It was a stiff upon release. It cost $3 million and grossed $4 million in a pre-home video era. In other words, it lost money, with only half of gross receipts coming back to the studio. Sure, there was television income, but this was pre-cable. No one knew the movie and no one knew the songs. Yet today, it’s a classic.

Originally it was called “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.” A twisted story by author Roald Dahl, there were no songs, but he had a cult following, one of whose members was my younger sister Wendy, she bought all his books, I read it, I saw the movie back in ’71, when it first came out. The Oompa Loompas were too orange, but one viewing and I knew their song by heart. And the kids all had different personalities, not all likable. That’s a fiction of media, that characters have to be likable, no, the story has to be good. And I was the only person I ever knew who saw the flick and then…

Gene Wilder dies yesterday and it’s the first movie listed in his obit.

Mind-blowing. I too first saw Gene in 1967’s “Bonnie & Clyde.” I remember 1968’s “Producers,” which caused a kerfuffle to the point where the Fine Arts in Westport, Connecticut, edited it itself. The scene with the blankie, it was incomprehensible.

And then came “Young Frankenstein.” The Mel Brooks tour-de-force, it cleaned up at the box office at the end of ’74. It was a cultural staple.

Not that I had not followed Mr. Wilder. I remember going to see “Quackser Fortune Has a Cousin in the Bronx” just before I shipped off for college in 1970. Gene played a mentally-challenged dung salesman who fell in love with Margot Kidder. It was the first time I ever saw her, before “Superman,” before the exploits revealing her mental issues, it was a small movie that stuck with me, but don’t they all.

“Willy Wonka” was a small movie. Not shot for a hundred million and marketed at half that number. Sure, the studio wanted to make money, but comic book heroes were not the only stars who could get a green light. But today, today, if you’re not shooting for the moon, the studio doesn’t want to play.

Nor does the record label. There’s all this hogwash about costs, both real and opportunity. No one wants to hit singles, never mind bunts, and…

The movies come and go.

But not “Willy Wonka.”

I was with a bunch of Gen X’ers and we were discussing the greatest comedies of all time.

All of theirs came from the twenty first century. I was stunned. No “Stripes,” never mind thirties classics.

But that’s today, when almost nothing from the past survives, when it’s all new and then thrown away.

Except for “Willy Wonka.”

“Willy Wonka” is Nick Drake. A film from the classic era which got a second chance, which resonated and held on. That’s right, it was re-released in 1996 and made $21 million.

And the lion’s share of streams on Spotify are catalog, old stuff, that just lasts and lasts.

So in an era of flash are we doing it wrong? Are we focusing on blockbuster me-too product when it’s the challenging stuff that tests limits which survives? Led Zeppelin sold out to Atlantic, their manager felt the records wouldn’t be worth anything in the future. Jim Morrison was dead for ten years before “Rolling Stone” put him on the cover. Led Zeppelin and the Doors not only survived, they flourished! Who from today will flourish in the future? Who are our “Willy Wonkas”? Are we even producing “Willy Wonkas”?

It was the sauerkraut that put it over the top.

Don’t let yourself get too hungry, that’s what my nutritionist says. And I’ve been oh-so-good, avoiding carbs, last Thursday I was at a dinner party where Tom Windish and his bride-to-be brought a blueberry pie and a three berry cake from Sweet Lady Jane and I did not partake, not a bite, not even Rachel’s tiramisu, because I’m insulin resistant, and when I eat carbs my blood sugar spikes and after being wide awake I’m sleepy and then I feel like crap for two days and…like I said, I’ve been very good.

But I was hungry.

And I’m lying on the PT table in Century City dreaming of food.

There’s an entire stash in the fridge, if I can just make it back to the house, but I’m thinking of something savory, something that will hit the spot, like a burger from Five Guys or…

A hot pastrami sandwich.

Not that I’m that big on Five Guys. But at least there’s enough beef, but they play the music too loud, as if they want you to exit immediately, and the fries are tasty but there are way too many of them so…

I decided to go to Brent’s.

It all made sense. I had all three papers with me. It was gonna be a field day.

Now I checked Google Maps. Never use Apple Maps, the timing is way off. It said it’d be fourteen minutes beyond home. I could do that. Hell, I’d write off the entire afternoon, not even check my phone, this was gonna be FUN!

