The music business is going to be all right.

The number one lesson I took from the U2 kerfuffle was not you shouldn’t invade people’s devices without permission, but how few people knew who U2 was. In case this link eluded your inbox, check it out, it’s edifying:

who is U2

The point being time marches forward every day, and what is big today will almost certainly be forgotten tomorrow. Even the Beatles. Certainly “Yesterday” will live on, but “For The Benefit Of Mr. Kite” and the rest of “Sgt. Pepper’s”? Highly dubious they’ll make it into the next century.

And few of us will live that long, but baby boomers will expire and the youngsters will take over, and I hung with a bunch of those youngsters this weekend in Utah.

Yes, I was nearly the oldest person at the Summit Series event at Powder Mountain.

Huh?

That’s how the new world works. The inner circle convenes and you don’t even know about it. Kind of like that Amazon convention featured in today’s “New York Times”:

“A Writerly Chill at Jeff Bezos’ Campfire”

Summit Series started as events. Then the proprietors bought a ski area and are building a community.

That’s right, this gang of thirtysomethings, running on gumption and pluck, who know every highfalutin’ tech person you read about online, have decided to go big. That’s what the youngsters specialize in, dreaming, and then executing. You can read about it here:

Summit Powder Mountain

Or if you prefer straight news stories, check this out:

“Summit To Buy Powder Mountain To Create Entrepreneur Community”

And that’s who attended, entrepreneurs.

These people used to populate the music industry, now they’re all in tech. And this weekend was about the nexus of the two, but the truth is young people have been frozen out of upward mobility at the labels and to a great degree the live business. So they’re focusing on apps, and data, and even though they may not realize you need rights to execute your vision, today’s culture believing permission is a given, soon their peers will inherit the rights and we will get movement.

So who did I meet?

Slav. Who started Indiegogo, who can be a bull in a china shop and a puppy dog, shifting gears from one to the other in an instant. Slav Rubin believes we’re wresting investment from the usual suspects, and the coming story is about how the public at large will finance innovation. Now I did not agree with every word he said, but Slav went to Wharton and used to be a futurist and you listen to him long enough and it’s hard to believe he’s not right.

And then there was Kendall, an agent at UTA. She didn’t only mention the financials at Snapchat, but how evanescence breeds adherence. Could this be the future? That which expires draws our attention?

And Dave has an app that allows you to tip SoundCloud posters, garnering them money.

And Anthony gave up management to pursue brand relationships. That’s one thing I took from the weekend, today’s youngsters want to match companies with artists for profit. I believe sponsorship can eviscerate credibility, but the younger generation is unlike the hippies, they’ve got no problem with money, and they’ve got no problem protecting artists’ rights.

Does the brand fit the culture? Vans is a perfect match for skateboarding, but 7-Up seems to be crashing the music party. It’s not as simple as hooking up cash with concerts. And other than Red Bull, every corporation is asking for more than you want to give, and the dance of delivery is a skilled one.

And I talked to so many people and heard so many stories, but my favorite came from Jonas Tempel, who founded Beatport.

He was a deejay. Who’d started his own advertising agency. Yes, entrepreneurship is in the blood. Seems you’re either born to work for others or yourself. Jonas tried to sell Beatport to Apple, since the ad agency’s client, Volant skis, had Mike Markkula on its board, and Markkula was there at the Cupertino giant from the beginning.

But Apple said no. And then launched the iTunes Store shortly thereafter.

Jonas felt embarrassed, but he and his team stuck with it. And launched anyway. At steadily climbing prices, with endorsements and investments from the likes of Richie Hawtin to ensure success.

And that’s what they got.

Then they made a deal with a VC. Who put in 12 mil, 8 of which was never spent, and then the bankers didn’t stop meddling.

Sony came a-knocking. Jonas got the price up to 125 mil, but the VCs wanted more. The deal failed, the 2008 crash happened, Jonas resigned and then SFX bought Beatport for a third of Sony’s offer.

And Jonas went to work at Beats. He was recruited to build a music service. He hired experts in Sweden, they were the only ones competent to build a new streaming system. He rode around in SUVs with Dre, he thought he’d made it. But when Jonas protested about the acquisition of MOG, he got blown out.

And he’s never recovered.

Oh, he’s making music, he’s back to his deejay roots, but he said he’s miserable, he’s dying to get back into the startup game.

