|
Post by ensenada on Jan 19, 2005 17:36:12 GMT
I know Elektra signed bands such as janis joplins, but who else did they have signed that made it big? and what has become of elektra now?
|
|
|
Post by TheWallsScreamedPoetry on Jan 19, 2005 18:01:45 GMT
Elektra was one of the great visionary labels such as Charisma and Harvest here in the 70s. Holzman started it as a small folk label but as it grew it became diversified. Jac gave a chance to arguably the worlds first true punk band when he signed the MC5 from Detoit and gave us 'kick out the Jams motherfuckers'! Judy Collins was on the label and Tom Paxton, Bread, Tim Buckley, The Stooges, Carly Simon, Rhinocerous and The Butterfield Blues band. Holzman was a friend of Charisma boss Tony Stratton Smith and signed for the USA distribution Charisma groups Audience (w/Howard Werth), Lindisfarne (who spent IN ONE NIGHT thier entire cut of thier first US tour drinking with Don McLean and a bunch of Geordies they met in The Troubadour in LA....the owner was left with a huge bar bill and tried to shoot them), Genesis and The Incredible String Band. He introduced Atomic Rooster and Queen to the US. Sadly Elektra just ended up as part of Warner Bros (WEA Warner Elektra Atlantic) and Jac sold up and moved to Hawaii... The book 'Follow The Music' is one of the most entertaining books about a record company in print....
|
|
|
Post by pep on Jan 19, 2005 19:47:42 GMT
and of course LOVE Arthur Lee from LOVE helped The Doors get signed to Elektra ;D
|
|
|
Post by TheWallsScreamedPoetry on Jan 19, 2005 22:20:16 GMT
Without Nonesuch There Might Have Been No Doors; Electronic Music on Nonesuch JAC HOLZMAN: The singer-songwriter years were filled with change and challenge, both political and personal, and Elektra was in the thick of the movement. But I could feel the need for something more, to make a bold move unrelated to what the label had been doing, and I had absolutely no idea of what that might be. Then, without notice or ceremony, it hit me. No experience in life goes wasted. I recalled when I was an indifferent college student at St. John's. Music was a key element of the Great Books program, but it went beyond the "harmony of the spheres" that permeated our celestial mechanics and math studies. Music would pour out of the windows of the dorms, which were really very large, post-colonial houses. And no junk. Walking across campus, you would hear folk music, music for ancient instruments, Haydn, Vivaldi, Beethoven's "Grosse Fuge," Johann Sebastian Bach and all his progeny, and a glorious helping of Mozart, the patron saint of St. John's music junkies. There was only one record store in Annapolis, Albright's, on Maryland Avenue. It had a few cramped listening booths, and I would go down and graze among the classical records, especially the baroque offerings, which were stocked only because St. Johnnies were serious music people. The Westminster label recorded with care and offered a broad range of music that fit my taste. In the early days of LP's, Westminster albums cost $5.95 each. I wanted two, but I could only afford one, and I would drive myself nuts choosing. Buying only one album was like trying to satisfy your craving with one potato chip. Fast forward fifteen years. All that time I had been keeping detailed notes on classical records issued in Europe, subscribing to a large number of overseas record magazines, clipping reviews of whatever looked interesting and pasting them onto loose-leaf pages by label and genre of music. I had three notebooks full of information and no idea what I was going to do with it. By late 1963 we were set up in our new offices adjacent to Rockefeller Center. Paul Rothchild was on board. Koerner, Ray & Glover were becoming known. The singer-songwriters were an established genre. And now . . . what? My mind was searching for something to get interested in. Nina and I were at a restaurant on 57th Street for dinner with Harry Lew, our New York distributor, and his wife, and they were late. Perhaps because Carnegie Hall was right across the street, I was struck by my recollection of having to choose between two records I wanted so badly when I was a student. In 1963 classical records were $4.98, and quality paperback books, trade paperbacks, were $2.50. "Wouldn't it be neat," I mused, "to have a line of fine records at the same price as trade paperbacks?" What kind of music? Unusual, baroque-oriented, with a very focused sense of audience-meaning essentially me as I was in 1948-1950. In sum, adventurous repertoire for music lovers with more taste than money. Package the line intelligently. Fashion liner notes that would not only discuss the music, but also-and this was important to me-the social context, because music, sports, reading, and I assume sex, were the prime entertainments of that day. And I knew Bill Harvey could come up with some clever cover ideas that would showcase the music, with all fustiness brushed away. The whole idea came to me so fully realized that I couldn't find the words to express it for a minute or two. I diagrammed the basic shape of it and wrote out the critical details on the paper tablecloth. Harry Lew finally arrived. He heard me out, and thought I was crazy to try to compete in classical music with the majors and the