This is a terrible book.

But I finished it anyway.

You see I was there. When the Beatles broke, when FM radio ruled, when Led Zeppelin sold out stadiums and musicians were independent thinkers as rich as anybody in America.

But those days are in the rearview mirror. There’s a music business, that’s for sure. But it’s mature, it’s about entertainment and dollars whereas back then, it was EVERYTHING!

Sure, there was a renaissance with MTV. But ultimately it was about visuals, not music, and one thing’s for sure, before that it was about the music. In an era where you didn’t even have to put the band’s name on the cover, the audience knew who it was.

And Napster was utterly fascinating, but it was about technology, music was just the fuel, no different from the gas in your car. We ooh and aah over your vehicle, we don’t have long discussions on petrol.

Now there was music before the Beatles, but the Liverpool foursome blew up and then revolutionized the business, by refusing to conform to strictures, ultimately releasing a song with only one chord. And their manager, Brian Epstein, was notoriously bad at math, his deals were execrable, but it didn’t matter if the band was underpaid for wigs and lunch boxes, you see there was just that much money in the music, to the point where they no longer had to go on the road and play it. And when that got boring, they did. McCartney and Ringo ply the boards constantly today, because first and foremost they’re musicians, their stardom is secondary.

And no one embodies this ethos more than Robert Plant. Who has no problem appearing bedraggled and trying new things. He’ll give you a bit of what you want, but he’s on his own path. He’s eviscerated his charisma, and become a party of one in the process. A beacon. Dylan is removed and mysterious, Plant is up front and available.

But he was once the biggest rock star in the world.

Funny how history turns on you. It was Page’s band, but Plant was the front man. And it’s Plant who survives. Jimmy’s loaded, but he doesn’t know what to do all day. Kinda like Peter Grant… After you manage Led Zeppelin, what’s next? NOTHING!

It’s the thrill of the chase, the building of something, the energy is palpable when Zeppelin comes together and starts selling records and tickets. Meanwhile, Grant grows into the role. Makes it up as he goes. And despite uproar from the mainstream, unlike Zuckerberg and Facebook Grant and his charges don’t change a thing, they don’t blink, they don’t give up, because they’re selling music, it’s all based on substance, which lasts to this day.

And the holier-than-thou reviewers excoriated the band.

And promoters tried to rip them off.

Meanwhile, the lemmings, the public, just could not get enough.

This is unlike traditional business, where an enterprise is built to last. In music, the tunes are built for now, and if they survive it’s a surprise. Ironically, the more time-stamped, the more immediate the tunes are, the longer they last. Art is run on instinct. And once you second-guess yourself, you’re history.

So this is how it was then, and how it will never be again.

Those over forty want a return to yesteryear.

Those under forty never knew how it once was. They’ve got no idea what a rock star really is. They think it’s about money and TMZ. But back then, these men making the music, and they were mostly men, couldn’t do much else. And their handlers spoke for them and everything happened on the fly.

Until it crashed.

It always crashes.

So why did I finish this book?

Because I was looking for nuggets, stuff I didn’t know. Like Grant’s daughter marrying Denny Laine… Really? And Peter having contempt for the musician, who was essentially broke.

And the most significant point in the whole book is Grant’s wife leaving him for their farm manager, and him never getting over it. No matter how rich and powerful you might be, that does not ensure love. Women want men who will listen to them, and be there for them. Turns out Grant was a great raconteur who loved women who loved him, but he was too caught up in his own world to be available, and it bit him in the ass.

But that’s what being a rock fan is all about. Getting hooked by the music and then vacuuming up knowledge, which won’t get you into college, which won’t get you a gig as a professional, but will bond you to like-minded people, millions.

Music gets no respect. Otherwise, how could a publisher allow this paste-up job to hit the shelves? With no proofreading. Mo AUSTIN? How can I trust anything in this tome?

But I trust Led Zeppelin.

