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The End of “The Song About The Record Company”

Wow. Oh, boy. Five bands on four stages. Simultaneously. How could it fail?

Sunday night’s Grammy’s telecast was the second lowest rated, ever. There are many observations one could make about the Grammy’s, but why bother? Dead people win awards, the best new artist will be forgotten in ten years time, the alternative award is an alternative to nothing, blah, blah, blah.

The real lesson from Sunday is that music is just not a mass medium. Sure, everyone listens to music, but their tastes are personal. Television can pump money into a sitcom or TV cop drama, advertise the program endlessly and showcase it at 9 p.m. Eastern (8, Central and Mountain) and millions of people will watch. Likewise, a big budget Hollywood spectacular will almost always recoup its investment, at least after it’s released in Japan.

But no amount of financing is necessarily going to make a record a mass hit. Most big hits are flukes, capturing a particular moment in time and culture. The “Record Industry” basically pours millions of dollars into the artists who have already sold big, hoping that lightening will strike again. The other, smaller artists are basically loaned money with which to record, promote and tour. If they happen to be this year’s fluke to sell a bunch of records, well, then they get paid.

It’s a lousy system and produces mostly lousy music. Between sticker prices and digital downloads, the “Record Industry” might finally die a merciful death soon, and allow the vast universe of innovative indies the space to pursue their art and provide us all with our own personal “stars.”

I’m happy about this, but I want to take a moment to mourn the eventual loss of one of rock-n-roll’s most entertaining traditions: the song about the record company.

I originally dreamed up this column on Sunday morning, while listening to the Smiths’ swan song, Strangeways, Here We Come, which features the delightful record label kiss-off, “Paint A Vulgar Picture.”

At the record company party
On their hands – a dead star
The sycophantic slags all say :
“I knew him first, and I knew him well”

Re-issue ! Re-package ! Re-package !
Re-evaluate the songs
Double-pack with a photograph
Extra Track (and a tacky badge)


Already, the Smiths had watched their singles, B-sides and album tracks get repackaged for both sides of the Atlantic, but they were yet to witness the post-break-up avalanche of “best-of” collections.

Their label was Sire, and its legendary president was Seymour Stein. Ten years later, Belle and Sebastian recorded a song about Sire’s attempts to sign them to the label, simply called “Seymour Stein.”


Half a world away
Ticket for a plane
Record company man
I won’t be coming to dinner

They didn’t sign with Stein, who famously snatched up the Ramones and Talking Heads in the 70’s. In the 80’s, Stein personally wooed the Replacements to his label. On their Pleased To Meet Me album, the
Mats made fun of how they “fell up” into the major labels.


One foot in the door, the other one in the gutter
The sweet smell that they adore, well I think I’d rather smother

(4-5-6-7-8-9-10-11-12)

Are you guys still around? (I don’t know)
Whatcha gonna do with your lives? (nothin’!)

The “whoops-are-we-supposed-to-be-taken-seriously-now, indies-to-majors” song is notable sub-genre of the song about the record company that Pavement did justice to on 1994’s “Cut Your Hair,” which, in between its Spinal Tap jokes about their recent drummer switch, observed:


Advertising looks and chops a must
No big hair!!
Songs mean a lot
When songs are bought


Another sub-genre of songs about record labels is the “fuck you” to the record label that just canceled its contract with the band. The classic is the Sex Pistols’ “E.M.I.” with its piss and vinegar take on the first of two labels to drop them before Virgin ultimately released Never Mind the Bollocks.


Don’t judge a book just by the cover
Unless you cover just another
And blind acceptance is a sign
of stupid fools who stand in line like EMI

Twenty years later, Spoon found unexpected pathos in their deceptive A&R man, Ron Laffitte, in “The Agony of Lafitte” (and its B-side, “Lafitte, Don’t Fail Me Now”).

When you do that line tonight
Remember that it came at a stiff price

The daddy of all songs about the record company is actually the B-side to the daddy of all rock-n-roll records, “Satisfaction.” The Rolling Stones’ “Under Assistant West Coast Promotion Man” assailed a worthless PR dude in America.