knowledgeable established independents like Vanguard. That was not about to slow me down. Next day I boarded a jet to Europe, my carefully assembled classical notebooks in my carry-on-this was the raw material of the idea and I wasn't taking chances with lost baggage. Paris and London were my first stops. I cold-called everyone, introduced myself and booked appointments. Being president and owner of Elektra was enough to get me in the door to make my pitch. I wanted records the European labels never thought would or could be released in America, and here is a guy offering a $500 advance per album plus a royalty. I brought very simple licensing agreements and a raft of blank checks which were clearly visible and aching to be filled in. I creamed seven quite nice albums from these sources, and spent many hours in further research at London's Gramophone Shop, which stocked everything worthwhile in classical recordings from Europe. I returned to New York with the certainty that if we could bring the whole concept together I could easily acquire many more albums, and I had already targeted the most likely sources of repertoire. We gave the project a code name, Nonesuch, so that if we were ever asked we could truthfully say there was no such project-what in government is called "plausible deniability." I had asked Bill Harvey to mock up a few covers, and I contacted Ed Canby to write the liner notes. Bill thought the best approach to create an identity was original artwork in a well designed frame, with the label's logo prominently on top, for instant recognition as people flipped through the record racks. Once we had the first releases looking good, and about sixty days from initial launch, I decided to tie up the richest lode of material available from a single source, Club Français du Livre et de la Disque in Paris, which had a fine music division (also a major book club reprinting European classical literature in complete sets, handsomely bound, much beloved by the French). My reasoning was twofold. If the idea caught on, I would have to move fast to build a catalog, because I didn't have one of my own to draw from as did Vanguard, Vox, and the majors. Anxious to preempt anyone else from accessing the riches of Le Club, I telexed the owner-president, M. L'Hôpital, and followed up with a visit. Le Club did business from a formidable stone mansion on a prestigious street in central Paris. Outside M. L'Hôpital's office door were two lights, one red, one green, so his secretary would know when she could enter. The door was tufted brown leather, and when it was opened there was an identical door reset about eighteen inches, forming a leather airlock. The office was in elegant Empire style, and behind a gold leaf desk was M. L'Hôpital, a cultured, quite handsome gentleman in a blue pinstripe suit, the most perfectly ironed shirt with a collar to envy and an immaculately knotted tie. He spoke excellent English, but had never heard of Elektra. I showed him preview samples of the first Nonesuch releases, and told him I was willing to commit immediately to twenty albums, and that I wanted three years exclusivity to comb his list. And I just happened to have a check with me for $10,000 for a contract to be negotiated. My hunch about M. L'Hôpital was that he could make the deal and that his handshake would seal it. He gave his commitment to twenty masters which would be air-shipped to me as soon as they could be duplicated, and I left with him a sample agreement that Irwin Russell had prepared. Then we went out and had a civilized French lunch of several courses and wine. It's a good thing we got the business done first. This excerpt is from the book "Follow the Music," the story of Elektra records as told by its founder, Jac Holzman.
|
|
|
Post by TheWallsScreamedPoetry on Jan 19, 2005 22:22:08 GMT
In Pursuit of a Queen - Elektra vs. CBS, The Giant of The Industry
JAC HOLZMAN: In 1971, Jack Nelson of Trident Audio Productions in London paid me a visit.
JACK NELSON: A casual meeting, a little fishing expedition. I had a couple of hours between planes. Jac was a fan of our work. I was carrying a sample tape of what Trident could do, so that people could hear our studio sound and also the groups we had under management. I was going to see if we could license some bands to Elektra.
Trident was probably the foremost studio of its time in England. It was a beehive of activity because of the engineers and the sound. Everybody from the Beatles and the Stones recorded there. Elton John-that's where he made his first six or seven albums. David Bowie. Cat Stevens was with Trident. One of Jac's English signings, Lindisfarne, recorded there. Carly Simon made her 'You're So Vain' album there.
I had a group called Queen. I had been shopping them for almost a year, and now I was signing them to EMI in England and I was in the process of signing them to CBS in North America. Jac said, "I'd like to hear them." I said, "OK, but I'm already in my third revision of the CBS contract."
JAC: Jack gave me the Queen tapes, a complete album, two full 10-inch reels. I listened to them at Tranquility, first through the speakers, then through headphones. It was so beautifully recorded and performed; everything was there, like a perfectly cut diamond landing on your desk.