And listening to Jonas talk was better than any interview in “Rolling Stone,” anything any musician has said this century. Because Jonas was smart, he put in his own money, he rolled the dice, he played the game, he was speaking from experience, he had expertise.

As did seemingly everybody at Summit.

Oh sure, there were a couple of oldsters, like John Boyle of Insomniac, who was just in from Asia, negotiating new shows for EDC.

But generally, most of the attendees were like Elliott and Brett and Jeff of the Summit Series. Not so much charismatic as game, and willing. And barely thirty.

So you can ignore what you read in the press. Those reporters are eating what the usual suspects are feeding them. Meanwhile, reinvention is happening all around you. More surprises like Napster are in the offing. Because the younger generation doesn’t understand the word “no,” and they run on passion, and passion is the elixir of success.

Maybe you don’t have the money to buy a residence at the top of Powder Mountain. Who knows, maybe Summit’s effort will fail.

But that won’t be the end.

Because despite hearing that the millennials are crybabies who all got trophies and are in search of coddling, this is untrue. They’re educated and tenacious and desirous. They want to change the world.

And they are.

He was the most famous celebrity you don’t know.

Originally saddled with the sobriquet “Eric the Midget,” Eric Lynch’s protestations were heard and the Stern show staff agreed to refer to him as “Eric the Actor,” since he considered himself to be a thespian.

Yes, the Howard Stern show. I wasn’t there when Eric originally called in to give his opinion on Kelly Clarkson’s attractiveness, but over the last few years, after becoming a Stern show fanatic, I became intimately involved with Eric’s personality.

He was ungrateful. But at the same time he wanted the perks of celebrity. He wanted the benefit of the doubt, he wanted airtime, he wanted unknowns to fulfill his Amazon wish list.

Like a miniature replica of the Oakland Coliseum, where the A’s play.

Now in reality show culture, we make stars and discard them. Snooki is already a footnote, Paris Hilton’s nearly been forgotten. But first and foremost Howard Stern is loyal. Despite being badgered by the diminutive gentleman, Howard kept putting him on the air. And he bent over backward to be nice, but not fully. Usually the handicapped are wheeled out to elicit our sympathy. But it was hard to feel sorry for Eric, because he was such a huge pain in the ass.

Leaving endless phone messages.

Getting into Twitter wars.

Using profanity to express his anger towards anybody who had a contrary opinion. Yes, you’d think that Eric would wise up and learn how to take the heat, but he never did.

Like a regular person.

That’s what the Stern show is all about, regular people. Sure, we’re addicted to the celebrity interviews, but the reason we are is because Howard elicits the stars’ foibles, their everyday lives, things the celebrity culture media machine believes are off limits.

Nothing was off limits with Eric the Actor. Including his sanitary habits.

And you may think these behaviors are trivial and to amplify them is juvenile, but the truth is we’re all just animals trying to get along, and what draws us in most is the human condition. Which is why television is burgeoning and movies are dying. It’s hard to relate to a comic book star. And it’s why music is in a downswing. Because the goal is to be bland and sell out and revel in your elevated status.

But Howard Stern keeps telling us he’s a geeky guy who believes in his talent but is lucky to have a show, and an audience.

The Stern show got Eric TV guest shots. And then the joke became that every show Eric appeared on got canceled. And, of course, Eric would argue that point.

The Stern show got Eric laid. And I know you don’t want to hear that, but if you don’t believe that a 3’5″ man with a club foot has desires then you’re not human.

And then Eric pushed it too far. He was banned. But he called back in as a Texan named Derek and Howard played along with the charade and I still chuckle when I think of their interplay, everybody but Eric not being fooled.

There was the IQ test. There were the endless demands. Being left out of the Anniversary Show because he just couldn’t be reasonable and appreciative. Ain’t that life, people will bend over backwards to help you, but they’ve got a limit, and you don’t want to reach their limit.

And Eric was just on the show. His health seemed to be deteriorating, but he said he was not near death.

And now he’s history.

Ain’t that life. They’re here today, and then they’re gone. Poof! They live on in your memory, but you never hear their voice again.

So, so long Eric the Actor. You truly were a star, even though you could never kick back and own it, revel in the huge fanbase you’d accumulated.

And hello to the second decade of the twenty first century, wherein the niches trump the mainstream.

Robin Williams was everybody’s, Eric the Actor was ours.

And when I saw that he’d died I felt a well of emotions that I did not know I had for the squirrely ingrate.