And with Howard on vacation I was switching back and forth between No Shoes Radio and the Highway on the satellite, but when I hit a bummer I decided to go all news, I was taking a break, I worked my way from left wing to right wing, from MSNBC to Fox, and ended up on some Sirius news program dedicated to tech, they were talking about AI, artificial intelligence for the uninitiated, and it rang my bell as I crested the hill, passed under Mulholland, and the temperature began to rise.

Instinct would say to take the 405 all the way to Parthenia.

But Google said to transfer to the 101 and take Tampa. And you should never argue with technology, it’s always right.

And when I got to Brent’s parking lot, it was 104 degrees. East coast hot. You know, where you don’t need a jacket at night. It’s rarely this hot in L.A.

And needless to say, Brent’s was empty. It was 3:30 in the afternoon. Well, not completely empty, but I could get a booth and not feel guilty for hogging it, being one person only, but I needed the real estate, to spread out my papers.

So I pointed out my place to the hostess, she exhibited no resistance, and I took the proffered menu. Many people don’t take a menu at a deli, they know it all, and what they don’t know the kitchen will make.

But I wanted to peruse the sandwiches, I wanted to drill down to the right one, I needed pastrami with Swiss cheese and Russian dressing, like they do it at Langer’s.

Yes, the pastrami is better at Langer’s. It’s the thicker cut, the twice cooked bread. And actually, they now imitate it at Brent’s. They’ve even given it a number, 13, to compete with Langer’s famous Number 19. But on the facing page…

I saw it. The black pastrami reuben!

Once upon a time reubens were only made with corned beef. And as much as  I love pastrami, that’s how much I hate corned beef. But as the years have passed the rules have been bent, and in my salad days at Brent’s I tasted one of these reubens, and it was off the charts, that was what I was gonna get! Rule number one of eating out, get what feels right, not what you think is right.

But then it got better, the black pastrami reuben came with FRIES! it was my lucky day, that was one of the reasons I was craving Five Guys, I had a smile upon my face.

Which at first I did not, because I realized my chosen abode was so close to the kitchen, and my OCD was kicking in and I thought I was gonna have to move but then I realized that the shrink’s exposure technique would work, and it did, I got over it, it didn’t bother me a whit!

But as I unfolded the L.A. “Times” I realized the next table over had two little kids. Would this be trouble? No, they were very well-behaved, near quiet, the stars were aligning!

So I ordered my sandwich. Along with a Dr. Brown’s Black Cherry, I mean you’ve got to go all the way, or don’t go at all. And I was intellectually saving room for a slice of carrot cake, but…

The sandwich came with so many fries, skinny cut, my preference, that there was no way I could eat anything after I devoured what was on this plate.

I ordered extra Russian dressing. The sandwich has to be wet.

And I was worried I was gonna run out of reading material, I’d covered too much of the “Wall Street Journal” on the phone the night before.

But, when I bit into the black pastrami reuben…

How am I gonna describe this?

Brent’s is not exactly a dump, but it is a deli, with no atmosphere and a constant din.

And it’s not like I’m fine dining, not even slumming at a fast food joint. Rather, I’m eating the food of my people, my heritage, that heartburn-generating fare of my youth.

So you’ve got to picture it…

The bread is toasted very brown. You can barely see the white of the rye. This is a serious sandwich, not for wimps, not for the faint of heart.

And the cheese is gooey and they put enough Russian dressing on it and…

I can’t describe it! I can’t tell you how it all came together in my mouth, poured down my gullet and satisfied me in a way that I felt fully alive and life was worth living, if I didn’t die of a heart attack on the way out.

Yes, I had misgivings. Just before I sat down. What was I doing here?

What are we doing here, what are we on this planet for? To work, to achieve, or to EXPERIENCE!

You don’t have to be rich to buy Brent’s black pastrami reuben, you don’t need a graduate degree, you just need taste buds and a hand to lift it.

Yes, I ate it one-handed, my other arm is only just now coming back to life.

And there was enough.

The more upscale the restaurant, the smaller the portions. And the cheapie places don’t give you enough protein, that’s what my nutritionist says, it’s the protein that satisfies your hunger.