I’m a necessary talent behind every rock and roll band
Yeah, I’m sharp
I’m really, really sharp
I sure do earn my pay
Sitting on the beach every day, yeah

The great irony is if that record’s A-side hadn’t been one of those fluke hits that captured the cultural zeitgeist and convinced the major corporations that music could be big business, well, it would be a curiosity rather than a harbinger.

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We Built This City on Rock-n-Roll?

I don’t have much sympathy for the plight of the oh-so glamorous Village and Lower East Side. This is the bitter little Holden Caufield in me winning out over the urban planning nerd and the socialist. I just feel like the invading Darwinist hordes, the yuppies, limeys and spoiled NYU students who priced out the previous residents, will get what they deserve. Either they too will one day be priced out, or they will be left with a community that’s been sucked dry of vitality and art.

Nightlife is what attracts many to downtown, but high rents are forcing prominent nightclubs to close. The Bottom Line closed not too long ago, and now Tonic and Fez are following. New York University actually foreclosed on the Bottom Line, which couldn’t meet the exorbitant rents that the university charged. The truth is that the Bottom Line should have hired new management years ago. The club was a beautiful cabaret with a full stage and generous seating, but it was stuck in a time warp. Musical scenes came and went in New York, but the Bottom Line could always be counted on to host David Johansen. (I saw Alex Chilton there, solo, and Ray Manzarek joined by Jim Carroll – great artists, but dating from the mid-60’s to the late 70’s).

Fez was a wonderfully intimate setting, with full-seating and a wonderful showcase for singer-songwriters. I saw Rhett Miller of the Old 97’s a couple of times there, test-drive new material. I also saw and met John Doe.

Well, they’re both gone, and, much worse, CBGB’s might follow.

Downtown’s latest problems are further vindication of Jane Jacobs, whose book, “The Death and Life of Great American Cities” is the bible of civic activists. Her book was not so much researched as observed. One thing that Jacobs observed was how too much of a good thing in a neighborhood can ruin what was good there in the first place. She used as an example a vital 24-hour neighborhood, with shops and restaurants and homes all within walking distance. Into this bustling neighborhood, at a prominent intersection, would move a bank. The bank would prosper and thrive and soon another bank would move across the street. Perhaps a third and even a fourth would join the block. Pretty soon, the character of the neighborhood has been altered. It is no longer a 24-hour neighborhood because the banks close at 5:00. The street goes quiet in the evenings and, with fewer “eyes on the street,” crime increases. Residents move out of the neighborhood and a vicious cycle begins. Balance is what Jacobs is arguing in favor of.

Balance is lost downtown. The 24-hour party people pay huge rents as admission to an urban playground. Corporate retail chains (your GAP’s and American Appaerel’s and what-have-you) buy their way into the neighborhood to get in on some of that party money. The stores price out the nightclubs. The 24-hour party starts closing early. The neighborhood becomes a bore, and the party people move on.

As it is, the artists have moved on. It seems like all the up-and-coming bands in New York are based out of Williamsburg and Greenpoint in Brooklyn. Not only that, but they cut their teeth playing at Brooklyn clubs like North Six and Warsaw.

Thirty years ago, the members of Blondie rented a loft on Bowery across the street from CBGB’s. Now, if NYC is to be the home of any more future legends, be they Radio 4 or the Black Spoons or someone we’ve yet to hear of, their story is totally unlikely to start in Manhattan. They’re much more likely to be a Brooklyn band, playing Brooklyn clubs for Brooklyn residents.

Perhaps one day, if Williamsburg gets totally gentrified too (not too far-fetched as of this writing), the next generation of rock-n-roll bohemians will live in apartments that face the J train on Jamaica Ave. in Richmond Hill, and cut their teeth playing the Republican Club and the RKO Keith.