JACK NELSON: Queen reminded me of the makeup of the Beatles. Each guy was so totally the opposite of the others, the four points of the compass. Freddie Mercury was the lead vocalist. He composed on keyboards, and he was classically trained. Very complex guy, incredibly talented. Brian May was a rock and roll guitarist and he brought that influence. Also incredibly talented, scatterbrained as they come, and yet as focused as they come. He had a degree in infrared astronomy. John Deacon was the bass player. He brought the solid bit, as bass players do, grounded them. He had a first-class honors degree in electronics. Roger Meddows-Taylor, the drummer, had a double degree. They were probably the smartest band in the business. And totally diverse personalities-we could get into an airport and one would stop, one would go right, one would go left, and one would go straight ahead. But it made a great creative force. When they got together in the middle, with the stacked vocals, that center was amazing.
JAC: I was knocked out. 'Keep Yourself Alive,' 'Liar,' 'The Night Comes Down'-all great songs in asumptuous production that felt like the purest ice-cream poured over a real rock and roll foundation. I wanted Queen and CBS wanted Queen-this was going to be Harry Chapin times two, Clive Davis and me duking it out again.
JACK NELSON: I flew back to England over the weekend, and on Monday I get a call from Jac: "I love this band." And then another call from him in LA. And maybe a week or two later another call from him in Japan: "I'm really serious." I do my calculations and realize it's the middle of the night in Japan, so I guess he was.
Negotiations with CBS had stalled over something inconsequential in the grand scheme of things, half a point or something. Also I had had a conversation with Clive Davis that was very unsettling. Clive and his A&R staff hadn't really listened to the music like Jac had. The might of CBS was very attractive. However, if you studied your history, you saw that they weren't particularly good as far as rock and roll was concerned. And the fact that one of their A&R guys called Queen one of the best country bands he had heard in a long time made me extremely nervous.
Jac was pursuing us heavily, without being obnoxious about it-it wasn't the bullshit that we knew too well in the business. He called me again, from Australia, I think: "I've got to have them." I said, "You know, if you're really serious, I'll put on a gig and you come over and see them."
JAC: I flew to London, listened to them at the gig Jack had set up at the Marquee in Soho, and was dreadfully disappointed. I saw nothing on stage to match the power I had heard on the tape. But the music was there. I wrote them a long memo, four or five pages single-spaced, with my thoughts and suggestions. Then I sent Mel Posner to follow up on my visit to discuss marketing. Then a will-of-the-wisp passionate lady from our artist relations department, Jeannie Theis, who was a real fan of their music. And always more ideas and memos-the Holzman wear-them-down, frequency-of-interaction method.
And I had yet to unleash another potent persuader, the no-nonsense Elektra contract. By contrast, the CBS standard contract was a thing of wonder for CBS, but for artists it was desperation-thirty pages or more, the first sixteen pages protecting CBS and on page seventeen a tiny paragraph about what the artist might receive if all the planets were properly in conjunction.
JACK NELSON: Everybody told me I was crazy to go with Elektra, that they were a great folk label, but Queen was the farthest thing from folk. I looked at Arthur Lee and Love, and the Doors, which was totally different from what Jac had done in the past. Also, his knowledge of Queen's music and his enthusiasm for it. My brain kept saying, "Is he a great merchandiser, can he promote the stuff?" In the end, against popular advice, I said, "To heck with it, we're going for Elektra."
We got the contract done quickly. Certain things I had to have, take it or leave it. Jac didn't give me Elektra Records for Queen, but we came to a very fair deal. I always felt you'd never get sold down the river with Jac. And from then on, everyone at Elektra did what they said they were going to do, and that's a miracle for our business.
This excerpt is from the book "Follow the Music," the story of Elektra records as told by its founder, Jac Holzman.
|
|
|
Post by TheWallsScreamedPoetry on Jan 19, 2005 22:23:12 GMT
Signing the Doors and Recording Their First Historic Album
JAC HOLZMAN: In May of 1966 I had flown to LA and was picked up at the airport by Ronnie Haran in her white convertible. Arthur Lee was playing the Whisky and expected me to drop by. It was 11pm LA time, 2am New York metabolism time. I was beat, but I went. Arthur urged me to stick around for the next band. Whoever they were, Arthur had a high opinion of them, and I had a very high opinion of Arthur's opinion, so I stayed.
It was the Doors, and they did nothing for me. There was another group that played the Whisky that I had fallen in love with and tried desperately to sign, Buffalo Springfield, but Ahmet Ertegun of Atlantic was far more convincing. We were a smaller label without Atlantic's amazing track record of hit singles. Love had gotten my foot in the rock door, and now I needed a second group to give Elektra more of that kind of credibility, but the Doors weren't showing it to me.
