went to the game. My dad and me and Harry and Michael. My dad’s long gone. He lived long enough to see cell phones in the car, but not the internet. He loved to talk on the phone. If he’d lived he would have died in a car accident, he’d have been distracted talking on the phone, yelling into it, making a point. My dad rarely listened and was rarely calm. He cared too much about what he was saying. Harry lived a lot longer, even though he had multiple heart surgeries. They drank beer, we ate hot dogs and the game went into extra innings.

This was New York, not L.A. No one ever left early. But it was a doubleheader, did the length of the first game preclude staying for the second?

No and yes. We stayed for half of the second game. Didn’t leave because the Yankees were losing but because we had to meet the girls. That’s what they called them back then, before feminism hit. And sure, there was discrimination and a glass ceiling and it was tough being an African-American, but this was before Vietnam, long after World War II and Korea, we were in a momentary state of bliss.

But the game was tied. And it was the bottom of the 14th. And it looked like no one was ever gonna win.

And Yogi pinch-hit.

I’ve seen Mickey Mantle strike out. It’s so weird when the game turns upon their appearance. If only he could drive one over the fence the Yankees would win. But Mickey never came through in the clutch, not when I went.

But Yogi did.

There were a couple of men on base. But we were no longer on the edge of our seats, it felt like the game would go on forever.

Then Yogi hit one between the infielders, took off towards first, touched the bag and then immediately circled back towards the dugout and ran right in.

I wasn’t sure what had happened. I was too young, too inexperienced. It had all occurred too quickly. But Yogi knew it was all over, that he’d sealed the deal.

Long before he was famous for malapropisms, Yogi was famous for clutch hits.

No one ever hated him.

Rather all of us loved him. Because he was always there and he always delivered.

Yogi’s success was not about statistics, most fans can’t recite his numbers. They’re actually wowed when they find out they’re so good. But Yogi contributed to the victory.

Sure, Whitey Ford mowed ’em down, but he didn’t play every day.

And Moose was an iron horse at first, and occasionally unloaded at the plate, but he frequently struck out, his average wasn’t that good.

Bobby Richardson was a choirboy. An incredible second baseman, you admired him, but you didn’t love him.

Tony Kubek and Clete Boyer were dependable. Never screwed up. But their personalities were not strong.

And by this time, Elston Howard was frequently behind the plate. As solid as Yogi, but without the persona.

In the outfield were Roger and Mickey.

And by this time, usually Yogi was in left, they needed his bat in the lineup and his arm was strong. He might have been a famous backstop, and not a legendary outfielder, but his rep didn’t take a hit, he could play the position.

The ’61 Yanks.

Who was better, them or the ’27 edition with Gehrig and Ruth?

I don’t know.

But I do know that although Joltin’ Joe showed up as an old timer, Lou and the Babe were dead, they’d played in a bygone era, it was now a modern game.

It was on TV, all the time, there were no cable channels.

And you played for all the marbles. There were no playoffs other than a World Series which took place in the afternoon, on weekdays while we were still at school.

It was all over long before the snow fell. They were truly the boys of summer.

Back before the Beatles. Back before long hair. Back before the assassinations. We had no idea the sixties would be an era of such turmoil. We thought it would be the same as it ever was. With ballplayers the biggest stars in the land. Regular people, selling cars in the winter, not relaxing down in Florida, our best selves. Or so we thought.

I’m not sure the younger generation has any idea who Yogi Berra was. At best, they can compare statistics. Then again, he wasn’t at the tippity-top, and that’s all that anybody cares about today.

But we cared about more.

And those of us who were there look back and can’t remember who won.

But we remember who was there.

And at this point, we recall Yogi just as much as Mickey. Mantle was the star, but Yogi was the Yankees’ soul. He not only played with dignity, he played for fun. Because, after all, it’s just a game. Simple, with rules. One that we all paid attention to.

So, so long Yogi. You’re in our hearts, it’s sad you’re gone, but you had a long run, you carried the torch of what once was, which so many of us baby boomers still want to believe in. You illustrated what life was about, giving your all in service to the team. Because without others, we’re nobody.

Without Yogi Berra, we’re so much less.

He was the American Dream personified. Making it from the lower class to the mainstream.

With Yogi goes some of our hopes and dreams.

But he entertained us along the way.

Without making an effort to do so.

Yogi never played to the crowd, all his attention was focused inside the diamond. We felt hanging with him would make our lives complete.

But we never got the chance.

He may not have had matinee good looks, he may not have been educated, but Yogi Berra had the goods.

He was anything but the average bear.