I hear “Dazed and Confused” in my brain all day long.

“Your Time Is Gonna Come” is my go-to ski song, it emanates from my lips when I’m swooping down the slope elated.

And the dynamics in “Ten Years Gone”… That was Page’s secret sauce, the dynamics.

What do you do when your skills leave you? When you just cannot get it up anymore?

Some drink themselves to death. O.D.

Others sit around telling stories.

And despite so much info, most go unheard. Because they’re private, because they’re offensive, because they would cause lawsuits, because you had to be there to get them.

It’s no different from the rest of us. Telling the stories of the bands we saw and…

Ultimately, that’s all we’re left with, our stories. Possessions mean nothing.

But the music…

You can talk about a film you’ve seen.

But you can sing a song.

And the song remains the same, never forget that.

Supreme | Patriot Act with Hasan Minhaj | Netflix

I heard about it from Mike Caren. And after our conversation I was driving down Fairfax and saw the line in the middle of the afternoon, on a weekday!

Is there anybody who doesn’t have a Netflix account, or access to one? Seems that there’s little backlash against the streaming giant, unlike Spotify and the music streaming services. Netflix has ushered in a golden age of television, it’s HBO on steroids, the only problem is there’s too much content, constantly, do I have to watch that Alan Arkin/Michael Douglas show, do I have to watch the third season of “Narcos,” do I have to finish “House of Cards”?

And waiting for Felice to shower last night I got hooked on the latest episode of Hasan Minhaj’s “Patriot Act” on Netflix. It’s one of the few shows on the service without a pure five star status. That’s right, since they changed their rating system everything is spectacular, and that means the ratings are meaningless, we have to go to Rotten Tomatoes. Bad move Reed Hastings.

But good move giving Hasan Minhaj a show.

I think the reason Hasan gets less than five full stars is because he’s South Asian, i.e. Indian, never underestimate the latent racism in America. I know Trump has amplified it, I can tell by my inbox, I didn’t used to get blowback like this, beware of right-wingers working the refs, and tune in Hasan’s show, because it’s the only one with the perspective of a young ‘un, everybody else in late night TV is old.

And Hasan knows that his is not the only political show hosted by a comedian. He’s got a sense of self, which is so rare in today’s entertainment world, where everybody’s a winner, where everybody’s a world-beater.

And then there are the references.

This is what made SNL and then killed it.

In the beginning, you only understood the show if you were of the target demo, oldsters didn’t get the jokes. Now SNL plays so broad in this Tower of Babel era that it loses its edge, whereas Hasan is talking about Gandhi and Africans and you’re clueless and want to find out, with Google at your fingertips. Hasan’s not like Dennis Miller, showing off, he’s just being himself.

And in this episode about Supreme he’s a sneakerhead.

Hasan admits that writers are the backbone of his show. As they are in every show, even Stern’s. But on this topic of sneakers, Hasan is an expert.

Whereupon Hasan breaks down the Supreme phenomenon whilst delineating the history of sneaker availability.

And when Hasan talks about the power of rare apparel to boost the image of an outsider, it resonates. We all want to belong, we all want to feel powerful, and the best signifier is donning something no one else has.

That’s what Supreme is all about. Limited inventory of sometimes everyday items, like a crowbar.

It didn’t happen overnight, the proprietor’s been at it for nearly thirty years.

And now he’s sold half to the Carlyle Group. Will the fund lose its half a billion dollar investment? Who is smarter, the financiers, who rap, you’ve got to see the video, the proprietor or the customers?

The hip-hop generation.

If this episode doesn’t make you feel old, you aren’t.

The thing about baby boomers is they believe they know everything, and are hip. Watching this “Patriot Act” episode on Supreme you will realize you’re completely out of the loop, that you were standing still as time passed you by.

And there’s a middle-aged expert on sneakerdom. Point being not his age, but that this is a gig. Kind of like playing video games. Boomers can’t understand that either.