Jim was lovely to look at, but there was no command. Perhaps I was thinking too conventionally, but their music had none of the rococo ornamentation with which a lot of rock and roll was being embellished-remember, this was still the era of the Beatles and "Revolver," circa 1966. Yet, some inner voice whispered that there was more to them than I was seeing or hearing, so I kept returning to the club.
Finally, the fourth evening, I heard them. Jim generated an enormous tension with his performance, like a black hole, sucking the energy of the room into himself. The bass line was Ray Manzarek playing a second keyboard, piano bass, an unusual sound, very cadenced and clean. On top of Ray, Robby Krieger laid shimmering guitar. And John Densmore was the best drummer imaginable for Jim-whatever Morrison did Densmore could follow, with his jazz drummer's improvisational skill and sensitivity. They weren't consistent and they needed some fine tuning before they would be ready to record, but this was no ordinary rock and roll band.
In my folk days, I would mike voices and instruments very close up, and the records sounded fat and full, the voice popping out, right in front of your living room speakers. I thought that with equivalent miking and proper stereo spacing we could make a virtue of the group's sparseness. Kurt Weill's 'Alabama Song' was a surprise coming from a rock band, and their arrangement impressed me. And when I heard, really heard, Manzarek's baroque organ line under 'Light My Fire,' I was ready to sign them.
RAY MANZAREK: Someone said, "The president of Elektra Records is here to see you and he wants to talk to you about a recording contract." All right! We just started jumping up and down. Elektra was a very hip label from New York. We were very impressed with the roster.
ROBBY KRIEGER: Koerner, Ray & Glover being on Elektra-when I was in high school they were my idols, that band and that label. To be on Elektra was the greatest thing.
RAY MANZAREK: The Paul Butterfield Blues Band was on Elektra. Jac had Love. The Doors wanted nothing more than to be as big as Love. We thought it was absolutely marvelous that Elektra was a folk label that had gone electric and were now interested in the psychedelic Doors. Fortunately that night we had played 'Alabama Song.' I think that pushed it over the edge-Jac said, "Aha! Kurt Weill, Bertolt Brecht. These Doors are not just California pretty boys, they actually have some brains." Finally, somebody's hip enough to understand what we're doing. And then up to the dressing room came this tall, distinguished-looking gentleman.
JOHN DENSMORE: He seemed a little strange, with those glasses. But kinda hip. Hearing how he started with a motor scooter and a tape recorder and recorded folk groups-we loved it. An incredible entrepreneur.
RAY MANZAREK: He talked in his very officious and very correct manner, and we thought, "Jesus, this guy is not only hip, he's smart too." Because, frankly, the people we'd met in the record business in Los Angeles were a little less than brilliant, a little less than bright. He was a bit pompous, but why not? The man was standing six-three and had a good brain in his head, had a good carriage and a good delivery. I was, frankly, very impressed with him. I thought, "This is going to be real, real good." On the other hand, when he offered us the money and the points-absolutely minuscule. $2,500 front money-oh. Five percent-heinous. And he keeps all the publishing-yiyiyiyi! Jesus, he sure drives a hard bargain! This was like a Brill Building deal.
JAC: Here are the facts. I offered what was slightly on the generous side of a standard deal in 1966 for an unproven group. Elektra would advance all recording costs plus $5,000 cash to the band against a five percent royalty with a separate advance against publishing, of which the Doors would own seventy-five percent and we would own twenty-five. And as a show of faith, I committed to release three albums. If the first album did less than well, the Doors wouldn't be out on the street, another disheartened and discarded LA band.
BILLY JAMES: Ray came up to my house to have me tell him what I knew about Elektra. I told him in confidence that Jac had asked me to come work at Elektra, that my job was to establish a presence on the West Coast, in LA, and I could think of no better group to support than the Doors. By all means sign with Elektra-I thought it was a terrific idea.