So the first half of the sandwich… The toast, the pastrami, the gooey cheese, the Russian dressing…and the SAUERKRAUT! That’s right, there was a taste of sourness that shot this sandwich into the stratosphere, a delectable delicacy you can buy all day long which most people never consume, even though it’s hiding in plain sight.

I started with the fries.

But when I switched to the sandwich I couldn’t let go. I dipped it in some of the extra Russian dressing, figuring if I didn’t partake of it the waitress would judge me for requesting it, stupid, I know, but that’s me, and when I finished half…

I just dug into the other half. I wasn’t gonna take it home. I was after the full effect, this was full on GLUTTONY!

To the point the mountain of fries left after the sandwich disappeared seemed way too much, but I consumed them anyway. Who knows, there might be an apocalypse on my drive home from Northridge, I might not be able to eat for days, I’m gonna DENY MYSELF??

And when I finished, I just sat there. No need to rush out, I’d already blown the afternoon. But when only the last pages of the front section of the “New York Times” were left, I sidled out of there.

That’s right, just me, anonymously. No one cared who I was and no one cared what I did. I was in charge of my own life, and I’d just had a peak experience.

I haven’t eaten anything since.

Although I did pound five Caffeine Free Diet Cokes. You see I’m dry, dry, dry. Reminds me of drinking back at Middlebury, when I’d wake up Sunday morning and go in search of Pepsi, which controlled the concession on campus. They didn’t refill the machines on weekends and sometimes I’d have to march through four dorms to quench my thirst, to survive, you’ve always got to have the effervescent elixir on hand.

And now it’s after midnight, I’m reading the CAA book about Tom Ross going to fat rehab and that’s when it hit me, the sauerkraut, how it put the black pastrami reuben over the top.

And I just had to write about it.

Because it’s these moments in life that really count, that make it worth living.

I cried when I wrote this down, sue me if I went on too long.

Just call me Deacon Pastrami, Deacon Black Pastrami Reuben.

“Brent’s Deli Presents: How to make a Pastrami Reuben”

“Brent’s Deli Makes the Meanest Pastrami Reuben in Los Angeles”

“Ratings Are No Hit for MTV Video Music Awards”

It’s the content, stupid.

24 million people tuned into Fox last August to see the initial Republican debate. But only 6.5 million people tuned into a multiplicity of Viacom channels to watch the train-wreck known as the VMAs.

It was an unwatchable show. Unmoored from its previous iterations, wherein the audience was king and the acts were paying fealty, last night’s travesty was a mess wherein the acts got unlimited time to ramble and sing… Not only did Kanye get mic time, he got to debut his new video. I’ll argue the VMAs nosedived when Macy Gray advertised her new record was gonna drop on the back of her dress, but the lunatics have now taken over the asylum, it was all promotion all the time. And if Beyonce was that damn good, why were the ratings so piss-poor?

Most people don’t care.

The VMAs used to be a tribal rite for not only the younger generation, but the country at large, the world at large, we lived in a monoculture and MTV was the heartbeat. If you made it on MTV you could tour the world, everybody knew your name.

Today, pop is the dominant format, but most shrug their shoulders. What’s a poor boy to do? What’s a poor industry to do?

Never has it been this bad, never has the industry lost touch with the mainstream to this degree since the Beatles. I’m not saying all the wannabes fighting on YouTube for attention deserve it, but I am saying the nation hungers for music with a bit more gravitas, a bit more quality, a bit more there there. Dancing is not music, and lip-synching is not vocalizing.

Meanwhile, Adele reached everybody. On “21.” Before she made a dash for cash with “25” and marginalized herself. That’s the Adele story, not how much money they made selling albums, but how she lost touch with the audience, went from being a cultural icon to a niche player. Just because you’re big today, that does not mean you’ll be big tomorrow.

But “21” was ten times bigger than anything else. Why?

It’s not like Adele played the game. Appeared everywhere and did endorsements. Rather, the music stood on its own, and appealed to a broad swath of human beings as opposed to the pop and hip-hop niches of today.

No, this is not a racist rant. No, this isn’t even anti-pop. It’s just pointing out a giant hole that someone could drive a truck through if they just made music most people wanted to hear!