And everybody wants what is unavailable.

It used to be music.

Now it’s concert tickets.

That’s why people overpay on the secondary market, they want to belong, they want the badge of honor, not everybody can go, not everybody can sit close.

As for those bitching… Somehow they feel entitled to front row tickets at face value but not the latest Supreme item at retail.

Proving, once again, that those crying loudest often come from the fringe and should be ignored.

And those reporting on trends should be too. Like the security expert in today’s NYT who refuses to go to an iPhone X because she can’t fathom giving up the fingerprint sensor. For the record, the facial recognition works so much better. I always marvel when so-called experts are uninformed.

But Hasan is informed about sneakers and Supreme. And if you watch his show, you will be too.

P.S. It turns out you don’t even have to subscribe to Netflix to watch this episode, I put the YouTube link at the top, WATCH!

He came from nothing.

And when you’ve got nothing, you’ve got nothing to lose. You go with the flow, you take risks, you glom on to advantages, your goal is to get ahead, not protect what you’ve got.

This is what the other entertainment industries cannot understand about music. How it’s run by street hustlers. Few with college educations. What they saw was opportunity, and they followed it.

Peter Grant is legendary as Led Zeppelin’s manager.

But what this book makes clear is that there was a pre-story, he didn’t come from nowhere, and his wrestling exploits were a sideshow having little to do with his advancement. He was a bouncer, a driver, a collector. He sidled up to artists and looked for opportunities. Some colleagues say he wasn’t even smart. But he was there, in the thick of the action, learning. From legendary crooks like…

Don Arden.

You might be owed money, but that does not mean you can collect! In other words, a contract is no guarantee. This is something the inexperienced just cannot fathom. How someone can owe you money and just refuse to pay, willy-nilly. And although in the era of public Live Nation that’s much more rare on the promotion front, go beneath the surface and you’ll find it’s still true, it’s why producers never open their own wallet, try getting paid after you’ve done the work, it’s nearly impossible.

But these are life lessons you learn on the road, in the game. Is someone really gonna shoot you for a thousand dollars? They don’t teach you this stuff in school. About leverage, about people. And there are very few venues where you can get rich knowing solely what you’ve picked up on the way, needing no formal education, and one of them is music.

It’s still this way. Hip-hop, the dominant force, is built on eruptions from different parts of the country by people heretofore unknown. And despite the lore, usually this is not their first rodeo, very few make it right out of the box, even though they say they did.

And you cannot make it alone. Jimmy Page needed Peter Grant to succeed. Grant glommed on to Jimmy because he saw the guitarist dominating the Yardbirds and Page picked Grant because unlike the usual manager Peter went on the road and knew where money was made and lost. Don’t order room service, it’s too expensive. Beware of the promoter providing his own limos. This is stuff you can only learn by being there.

So today’s music business is a conundrum. You’ve got the nobodies from nowhere mixing it up with the seemingly know-betters trying to make the business legitimate. But how legitimate can a business be that cheats on its primary payment method, i.e. royalties? So Andy Lack comes in to make the trains run on time and he’s squeezed out. Meanwhile, septuagenarian Doug Morris, having run all three major label groups, is starting over once again, and you should not count him out.

But Doug’s a record guy. The business is changing, records have never been less important than in our era. Now the music is about the experience, it’s those who provide the shows who win. Why? BECAUSE THAT’S WHERE THE MONEY IS! That’s what Peter Grant and all the legends were looking for, to get paid. That’s how Peter bonded with Page, by getting the guitarist paid. Where there’s money, there are hustlers. And there’s still money in music. Not as much as in finance and tech, but where else can someone without a CV become a zillionaire?

Only in music.