RAY MANZAREK: Jac wasn't offering much money. But a guarantee to record and release three albums-that was fabulous. We could create anything we wanted to, and Elektra would put it out. We had material for two albums. So we knew that all the songs we had would be recorded, and the records would be in record stores, and we also had the option of doing another record on top of that. So we felt incredibly secure. Jac was fabulous that way: "We're signing you, because we want you to be creative." In effect, Jac Holzman to the Doors was like Diaghilev to Nijinsky and Stravinsky. It had all gotten rather anticlimactic at the Whisky because we had gotten our recording contract. That was the important thing, to make records. This excerpt is from the book "Follow the Music," the story of Elektra records as told by its founder, Jac Holzman.
|
|
|
Post by TheWallsScreamedPoetry on Jan 19, 2005 22:25:45 GMT
Discovering Folk Music The original Elektra label. JAC HOLZMAN: Down the hall from me in my college dorm was Bob Sacks. Bob was bright, with an educated musical intelligence and a wonderful record collection. He also had cerebral palsy, which occasionally made it difficult for him to position those breakable shellac 78s on the thin metal spindle of his changer. Usually Bob managed fine, but sometimes I might hear an extended screech like a cat being run over-Bob trying to get his changer going. He would call for me, tell me what he wanted played and in what sequence, and I would sort and load the records. Bob's dorm room was where I first really listened to and really heard folk music. Burl Ives and his unrelenting 'Blue Tail Fly.' John Jacob Niles, a channeler of the purest Anglo-American ballad tradition, who played dulcimer and gushed his songs in a thin high voice that sounded like the cry of an electronic theremin, if a theremin could sing. Susan Reed, an art singer with a silky voice kissed by Irish mist. Richard Dyer-Bennet, a troubadour who sang the classic English ballads accompanied by his own very elegant guitar. Woody Guthrie, the American wanderer, socially conscious, wary-eyed, feeling injustices, chronicling them in human outrage, yet sensitively, and always in love with the immensity and potential of his country. Josh White, a black man who had earned his right to sing the blues the hard way and had become an interpreter with tremendous guitar technique. And Huddie Ledbetter, Leadbelly, another black man, jailed for murder but given early parole from a state prison farm by an about-to-retire governor who just happened to like his singing. I never heard this kind of music at home, or anywhere in New York, and I quickly fell in love with the simple directness of melodies and words. Coffee Houses, Zig-Zags and Bob Dylan JAC: The Village scene was a few square blocks of clubs, bars, red-sauce Italian restaurants that had been family-run for generations, and, of course, the coffee houses. Izzy Young's Folklore Center, a few steps above MacDougal Street, was a storefront with a rough assemblage of records, sheet music, instruments, strings, capos, and the odd-lot necessities of the urban folk singer, displayed according to Izzy's cockeyed logic. Izzy was one of those unforgettable characters of whom everybody was fond but also wary. Maynard Solomon and I pretty much kept him in business by granting him ridiculously generous terms of payment. "Izzy," we begged, "if you sell it, please pay for it." The rent would come due and Izzy would be just a bit short of cash, and you know who got paid first. But Izzy knew all of folkdom and the Center served as Musician's Central Station. Just a few doors south was a heavy hangout bar, the Kettle of Fish. The Kettle was sawdusty, dimly lit, comfortable, and much beloved for its turmoil. It did not have live entertainment, so it was uncontested terrain, and it became a community watering hole. I remember one night when Dave Van Ronk, John Sebastian, Richard Fariña, Tom Rush, Albert Grossman and Bob Dylan all showed up. At the Kettle you could always find out what was or might be happening, and to be on the safe side you checked in, like knocking on wood. The Kettle was the hub, and from there you fanned out and sampled the action. The Gaslight was directly downstairs, it was just a short walk to Gerde's Folk City, the Village Gate, the Bitter End, and on and on. PAUL SIEBEL: I lived in a walkup at 139 Thompson Street, just below Houston, right next to the Catholic Church; I remember those church bells going off. I was from Buffalo, which was a closed scene. I thought I'd just better get out of there with my guitar. I headed for New York. For a while I worked in a baby carriage factory in Brooklyn, but I gravitated to the Village. I was making forty-some dollars at the baby carriage factory, and I would save my money and go see a double bill in the Village, which would be, like, Ramblin' Jack Elliott and Mississippi John Hurt, and that would be a magical night. I would be wearing Levi's, a lot of denim. I couldn't afford good boots. Definitely a wide belt with the Levi's, though. Fancy buckles were a problem because they scratched the back of your guitar. I have a picture of myself wearing a belt with the buckle on the side, around my hips, so it wouldn't scratch. I think Jerry Jeff Walker actually gouged a hole in the back of his guitar because of heavy buckles. Another thing that was worn-I didn't, I'm proud to say, and I won't mention any names-but guys would wear a little leather pouch with a drawstring hanging from the belt, and they would keep finger picks and guitar picks and sometimes dope paraphernalia, a little pipe and some Zig-Zag rolling papers. I was a folkie, but there was a lot of overlap. When a Dylan album came out, or a Beatles album, the kids would line up outside the record stores. If they heard that it was coming out on Thursday, they'd start on Wednesday night, and there'd be thousands of them. Reporters would be down interviewing them. Being in the Village was kind of the epicenter of all that. In fact, it would get so crowded on the streets at night that the police would block off Bleecker Street and West 3rd and MacDougal and not let cars drive through. There was dope on the streets. You could be pretty casual about it. I can remember the cop on the beat, Jack, and the other good-looking one, looked like a movie star, asking us, "Please smoke a little farther down the street"-if the captain went by they'd get in trouble. The stuff was just all over. In everybody's apartment. All the girls used it, just about everyone I knew, they would have the fixings in some wooden bowl sitting on the coffee table, with posters on the wall. In fact the mothers of MacDougal Street were protesting, "Do away with the coffee houses," because it was corrupting youth. Well, it was. You bet. Why else would anyone be there? When you're in your early twenties, it was nice. It wasn't crazy dangerous like today, between the dope and the violence. Then it was just pretty much kids. It was us, and what we'd snobbishly refer to as the uptown crowd, people slumming or just trying to hang out in the Village, some people who were closet guitar players: "I know a few chords, listen to this," and they'd go into 'They Call The Wind Maria' or something.
