He managed Cream.

But no one knew his name until “Saturday Night Fever.”

You’ve got to understand, the only requirement to being in show business, especially the music world, is the desire. It’s a compendium of self-made men, hustlers who fear neither veracity nor the law in their climb to the top. Whatever you learn in school will not help you in the music business, but what you learn on the street will pay dividends. Music is all about relationships. Who you know is more important than where you got your diploma, if you’ve got one at all. Illusion is more important than reality, which is why you’ve got a hard time getting an accurate accounting. They say it’s a home run when it’s a single and the person who needs to get paid is the manager, the financial mastermind, the rights holder, who reports to no one but himself, there’s no SEC for the record business.

And the truth is we all want to be hustled. We hope that things can get better, that we can make it if we just believe, and these manipulators prey upon us. And some of them become successful, like Robert Stigwood.

Read “Born to Be Conned“

He did not come from the Tommy Mottola school of self-promotion. At his peak most knew little about him, his promo majordomo, the already forgotten Al Coury, was the one who got the ink. This was back when colorful characters realized it was best not to have the sun shine upon them. A lesson today’s ultra-rich should pay attention to. When you’re bending the rules, you don’t want scrutiny. No one knew who Louis Bacon was until the “New York Times” revealed his tax manipulation schemes on its front page last week:

“For the Wealthiest, a Private Tax System That Saves Them Billions“

Then again, if you’re boasting about cash you probably ain’t got that much. And Robert Stigwood had plenty.

He came from Australia to England with nothing. He made inroads before the Beatles, but he latched on to them too. And then he hooked up with Eric Clapton.

What would the music world be without Eric Clapton?

Jeff Beck never wanted the accolades, or was too prickly for those who could boost his fortunes to pay attention to.

Jimmy Page broke through, but primarily as one thing and one thing only, the driving force behind Led Zeppelin.

But it’s the third guitarist in the Yardbirds who blazed trails, who inspired a second generation of guitarists to wail. The Beatles got us started, but it’s Clapton who inspired us to aspire to greatness, to test the limits. He was the first guitar hero, and he may be the last.

But no one in America knew who he was. Few had the Bluesbreakers LP. And Cream’s initial album “Fresh” had little traction, despite its stellar track listing. It suffered in its production, credited to Stigwood himself, who probably had little to do with it. But then Bud Prager inserted his client Felix Pappalardi into the mix and the result was “Disraeli Gears,” which penetrated the consciousness of the cognoscenti in the winter of ’67-’68, but went nuclear when the anthemic “Sunshine Of Your Love” hit the AM airwaves the following summer. FM was where you got started, but no one had a receiver in their car, where tracks got blown up. Kind of like the internet today. “Royals” was an internet smash, but it didn’t become ubiquitous until it got on the radio. But the difference between “Sunshine Of Your Love” and “Royals” is the influence of the former, it woke up players, it changed the culture, rock ruled.

And so did Cream.

Its subsequent album, “Wheels Of Fire,” was a double. With extended takes of “Spoonful” and “Toad” on sides three and four respectively. Suddenly, hits didn’t matter, it was all about the playing.

And the classic rock era was initiated.

Of course you’ve got to credit Hendrix, whose “Purple Haze” woke up the populace. And, as stated above, without the Beatles there was no beginning. But you cannot underestimate the influence of Cream.

What did Robert Stigwood have to do with it?

I DON’T KNOW!

But I do know no major band has made it without a first-rate manager. Whether it be David Geffen, Irving Azoff or David Krebs. They’re each the man behind the band, opening doors, parting the sea, making things happen. Being able to play is just not enough.

And then Cream announced they were breaking up. Before the Beatles. And there was a goodbye tour and a “Goodbye” album and Eric joined the first supergroup, Blind Faith, subjugated his playing in Delaney & Bonnie and then put out a solo album that sounded almost nothing like what had come before. It’s still my favorite, with “Easy Now” and “Let It Rain.” But then Derek united with Duane and the rest is history, ergo “Layla.” But “I Shot The Sheriff” came out under Stigwood’s watch too, you think Bob Marley would have been as big without Eric’s imprimatur? Chris Blackwell had been promoting him to no avail for years!

But the press focuses on the Bee Gees, because they had that moment with “Saturday Night Fever,” they helped usher disco into the mainstream. And the movie and album were great, but what has Barry Gibb done for us lately?