But that’s the nature of people. They worm their way into our consciousness and we tolerate their excesses for the entertainment and humanity.

This is a big deal. It leaves a huge hole in the Stern show, which is not some sitcom which is canceled by a fat cat exec because the ratings have sunk, but an endless, breathing juggernaut that has people from Natalie Maines to Jimmy Kimmel to Michael Rapino hooked.

That’s the truth. It’s a cult. That’s much larger than you think. You’d be stunned who’s a Stern show fanatic.

And each and every one of them is sad tonight.

This is the one that made them a household name. Well, dorm room name. Prior to 1971 the Dead were San Francisco hipsters, with a small presence at the Fillmore East, where they most famously played at midnight.

But despite not appearing in the Woodstock movie, in the spring of 1970 the Dead made inroads with the general public with “Workingman’s Dead,” most famously with “Uncle John’s Band,” which was reminiscent of the work of Crosby, Stills & Nash, who were the most popular act of the season. The Dead never sang that well again, but the track played perfectly on FM radio, which was getting traction in all markets, and “Workingman’s Dead” was finally an LP that you could play for nonbelievers. Prior to this, the name scared them off. And if that wasn’t enough, the denseness of the music did. But not on “Workingman’s Dead.”

And then came “American Beauty.” Which arrived mere months after “Workingman’s Dead,” the latter coming out in June, the former being released in November. And despite “Box Of Rain” not eclipsing “Uncle John’s Band,” despite not having an obvious radio track, “American Beauty” had fewer rough edges than what had come before and a few tracks so lightweight and catchy that anybody in their bell bottoms could get them.

Yup, “American Beauty” was released in 1970, but it took months to percolate, to discover that everybody knew it and everybody wanted to go see the Dead live, long before Bruce Springsteen played for hours and it was about hangers-on. The Dead gave four hour performances, they were unlike the English superstars, they were rough and imperfect but the energy was palpable, especially as the show built to the end.

BOX OF RAIN

Look out of any window

Bob Weir was now seen as the primary vocalist. Hell, there were few photos and the ones that existed evidenced that Bob was cute, so he had to be the focus. But simultaneously people started to realize it was Jerry’s band. And there you have the Dead conundrum. Everybody believed they knew everything, even though most knew very little.

“Box Of Rain” delivers. You always want to put a catchy number first. But “Box Of Rain” was not “American Beauty”‘s catchiest.

FRIEND OF THE DEVIL

Sure, “Truckin'” is more famous, but one can argue strongly that the Dead’s career was built upon this ditty cowritten by John “Marmaduke” Dawson of New Riders of the Purple Sage, who Jerry played pedal steel with and at this point opened the Dead’s shows.

Never underestimate the inability of the audience to understand complicated/left field material. “Friend Of The Devil” was as palatable as “Teach Our Children,” and featured an exquisite middle section that made the track.

I hated this forever, because it was so lightweight and overplayed, but all these years later it’s refreshing. The Dead had no idea they were about to become underground superstars when they cut it.

SUGAR MAGNOLIA

Almost equally lightweight, but sung by Bob instead of Jerry, this one-two punch, “Friend Of The Devil” and “Sugar Magnolia,” cemented the Dead’s stardom amongst women. And you’re nowhere until you get the distaff sex. Sure, the band always attracted some females, but now guys could play the LP and drag their girlfriends to the show, and it was at the show that your fandom was fortified.

OPERATOR

Pigpen even goes mainstream. This was no “Turn On Your Lovelight.” The long forgotten Ron McKernan even played to the audience here, and it worked!

CANDYMAN

This was the sound that made Jerry Garcia famous. He was already Captain Trips, but it was this measured sound that got fans to follow him. “Candyman” was of a piece with the rest of “American Beauty,” only it was longer and slower and so much more like what would come later in Jerry’s solo career, which began in January of 1972 with “Garcia.” Furthermore, it’s got a killer chorus.

This is not music made for the radio, but for a slow afternoon, preferably stoned.

RIPPLE

I still hate it.

You’ve got to understand, you were a fan of these acts, bought the records, enjoyed them, and then the hoi polloi got bitten/glommed on and you heard them incessantly, never mind being subjected to the testimony of these punters late to the party.

“Ripple” is harmless. Which might be why I have a problem with it. And the fact that people with guitars used to play it everywhere. Remember that, when you bought an acoustic so you could play the songs of the day and sing along?