|
|
|
Post by TheWallsScreamedPoetry on Jan 19, 2005 22:26:30 GMT
BOB GIBSON: The guys who originally got involved in running the coffee houses were not altogether savory. One of these reasons they opened coffee houses was to avoid the police department cabaret permit ban on those who had been convicted of felonies or drug arrests or things like that. They did not have to have a police permit to sell coffee, tea or mulled cider.
PAUL SIEBEL: You could go down the street and hear singing several houses away because there was a rickety kind of amplification. They had guys who would stand outside, usually quite colorful characters, some of them had done some time, and they were called drags, because they dragged the streets to get people to come in. They would usually dress quite spectacularly. They were the first guys I remember wearing extremely long hair, shoulder length or longer, earrings, tattoos, that sort of thing.
These places were called basket houses. The performers weren't paid. You would do a set and do a basket pitch: "This is my last song, and at the end of the song we're gonna pass a basket. I would appreciate anything from a joint to the color green, I like the color green."
I was hired at the Four Winds by Charlie Chin, a Chinese-American guy. I quit my job at the baby carriage factory the next day. I worked at the Four Winds for more than a year, five or six sets a night. Of course you fought for the spot, and to hold it. You didn't want to lose it, but on the other hand you wanted other good players to share the night, to help pull people into the place. I worked through the lean times, which was the winter when it snowed and blowed, and sometimes you and your girlfriend and the other performers would be the only ones in the club, and you'd maybe only get two or three dollars in the basket, maybe make five dollars a night. But other times we would do very well. Sometimes the girls would make a hundred in a night, and I can remember making sixty and seventy, and my God, that's all we were paying a month for rent.
Richie Havens, I remember seeing him in a place called the Zig-Zag. I also worked with Peter Tork-he played a long-neck banjo and sang kind of silly things, like this thing called 'Elmo,' which was an alligator that went down the drainpipe. He said he had to get out of New York, nothing was happening for him, he was gonna go to California, and he did, and he turned into a Monkee.
MICHAEL OCHS: Everybody was in this ten-block radius. It was dirt cheap. It didn't cost anything. Almost any kid could afford it. Most places there was no cover charge, maybe a two-drink minimum.
The Pete Seegers, the Oscar Brands, the Ed McCurdys would still be playing, and it would usually be a mixture. Ed McCurdy would be the headliner and Patrick Sky would open for him, or Oscar Brand would be the headliner and they'd have Phil Ochs opening for him.
The old Night Owl Café, everybody used to hang out there a lot. It used to be Tim Hardin singing, and behind him would be Freddie Neil playing guitar, Peter Childs second guitar, John Sebastian playing harmonica; he wasn't a singer yet. They would go from a Bo Diddley tune to a Freddie Neil tune, back to some classic rock and roll. I saw Hardin play four hours straight one night and he didn't open his eyes once. Talk about heroin-
PAUL SIEBEL: As far as shooting heroin, no, not me, but it was around us, we had to wade through it, and we knew junkies.
ARTHUR GORSON: Freddie Neil was a junkie, unfortunately, but still those Freddie Neil records were incredible.
JOHN SEBASTIAN: Fred was an interesting cross. He went around the South with his father, who was stuffing jukeboxes. I think Fred was essentially a pop songwriter. Remember, he had Number 1 songs.