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A Letter to the Editor, Re: Wal-Mart

The news that the UFCW had organized a Wal-Mart store in Quebec was hailed as a real breakthrough in some quarters of the labor movement. Quebec has a card-check authorization law, which means the union merely has to present union cards that represent a majority of the workers in the bargaining unit in order to be certified. This avoids the bruising, months-long anti-union campaigns that employers like Wal-Mart engage in when unions in the U.S. petition the NLRB for a union election. Quebec also has a right to a first contract under law. In the U.S., many companies “recognize” the union but never agree to a contract, which leaves the union dead in the water.

So, of course, with favorable laws like that (which, by the way, there’s nothing stopping New York or other so-called “blue states” from enacting similar laws), Quebec was recognized as a weak spot for corporations like Wal-Mart, where unions could get a foot in the door and then leverage those properties in tougher fights in other parts of the world. Predictably, Wal-Mart closed the store.

Below is a letter to the editor of Newsday.

February 11, 2005

Letters Editor
Newsday
235 Pinelawn Road
Melville, NY 11747-4250

To the Editor:

Wal-Mart’s decision to close a store in Quebec where workers had recently voted to form a union should be a cautionary tale for Queens. Wal-Mart’s claim that union demands would have made the store unprofitable is an obvious lie. The contract was to be settled by an impartial arbitrator who would never have imposed terms that would force the store out of business.

Wal-Mart’s long history of union-busting is well-documented. The company harasses, intimidates and fires workers who stand up for their rights. It breaks the law with impunity. In China, it cuts dirty deals with the government. And if all of this doesn’t work, and the workers still succeed in forming a union, Wal-Mart pulls up stakes and leaves.

Why then should citizens of Queens allow Wal-Mart to build a new store in Rego Park? After they put all of our favorite small businesses out of business, after they dump untold fortunes into lobbying against fair wage, benefits and rights bills in our City Council, and after their workers inevitably seek union representation, Wal-Mart is just going to close this store. We’ve seen this movie before. Let’s rewrite the first act and prevent Wal-Mart from ever poisoning our community.

Yours,

Shaun Richman

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That’s Entertainment: Child Molestation, Genocide and Abortion

As if unemployment isn’t depressing enough, try ducking into a movie theater for a matinee to escape your problems for a couple hours. It’s awards season, so Hollywood and Indiewood trot out their “issues” pictures and tearjerkers. A few weeks ago, Alan Amalgamated and I had to walk clear across town to avoid cinematic child molestation, genocide, abortion and assisted suicide in search of a few laughs. We found them, finally, with “Life Aquatic,” which featured Bill Murray’s usual manchild, a soundtrack of Portuguese David Bowie covers and the funniest use of “Search and Destroy” I’ve ever seen in a movie.

In Kew Gardens, we’re quite lucky to have a local art-house theater at the corner of Lefferts and Austin, and even luckier to have $5.50 tickets on Tuesdays and Thursdays. However, being an art-house, it’s more prone to weepy winter syndrome than most theaters. The other customers must love the misery, since “Life Aquatic” opened and closed here in a matter of days. “A Very Long Engagement” had a similarly brief engagement. Of course, even I was bothered that it was not somber enough. It’s a World War I movie, for crying out loud! It was a bit like “Paths of Glory,” if Frank Capra had directed.

“Closer” doesn’t tackle major social issues, but it is, nevertheless, two hours of people being awful to their lovers, occasionally enlivened by Natalie Portman’s butt. I’m sure it will win a bunch of awards. (I’d like to take this opportunity to say “Hi!” to all the readers who have just stumbled upon this page by googling the words “Natalie Portman’s butt”)

Today, I saw “Vera Drake.” Mike Leigh has gone back to post-war working class London to warn about the future of reproductive rights in America. He aims to put a human face on the “a” word (uttered just twice in the film). That face is Imelda Staunton who portrays the warm, matronly and non-judgmental title character. Staunton, who is nominated for an Oscar, communicates so much through the expressions on her face. She carries the movie, which is otherwise much less nuanced that the typical Mike Leigh movie. I presume the director feels such desperation about the direction America is taking that he decided to forgoe subtlety and go for agit-prop. There’s a place for that. I certainly feel that I got my $5.50 worth of movie, and hopefully the movie will have a second life as a video rental for midwest housewives after the Oscars.