With hindsight, we can see Clapton is the giant.

But they were both handled by Robert Stigwood.

So another one is gone, another one bites the dust. That’s the way of the world, but the world used to be different. There was no corporate promotion company, no Live Nation. And even branch distribution was a new thing. Stigwood, et al, were making it up as they went along. And what resulted was the modern music business. You can’t get paid? Neither could the bands of yore! They weren’t in it for the money, but the adventure and the girls, it was a lark. But Stigwood and his buddies turned it into a cash machine, and eventually mazuma rained down upon the acts, who are ungrateful to this day, the men behind the machine rarely get their due.

But they do get paid.

If you last long enough, you get a better record deal, you graduate to the best management. But you still need players on your team, you can’t do it all yourself. Just ask Trent Reznor, who went indie and then crawled back to a major label.

But it was easier back then, because no one knew anything, there were few music business attorneys and the hoi polloi had no access to Don Passman’s book. You had to take it on faith, that this person unveiling this yarn could truly make you a star.

Robert Stigwood could.

And that’s why those who were there remember him.

It brings tears to your eyes.

What kind of crazy fucked up world do we live in where the two musical highlights of the year were provided by septuagenarians?

That’s right, Taylor Swift and Adele did not reach Mt. Everest in 2015, theirs were financial stories propped up by commercial pop and grade B songs, the peaks were reached by Bob Dylan and Aretha Franklin.

Dylan put a cap on the old and brought in the new at the Grammy Awards, wherein he gave a speech that proved not only that he still had it, that the same guy who cut “Positively 4th Street” still operated at an elite level, far outpacing all his so-called competitors, but that he’d been paying attention all these years, he truly knew which way the wind blew. And it was a live event that if you were at you’ll never forget and if you weren’t you won’t ever really understand. Kind of like Newport. You can read about it, but to be confronted with limit-testing individualism unexpectedly is to feel fully alive, knowing that you had an intimate moment with a god.

And then, at the end of the year, came Aretha. She truly made us feel like a natural woman, even if you were a guy.

Looking out on the morning rain

Back when we used to be contemplative, back when Carole King’s “Tapestry” owned the turntable, when life wasn’t about boasting but introspection, when our music soothed our souls, didn’t merely fire us up and get us to dance.

The above-referenced “1989” and “25” will have a fraction of the impact “Tapestry” once had. Because it was a different era, one could own the conversation, and because the songs on “Tapestry” were timeless, known by heart by every baby boomer, beacons in the wilderness. If you’re a boomer and you don’t sing “So Far Away” in your head on a regular basis, you’re a wanker with no sense of context or reflection. Come on…

So far away
Doesn’t anybody stay in one place anymore

Funny how the web and Facebook have brought us back together, but that’s the story of the boomers, the itinerancy. We couldn’t afford plane tickets on a whim, we got behind the wheel of our large automobiles and spread out over this great nation of ours, bringing our values and our music. That’s right, you had your 8-tracks and cassettes, riding shotgun. We felt the earth move with our friends and then it was too late to become someone different, we were who we are.

But there were two legacy tracks on “Tapestry,” that we knew in prior incarnations, when legendary singers covered the work of Carole King and her husband Gerry Goffin.

“Will You Love Me Tomorrow?” was a hit for the Shirelles back in 1960.

And “(You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman” was a smash for Aretha Franklin in the fall of ’67. It followed “Respect” and was bookended by “Chain Of Fools.” Aretha had jumped ship from Columbia to Atlantic and she’d found her commercial groove, she was the biggest female singer on the planet. Diana Ross and the Supremes may have parted the sea, but it was Aretha who came sailing on through, who owned not only the airwaves, but our hearts.

And like today’s prodigies, Aretha started young, in church.

But unlike the kids, Aretha could play, as she did on the Kennedy Center Honors. Really, do we expect Bieber or Taylor or Adele to tickle the ivories like that?

Of course not.

Because now music is more about fame, more about the scorecard than art.

The Kennedy Center Honors are ersatz. Deserved honorees feted in a second-class fashion, all schmaltzy talk and too often second-rate performances, often by second-rate stars. I’m all for giving people props, especially after long-distinguished careers, I just wish these shows had more moments of gravitas, that they touched us like the original performances, on Broadway, at the Fillmore.

They usually don’t.