PAUL ROTHCHILD: He was on Elektra. For my sins I had to produce him. He was a brilliant songwriter and a total scumbag. The forerunner of the unreliable performer, the original rock flake. We'd book recording sessions and he'd show up or not show up. I mean, here's a guy who wrote 'Candy Man,' which RoyOrbison had a hit with, and the day he finished writing it he went to the Brill Building and sold it to about twenty different publishers for fifty bucks each. This is not a nice man. Here's a guy who would go to Izzy Young and say, "Izzy, I've got a gig tonight and I don't have a guitar." Izzy would say, "Freddie, you owe me for about twenty guitars, but I love you, here's another twelve-string." And Freddie would go to the club fucked up, he was always fucked up-I've watched this on about ten occasions-couldn't get the guitar in tune, pick it up and smash it to smithereens on the stage. A guitar he didn't own.
JAC: Elektra signed many singer-songwriters, some of whom were kinder and gentler, others more strenuous and political. It was the nature of the times. The world was in the Village and the Village was the world.
This excerpt is from the book "Follow the Music," the story of Elektra records as told by its founder, Jac Holzman.
|
|
|
Post by TheWallsScreamedPoetry on Jan 19, 2005 22:28:26 GMT
Who Is Jac Holzman & What Did He Do After Elektra Records.
Jac Holzman (66) was the founder, chief executive officer and creative head of both Elektra Records (1950) and Nonesuch Records (1964). In 1970, Jac sold all of his music interests to Warner Communications Inc. and continued his association with the labels he created for three additional years. While a part of the WCI music group, Jac helped to establish both the WEA Distributing Group and WEA International. Among the artists he has produced or discovered are: Judy Collins, The Doors, Bread, Carly Simon, Harry Chapin and Queen.
In 1973, Jac became Senior Vice-President of WCI and the company's Chief Technologist. He co-wrote Warner's business plan for early year entry into home video and into the first interactive cable system( Qube). In 1976 Jac did the technical evaluation for WCI's acquisition of Atari and was a member of the Atari board until 1982, concentrating on product planning. From 1972 to 1982 Jac was also a director of Pioneer Electronics, Japan and as Senior Consultant to Pioneer, contributed to Pioneer's early adoption and successful implementation of both Compact Disc (CD) and LaserDisc technology. He led the team that help to launch CD for the Warner Music Group
In June of 1982, Jac assumed the Chairmanship of Panavision, Inc., a wholly-owned subsidiary of Warner Communications, then in both financial and structural decline. In two and a half years, Panavision was turned around so that it was no longer a borrower of money but became, instead, a substantial cash generator. Panavision's value more than doubled, and in the spring of 1985 the company was sold for in excess of $70 million. While at Panavision, Jac introduced an advanced system of 16mm cinematography designed so that the progressive features of this system could migrate, without market disruption, into the camera that eventually became the Platinum Panaflex. Under his stewardship, Panavision began a totally new program of optical design resulting in the acclaimed Primo series lenses and inaugurated a comprehensive management information system to track the whereabouts of rental equipment throughout the world and to determine the ROI on each rental item in Panavision's considerable universe.
In 1986, Jac formed FirstMedia, a closely held investment firm specializing in communications. FirstMedia led the acquisition of Cinema Products, the largest non-camera maker of precision equipment for the motion picture industry which includes the Oscar winning Steadicam® family of camera stabilizing products, the Vidiflex high resolution and super sensitive video viewing system for film cameras and a new Telescanner for the transfer of film to digital video formats.
In June of 1991, Robert Morgado, then Chairman of the Warner Music Group, retained Jac as the group's Chief Technologist to help sort and define a broad spectrum of issues relating to Warner's expanding music interests. His current work centers around DVD Audio and multichannel sound.
In October of 1991, through FirstMedia, Jac acquired the Discovery, Trend and Musicraft jazz labels from the estate of Albert Marx which he refashioned into a fully contemporary label. In 1993 Discovery was acquired by the Warner Music Group and operates as a 100% Time Warner subsidiary.
Jac has done pioneering work in setting both operating and business standards for the LaserDisc optical video disc and the Compact Disc (CD). He is a member of the Society of Motion Picture and Television Engineers, an associate member of the American Society of Cinematographers, a member of the National Academy of Recording Arts and Sciences and a member of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, where he has served four terms on the steering committee for Scientific and Technical Awards.