TILL THE MORNING COMES

Unheralded, but one of my favorite cuts on “American Beauty.” It’s a joyful tear. Just an album cut. But so upbeat, so endearing.

TRUCKIN’

A minor masterpiece from a gang that previously had problems shooting straight.

It’s the story of their life, traveling, getting busted, but what makes the track so infectious is the groove, it leaves the station and keeps going at the same pace, leaving the past and its problems in its wake.

Just like Peter Frampton needed “Do You Feel Like We Do” to rally his live audience and take his shows to a higher plane, “Truckin'” did this for the Dead. Whatever happened before in the show, however much they noodled, no matter how boring they’d been, when they locked into “Truckin'” the assembled multitude took to their feet, put their heads in the air, sang along and shimmied.

And there you have it. Oh, there are a couple of other tracks, but this as close to a perfect album as the Grateful Dead ever cut, people don’t make stuff this good today. And despite having a catalog before and after, the act’s entire career can be attributed to this one LP, showing the power of one great work. Do one indelible thing and people can never forget, they need to come back to the garden again and again and again.

Which is what the audience started to do. And the fact that there were no radio hits and the shows were such transcendent parties made the Dead a mystifying open secret you had access to, but those with power as the business consolidated passed over. As the seventies wore on radio became even more important, sales of albums stretched into the millions, and the Grateful Dead continued to be hippies playing not so much for the money, but the lifestyle, and the music itself.

Sure, Jerry Garcia drove a BMW. But if you were interested in the bottom line you didn’t go to Egypt, you played it safe, you didn’t test limits, putting out triple live albums and starting your own label and disconnecting yourself from the system, making yourself even more indispensable along the way.

And that’s the secret to the Dead’s success. There was no plan, they didn’t know what they were doing, they just followed their heart.

They did these two country rock records and then never replicated the formula again. Their records became less important to the legend, never mind the enterprise. They kept truckin’ along, gaining new fans along the way, who couldn’t believe this scene existed in corporate America.

But it did!

Rhinofy-American Beauty Primer

But that did not prevent it from being a hundred degrees for nearly a week in SoCal.

And it’s hard not to think about global warming/climate change, but what struck me so much was how early it got dark and how hot it was at the same time. As if the seasons were changing but someone was asleep at the wheel.

The thing about summer is it only lasts two months in Southern California, July and August. June is too foggy and cool. On the east coast exuberance reigns and everybody wrings out every ounce of hot weather before the leaves turn. But even though it’s oftentimes hot in early September, not so hot this late though, we in SoCal adhere to the fiction that life changes with the opening of school, vacation is over, we all must become more serious.

But live long enough and you start to disconnect from the education paradigm. You have no desire to go back to school, achievement is no longer paramount, and you slow down and observe the little things that have been there all the while, but you never seemed to notice.

The way the sun is orange in your rearview mirror. I was driving downtown to eat Mexican with Dawes and to the left of me is mountains, behind me is a radiant orb, and even though the thermometer is in triple digits, I don’t always need the air conditioning. Because with the angle of the sun lowering, hot just doesn’t feel so hot.

I know that sounds ridiculous. But so much of life cannot be articulated, only felt. Even though we have words, it’s astounding we can even communicate. We’re ruled by feelings. And we can be anxious or thrilled but sometimes we’re just in the sweet spot, when everything feels all right.

The songs sound better on the radio. You decipher lyrics you’ve been mystified by for decades. You gain new insight into your favorites. It’s like nature is offering its rewards up only to you. In the cocoon of your mind. And you’re stunned that you’ve never felt this way before, and won’t always be able to feel this way in the future.

As Don Henley sings, we’ve only got so many summers and so many springs. And life becomes more about missed opportunities than future successes. You make peace with yourself, who you are, know that soon you will be dust, it happens to us all, and as much as you’re caught up in the rat race, it’s an irrelevant league that can be ignored, just like baseball or football, no matter how much each of them is in the news.

This weather won’t last forever. Unlike most of the country, it’ll never get cold in SoCal. But the leaves will change, you’ll need a jacket, even if there’s no nip in the air. You’ll start to yearn for spring, for the longer days more than the warmth, the feeling of rebirth.

But right now we exist out here in a curious limbo. One in which the heat tells us we’re at the apex of the summer season, but the light tells us otherwise. It’s like going on your last date with the significant other you agreed to break up with, or the one shuffling off to college. It’s bittersweet.