But occasionally they do.

I didn’t see Aretha live, never mind being there at the original taping.

But when I got back to the condo after the telecast, it was all anybody was talking about. Remember that? When something was so good the assembled multitude couldn’t help but testify?

And then I watched it.

Some will focus on Aretha’s appearance, not knowing that having the music inside you is what makes you beautiful.

Carole King is thrilled.

But the high point is when Obama wipes away a tear.

It’s our country now, the yahoos fighting the immigrants, ignorantly supporting the rich, are fading to black. Because music stopped the Vietnam war and we live in a rainbow of color these days, credit MTV, which integrated us on television to the point where our mores were changed. Oldsters may have a problem with gays getting married, but the younger generation is just fine with it. And old whites may hate that we’ve got a black President, but they’d be stunned to find out their grandkids adore Kendrick Lamar. Our nation is challenged in so many ways, but if you stop tilting the table, if you stop the gerrymandering and the disinformation campaign, you can see that we’re more together and more accepting than ever before, and one of the main things that brought us together was music.

When my soul was in the lost and found
You came along to claim it
I didn’t know just what was wrong with me
‘Til your kiss helped me name it

You’re lost in the wilderness and then you bring Aretha Franklin up on YouTube and your woes fall away, your life makes sense, you can see a direction home.

That’s the power of art, the power of talent.

“(You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman” was not the first song Carole King and Gerry Goffin wrote. They didn’t cut it at home on their computer and expect to be household names overnight.

And Aretha Franklin did not bake cookies for fans, kiss the butt of press and radio so they’d make her a star, the music was enough. Remember when the music was enough?

Oh baby, what you done to me
You make me feel so good inside
And I just wanna be close to you
You make me feel so alive

You don’t have to be in a club bumpin’ asses.

You don’t have to be on your iPhone connecting with your buddies.

All you have to do is pull up the video of this performance and your life will be elevated, all the b.s. dragging you down will be pulled away. You won’t believe people this talented still walk the earth, that not everybody in music has been dumbed-down.

This is where we reclaim the power from the bankers and the techies. When we dedicate our lives to art, to excellence, to exhibiting the human condition such that those exposed won’t feel so alone.

Aretha, you make me feel that life is worth living.

Carole, you make me feel that working in obscurity, nearly alone, is the way to pay your dues and to get ahead.

You both make me feel I’m no longer doubtful of what I’m living for.

That’s the power of music.

What do you do when the limo driver goes the wrong way?

It was his appearance that threw me off. The schlumpy look. I know drivers are underpaid, that they buy their suits at a discount, but suits they usually wear and they do not look like they were called away from band practice and it makes me feel…

Bad about myself. Because my wardrobe looks like I got it from Goodwill.

I didn’t used to be this way, my mother dressed me well. And then I went to Middlebury College in the middle of Vermont where there were no nice places to go and the rich dressed in chinos and worn-out Weejuns and if you wore nice clothes you were an outcast. Who you were inside was what counted, and if you bragged about your intelligence and achievements you were a pariah.

Oh, how the world has changed.

I’d like to say these scions of the wealthy won the game. But nobody I went to college with set the world on fire. Nobody is excoriated in the press for flaunting their wealth. And so here I am, with a bedraggled appearance and few assets, and I wonder if I played it wrong my whole damn life. And I wonder where the turning point was. Growing up in a female-dominated household? Skipping a grade? Having a renegade father who hewed to his own instincts but was never a member of the group? Or was it Middlebury College or was it all of it?

Speaking of my dad… He was all about breaking the rules. Kinda like today’s techies. Which is why he managed to take a mediocre profession and turn it into a gold mine. My dad was a real estate appraiser, normally a schlepper in a bad sport coat. But my dad fancied designer duds, and he was a legend in Connecticut, I heard an attorney general say they should have paid him a million dollars to go away, because he was so damn good at his job, getting money from the state in eminent domain cases.

But as much as my dad could rant and rave, he knew when to hold ’em and he knew when to fold ’em, his policy was to be nice to the service people. To utilize a charm offensive, until that failed and he had to bring out the big guns.

So the driver was going the wrong direction on the 5. Now one of the great things about being an adult is you’ve got direction home, you know where you live, you know how to get there, and in L.A. it’s not that complicated, until you hit the hills, but in the Valley…

Felice mentioned she’d never gone this way. Her mother said it’d been a long time since she’d been on this side of the hill. And the driver must have been a fan of Supertramp, he was gonna take the long way home.