A certain segment of the population will never listen to hip-hop, never ever.

As for rock… It’s so far from classic, it’s laughable. Bad voices with unmemorable tunes…

And pop can stagger us, listen to recent Bieber hits, those of Major Lazer and DJ Snake. But most is exactly what it appears, lowest common denominator tripe constructed for a young audience that doesn’t seem to care, otherwise they’d have tuned in to this broadcast.

We need a reset. We need bold actors who truly embrace artist development. We need to emphasize skill and talent, developed via practice. Enough with the youngsters propped up by old men, those whose vocals are fixed in the studio, raw talent alone can wow us, assuming people have got it.

And songs have umpteen writers and lose their soul in the process. They’re like Doritos or some other snack, cooked up in a lab to titillate your taste buds but they leave you wincing over the empty calories. Fast food tanks, replaced by fast casual, the Food Network trumps MTV, but we’re still selling crap music to a young audience of ignoramuses.

We’re ripe for a revolution.

We’re ripe for someone to sign acts whose success is not dependent upon radio. To care about radio is akin to placating physical retail, both rearguard enterprises thrown over by the public. You can’t let the tail wag the dog.

So, what do we know?

MTV is history, extinct. You can’t read the obit in the paper, the nitwits are too busy fawning over the “stars,” but Philippe Dauman wouldn’t have lost his job if there was anything left, and there’s not.

People love music, they’re hungry for it.

We live in an era of blockbusters, how come today’s musical stars are so niche?

Disruption comes from outside, from those who don’t see the game the same way. Major labels only sign that which they can market via traditional channels. Innovators break rules, they don’t adhere to them.

But anybody with a brain neither makes music nor markets it. There’s just not enough money in it.

But money isn’t everything, power is. And nothing is as powerful as a talented musician playing and singing from the heart.

You can win, if you pay your dues and speak your mind, do it your way and not theirs. We’re hungry for that which satiates us, not music we need a manual to understand, but that which we get on the first listen. We used to have the formula, but now we’ve lost it.

Once again, it starts with songs. And the scene is healthiest when those who perform them write them, because it adds a layer of credibility, of authenticity, which is key to lasting stardom.

And then comes skill. Practice. Ability. If you can’t wail, on your axe or with your voice, if you can’t improvise, if you’ve got no facility on your instrument, you’re a momentary player waiting to be thrown upon the scrapheap.

And then comes vision.

It’s not hard to out-Kanye Kanye, you’ve just got to believe in yourself.

Something the music business gave up on years ago.

Apple is not threatening Universal.

After all, it’s just business. And in business, you protect your turf.

Prognosticators are saying this is the end, that since Frank Ocean’s second LP of last weekend was independent, not under contract to Universal, we’re at the advent of a new era wherein power shifts from the label to the distributor and the majors decline.

Don’t hold your breath.

Let’s assume “Blond” was truly indie, no one knows for sure. Let’s even assume Frank Ocean played his cards correctly, that he read his contract and saw an escape clause, which is dubious at best. But, if so, don’t expect it to happen again. Read a recent recording contract? Used to be rights were for the world, in physical formats. Now they’re for the universe in all formats now known and to be discovered, usually for the life of the copyright. Those twenty five year reversions that allowed acts like Aerosmith to get another bite at the apple? Pfft…, they’re gone.

Of course if you’ve established independent success you can cut a better deal, with more revenue and a shorter term, even with rights reversion. But if the label built you, it not only wants a pound of flesh, but your whole body.

We’ve been hearing that the major labels are going to be disrupted for fifteen years. Hasn’t happened and still won’t in the foreseeable future. Because of rights, i.e. the catalog, which labels wield like a parent corralling an unruly child, and relationships. Just try getting on terrestrial radio without being on a major, it’s nearly impossible.

It’s always those far from the center, usually not involved in the day to day business, who prognosticate about change and evanescence. Those inside know it’s a fight for survival, and you circle the wagons, load up with ammo and fight back to protect what you’ve got. And the majors have done this oh-so-well.