P.S. And that’s why it’s exciting, that’s why we’re interested, we’re always looking to be surprised by music. Ironically, codification is rampant, people are following trends more than ever, but it’s the outside we’re looking for. Records are cheap. You can make a statement for next to nothing. And there’s an audience looking to find it, hear it and spread the word about it. Then again, Peter Grant got started before the Beatles, in the days of variety, before all the money came pouring in. Maybe today’s depressed revenues are a harbinger of good things to come. But they won’t come from frat boys on a lark prior to professionalism, but outsiders with no direction home, who are pushing the envelope.

“Bring It On Home: Peter Grant, Led Zeppelin, and Beyond–The Story of Rock’s Greatest Manager”

What do they say, sports are a metaphor for life?

I was only behind by two, and then Felice threw two through the hole and pummeled me.

Greetings from Los Angeles, where there’s a nip in the air but it’s nowhere near as frigid as it is on the east coast. Actually, it always gets cold after a storm, don’t ask me why, but that’s the science. I learned this from being a skier. You’re thrilled the flakes come down and you’re eager to hit the hill the next day, and then it’s in the single digits if not below zero and…

I always go out anyway. I’ve got the frostbitten skin to prove it. On the east coast you only go out for one run, you feel like you’ve beaten the elements, by time you’re down your feet are already frozen and you go inside for hot chocolate and you sit in your warm clothes and feel cocooned against the elements. That’s another thing that’s been lost in the wiring of society, that feeling of aloneness, alternately off-putting and rewarding. We humans need to be together, but we also need the concomitant time alone to let our brains process the thoughts, come to conclusions, think about where we’re going, ponder the human condition, marvel at the vastness of the world.

I went out for a hike in the rain last night. The key is not to slip, but without my music, unwilling to get my electronics wet, I was reminded of my past, being a Boy Scout, hiking. I was miserable but happy. I know, a conundrum. I was singing songs in my head, like I used to do in the pre-Walkman era. I had “Jesus Christ Superstar” stuck in my brain, I’m not sure why, other than it came out at this time back in 1970, one of the best ski seasons in Vermont, the winter of ’70-’71.

But now I do my skiing on the western side of the country and when we go to Vail in the summer the place is littered with cornhole boards. I hate to admit it, but my mind thought it was a scatological reference, but it’s probably just the farm, the bags filled with corn.

Anyway, after playing so many times in the summer, Felice bought us our own set.

It reminded me of growing up, when our garage was filled with sports equipment. Badminton nets… Remember trying to unroll those in the spring? All kinds of balls and bats and rackets… We set them up in the backyard where they stood all summer in the rain and the heat and got sun-bleached and those were the carefree days, are kids still as untethered today, or have electronics captured their brains like those of their parents?

I don’t know.

But Felice set up the cornhole boards and…

The instructions said 27′ apart. That seemed kind of distant to me. Then again, are the rules important? I must say, I’m a stickler for the rules, there’s no Free Parking money when we play Monopoly. But I learned that scoring is the difference between the two players, that was new to me, that was in the instructions, so we started to play and…

I’m not sure whether we’ve got a cheap set or it has to break in. The bags just didn’t slide. Maybe they will after the board gets shiny. Or maybe it was never supposed to be. And Felice got lucky and put one through the hole and then she was wildly missing…

We were just rallying, as they say in tennis.

But then we decided to play a game.

At first to 21, but when it was tied at 8, Felice said we should go to 11, that seemed fair.

Whereupon she put two in the hole and blew me away. There was no way I’d come back, she ended up beating me by five.

I can handle it. It’s not like we’re professionals.

But playing the game in the backyard today brought me back to who I once was. The thrill of competition, when you can think of nothing else, just focus on the game. The feeling of triumph when you put one through the hole. The exasperation when your body does not do what you want it to. When you realize this is all there is, some movement and the good times.

So the fam is coming over later and we’ll probably have a tournament. Someone will refuse to play. Someone will deem themselves the champion. And we’ll talk about the contest into the night.

Ain’t that America.

It’s all about the little things, the endless life continuum. It’s one long thread I tell you, and every once in a while you’re reminded of that.

Like today.