Kinda like going from Philly to New York via Atlantic City, literally.

So, we said something, we got him to turn around.

And then he missed an exit. He went the wrong way on the 101.

What do you do?

Take over, tell him how to go.

But he was beholden to his GPS, you know the kind stuck to the windshield with a suction cup. It was descended divinely from Rand McNally and no human being could contradict it.

Until it said to make a wrong right blocks before Felice’s house. We heard the clicking of the turn signal. But we didn’t dare say anything, his temper had flared.

But not like it did when he passed Felice’s abode.

And I was flummoxed. Don’t we live in a service economy? Weren’t we paying, handsomely, shouldn’t he be beholden to us? And what were we asking for anyway, to go our own way? Fleetwood Mac let us, couldn’t he?

But it’s New Year’s Day and he probably doesn’t want to work but then he left Felice’s in the wrong direction and I implored him to turn off his GPS. I used the magic word, “please,” I did not lose my cool, I felt it was my job, to take control, I’m 62 years old, I’m an adult now, and it’s finally time to grow into my shoes.

At least I thought it was, I thought I was succeeding, until he blew his top again. Going to Ginny’s house. And after missing her building and having to make a U-turn upon our instruction and finally pulling into the parking area he lit into me.

Now let me tell you, I can lose my cool. I learned it from my dad. But I’ve had decades of psychotherapy, I can control my outbursts, if not my feelings, I can play to win. The driver accused me of yelling at him, which was untrue, and kept defending his mistakes. What to do?

Try to be nice. Ingratiate yourself. Express sympathy for having to work on a holiday.

And that’s when he got in my face and told me he was right and he wasn’t going to sacrifice his safety record no matter who I was and how rich I am.

Ain’t that a laugh.

But he was inches from me, and my instinct was to light into him, but I thought he’d hit me, because when people get wound up there’s no telling what they’ll do, the law be damned.

And that’s when it hit me, was I a wimp? Had it hobbled me my whole life? Had I been letting things slide in the name of getting along to my detriment? Because the big swinging dicks don’t tolerate no nonsense, I’ve seen them in action, they’re ranting and raving and having it their way and they own the damn Burger King, even though they never eat there.

Do the bullies succeed? Is craziness tolerated? Look at Trump, the press gives him a pass because he sells advertising and the public supports him because he’s a billionaire, even though he’s a flash in the pan who will be forgotten in months, at least when it comes to the Presidential election. But everything’s momentary in our society, it’s a pinball machine of b.s. Everything’s trumped up and if you’re not fighting for your piece you don’t get none.

And so many get none. They were taught to obey the rules and look what it got them.

And those who took matters into their own hands…

And then he said he knew I was going to report him. Actually, I was gonna let it go, but Felice thought the driver was a psycho. I’m afraid he’s gonna lose his job.

And then Ginny comes back from her building to argue the directions. A nonagenarian versus a punk. And he doubled-down. Why should he do otherwise? That’s what all the rich and famous do, maybe he learned it from Bill O’Reilly.

Ginny asked me if I wanted to call Uber.

I figured I was invested this much, I was not that far from home.

So I sat in the back, meek, like a second-grader, even though he was supposed to be serving me. He took the wrong exit, went the wrong way, does it have to be his way?

But I didn’t say a word, because I was afraid. Because I felt it was too small an event, I’d be better off just letting it slide.

But now I’m thinking I let too much slide, in the desire of getting along, I didn’t fight for the big piece of chicken, I let others go first.

And now where are they and where am I?

I’m not saying I want a do-over, but if I had one I’d do things differently, because the truth is it’s every man for himself and if you’re not getting ahead you’re being left behind, and the warfare is between us while the rich get a pass, laughing as they live a lifestyle we can’t even dream about because we haven’t been exposed to it.

So I’m saying to myself I’m home, I should forget about it.

But is that what I’ve done my whole damn life?

I don’t want to change the world
I don’t want the world to change me

I’m surprised so much hell is being raised over the death of Lemmy Kilmister. Could it be that he’s one of the few authentic rock stars left, who’s doesn’t care what you think, who’s doing it for himself?

I think so.

And now he’s gone.