As for playing out your contract and going indie… Just ask Trent Reznor, he hated Universal but then moved on to Sony after his indie interlude, because running your own ship doesn’t scale. You’re in charge of only one project, a major can spread its costs amongst many acts, furthermore, you can’t staff up in every area. Sure, you can hire indies, but after they get the check don’t expect them to deliver. You’re one of many, you might not have another project for years.

Which is why the majors continue to triumph. Their lunch was eaten by Napster, they got snookered by Steve Jobs and iTunes, and now they’re partners with Spotify. Literally, they’re investors. Which is why when you hear that Spotify is out of contract you should not waste time thinking about it. The majors want Spotify in business. And they also want a free tier, they want their new projects heard, especially at a site that pays better than YouTube, one upon which they can exert their leverage.

But along comes Jimmy Iovine, friend to all.

But Jimmy’s history is winning for himself. Where is Ted Field today?

And the majors granted licenses to ensure competition, but they’re not about to let Apple run the table.

That’s right, Apple was complicit with Frank Ocean, and for that it must pay. Not with a check, but remorse. Lucian Grainge took its golden ticket away, no more exclusives. Jimmy didn’t fight fair and now Lucian is showing his armor.

Very interesting.

But even more interesting is that Apple provides little beyond cash. You get placement on its service, where most people aren’t. Success is about exposure which leads to ticket sales and endorsements. Reduce exposure and you’re collapsing the enterprise. Sure, Frank Ocean is swimming in media today, but the lion’s share of the public either doesn’t care or stole the product. Is this any way to run a business?

And if you want to do it yourself, you fail. Remember the saga of Garth Brooks, who refused to embrace the new paradigm and did it himself? Garth is clueless and lost. His last project failed miserably and he’s missing out on streaming revenue, believing the disc will come back and files will have a renaissance. Might as well invest in BlackBerry while you’re at it. The biggest name in nineties country music has to play by today’s rules, or be relegated to the dustbin. Sure, he can sell concert tickets, but so can Def Leppard and Styx, and you don’t see them anywhere on the chart. Which is fine if you want to ride the road to retirement, but if you’re young you’ve got to still put points on the board, via recordings.

Money changes everything. It’ll get people to work against their interests. Exclusives may put cash in your pocket, but they hurt your career. Music is a mass medium, and if the masses are left out, you’re toast.

So, Apple knows how to distribute. But it is not the dominant player. The majors saw the MTV movie, which is why they invested in Spotify and wanted a competitor to it at the same time. But MTV faded away and the majors remained. Because distribution is not enough. It’s about investing in acts, developing them, exposing them. Sure, you can take the cream off the top. But there’s very little cream and then the froth evaporates. The music landscape is littered with that which hit today and is forgotten tomorrow. Lucian Grainge and his merry band of executives have longer careers than almost all the acts Universal has ever signed, remember that.

So, Frank Ocean is not a harbinger of what’s to come. No more than acts doing direct deals with Wal-Mart were last decade. He’s an outlier. A momentary blip. And to the degree “Blond” punched a hole in the dam, it’s being plugged as I write this.

As for disruption…

It’s about music, not systems. Want to own the world, change the landscape? Write a hit tune that sounds nothing like what’s on the chart and then dominate. That’s the story of the Beatles, that’s the story of classic rock. It wiped the deck clean of the old players, not only acts, but executives. And then Peter Grant employed his leverage to make live a 90/10 split, in favor of Led Zeppelin. All the change came from young ‘uns, not the established players. Kind of like music discovery lives on Spotify, with its algorithms, Discover Weekly and Release Radar. Jimmy pays lip service to discovery, doing it the old way, via hand, but Spotify wins, it’s running circles around Apple because it’s run by the young not inured to old ways.

The enemy is not the major label. And it’s not the streaming service either. The enemy is you, your brain, which prevents you from thinking different, which believes doors are closed and you’re constricted. The music business has been and forever will be one of leverage. He with hits writes his own rules. And he who controls more hits changes the game.

Don’t bitch about minor skirmishes, don’t fight wars that cannot be won or are irrelevant. Spotify payments suck if you’re no one, they’re gargantuan if you’re someone.

So be someone.

That’s your challenge. If you’re trying to win via subterfuge, via contracts, you’ll never succeed. But if you’re emerging victorious via art, you write your own ticket.