I’d be lying if I said I was the biggest Motorhead fan, and Lemmy’s fascination with Nazis was pretty creepy, but he was nobody other than himself, he gave it all for rock and roll, when that was a religion, an ethos, a way of life, when we looked to our stars for guidance, who at the same time were not giving it.

But for me the apotheosis of Lemmy’s work is that he did with Ozzy Osbourne on the “No More Tears” album, wherein he cowrote lyrics for four songs, including “I Don’t Want To Change The World.”

Remember when we all weren’t desirous of being liked, when being an outsider was a badge of honor? Lemmy did.

Standing on the crossroads, world spinning round and round
Know which way I’m going, you can’t bring me down

Now everybody hangs on the words of rich assholes as if they have the key to life. Used to be life was your own personal adventure, you created it and you owned it.

You know it ain’t easy
You know it ain’t fair
So don’t try to please me
Because I really don’t care

Everybody cares too much today, they’re fearful of offending a potential customer, the sui generis individual has gone away. To the point where when an original dies we lament the loss of past glory.

But Lemmy didn’t.

Don’t tell me stories ’cause yesterday’s glories
Have gone away, so far away

There was no sense of history in rock and roll, the rules were broken again and again, and we looked up to these trailblazers, before the past was canonized in a Hall of Fame that does a good job of excluding those who pushed the envelope, who were dangerous, who were different, who really didn’t care if you liked them or not. You don’t hear Ian Anderson bitching about not being in the R&RHOF or Jon Anderson or Justin Hayward or John Lodge, but they were originals with huge, passionate audiences that the cognoscenti did not approve of. Kind of like Lemmy, he may not have reached as many, but if Patti Smith is in the Hall of Fame as an influencer, he should be too, just read the testimony of all the legendary rockers overwhelmed by his death.

I’m living on an endless road
Around the world for rock and roll

Motorhead never cut “I Don’t Want To Change The World,” but “Hellraiser” appeared on their 1992 album “March Or Die.”

That’s what bands used to do, travel around the world in an air of debauchery, leaving not only death and destruction in their wake, but children. This is the life every red-blooded male wanted a part of, what the groupies wanted to snuggle up to. Don’t mistake today’s touring behemoths with the stars of yesterday… There were no cameras, your life was as wild as you could imagine, you made it up as you went along, and you had millions hanging on every word.

Sometimes it feels so tough
But I still ain’t had enough

Nights at the Rainbow, endless tours, Lemmy kept on keepin’ on. He abused his body and continued to live the rock and roll lifestyle while too many of his contemporaries, especially those who came thereafter, were sucking up to those with the money, the faux stars known as bankers and techies, who don’t have the cojones to march into the wilderness on their wits alone, with no VC money, willing to do something unpopular, winning all the while on their personality.

Feeling all right in the noise and the light
But that’s what lights my fire

It can never be captured in video, you have to be there, to feel the pulse, the emotion, this guy Lemmy on stage WAS ROCK AND ROLL!

Walking out on another stage
Another town, another place
Sometimes I don’t feel right
Nerves wound up too damn tight

That’s what being a rock star is all about, the trappings come last, first and foremost it’s a job, wherein the travel is endless and you’re frequently unaware of the burg you’re in, but you keep on nonetheless. Many do drugs just to cope, others drink copious amounts, to come down from the high of being on stage, experiencing all the adulation and the noise. It’s why all the richies want access, because they don’t have that in their own lives… No one’s gonna cheer when Mark Zuckerberg takes the stage, certainly not Lloyd Blankfein.

People keep telling me it’s bad for my health
But kicking back don’t make it
Out of control, I play the ultimate role
But that’s what lights my fire

And it lit our fire too. You couldn’t get a ticket, rock and roll ruled the universe. That’s what got Lemmy involved, he needed to be closer, being a roadie was good enough.

And then he played. And played and played. For decades. He couldn’t do anything else, he’d sacrificed his entire life for rock and roll.

Like me.

Like you.

It’s our God.

And when a parishioner dies we reel, we testify, we can’t believe the Grim Reaper has taken another.

But then we circle the wagons, push a button and crank it up. Because we were born hellraisers. We’ve got contempt for the man, we ain’t selling out to no corporation, our lives are about freedom to a pounding soundtrack turned up to 11.

Never forget it.

Long live the Ace of Spades!

“Hellraiser”- Spotify