Jac is an alumnus of St. John's College, Annapolis, Maryland class of 1952 and contributed six years as a member of the college's Board of Visitors and Governors. He recently received that college's Most Distinguished Alumnus award.
|
|
|
Post by TheWallsScreamedPoetry on Jan 19, 2005 22:48:16 GMT
Basically an autobiography by Elektra records founder Jac Holzman, "Follow The Music" turns out to be more than just an average bright boy done good story. It does start out that way: a dry, factual account of a college boy with big dreams who sees them through, but as the Elektra story unfolds via interview snippets of the folks involved, there's a certain magic that takes over. Holzman turns his tiny folk label into a world music outlet, introduces an affordable classical line, and finally jumps into rock and roll: it's the lifeline of post-war popular American music, and a thrilling ride to boot. Great tidbits about Judy Collins, Tim Buckley, Love, The MC5 and, of course, The Doors, balance the company's struggle to survive honestly and fairly in a business that is neither of those. Comes with a nice little CD of some of the early material so you know what performers like the ribald Ed McCurdy ("Go Bring Me a Lass") actually sounded like. Cosmik Debris 2004 John Sekerka Elektra founder Jac Holzman, pre-blue jeans The title of this book could well be Opening Pandora's Box. Depending on your point of view, Follow the Music chronicles the glory days of Rock and Pop when creative juices were flowing and new heights were being reached at every turn. Or it's the story of indulgent boomers nailing the coffin shut on Popular music as it was known. Perhaps it's somewhere in between. Whatever it is, you're sure to be hooked. Jac Holzman and Elektra records started out by recording folk and roots music but by the mid-1960s, the Rock Star emerged in a way it never had before and this model has remained almost unchanged since then. Holzman was right there when Rock 'n' Roll became Rock. It's always fun to read stories about small independent labels. Almost all of them start out of love and end up failing or being bought by the major labels, rarely, if ever, maintaining the standards they set. Elektra was very quirky, and although it might be hard to put your finger on their image, the sound and look is instantly identifiable. It would be too easy to define the sound as "east coast white intellectual" but much of what they were doing worked perfectly with the burgeoning post-Beat, pre-hippie movement happening in California. You might be tempted to call it "white" music as opposed to "race," but there are many recordings of black folk and blues artists, most notably Josh White. We have only a minimal interest in Folk music but reading about these early years and the growing interest in this genre is exciting. Quality recordings are made in less than stellar conditions, records are assembled and packed by hand and shipped off with the hope that they'll break even. Jac Holzman and his artists are passionate about spreading their gospel, and in many cases, they achieve success. Artists like Theodore Bikel, Judy Collins, Judy Henske and Josh White all are major players in the drama. Bob Dylan, although on a competing label, also figures prominently. It's almost laughable now, but the debut of Paul Butterfield's all-electric Butterfield Blues Band at the Newport Folk Festival is comparable to the uproar caused by Nijinsky and the debut of Rite of Spring. It all seems so sweet and innocent and important. Much like adolescence. We won't take a stand on drugs, but it is apparent that the introduction of drugs at Elektra (and everywhere else) changed things. Understanding the scope of the 1960s "youth-quake" is beyond our capacities, but it's clear the music and the drug use go hand in hand. In the beginning, both the drug use and music were for exploration. Where can we go with this new freedom? It quickly gives way to indulgence. There's a period where Holzman finances a commune of sorts to allow young talented kids to live and breathe music in an isolated rural environment. The heart of the experiment is to allow the musicians (including Jackson Browne) to focus on music instead of making a living and it's an admirable idea. The reality is they take a lot of drugs and have a lot of sex. Musically, they insert a microphone into the anus of the drummer and have him use his body as a percussion instrument. It's not quite Ella Fitzgerald singing Gershwin. The recording is never released. A lot of the drug use, and music, is described as an aid to peel back the layers and reveal what's "real." You can guess what we think of this theory. But there is a lot of validity in exploring new directions and seeing how far you can go. Unfortunately, it also opened Pandora's box. We don't have a problem with The Doors. We can't deny that their music, lyrics and image touched a nerve with an awful lot of people. Holzman signed them because he liked them, not just to make a million bucks. The real problem is what came after. Jim Morrison seemed to be a real tortured soul who manifested from art student to pretty boy to rock star to grizzly recluse before his demons got the better of him. His legacy is a generation of indulgent punks. Morrison provided the blueprint and the labels indulged the new stars. How is a kid with a kernel of talent supposed to react to fame, money, and drugs? The experimentation and exploration that seemed so important gave way to partying. It's not Holzman and his generation's fault, but once they opened the box there was no going back. Pot and acid were replaced by cocaine. Record company executives were replaced by lawyers. And popular music as we knew it died. In the book, several people lament the currrent state of coporate Rock and long for the good old days. What they fail to see is that their actions caused the sorry mess we're now in. "Energy" and "attitude" become more important than musical ability. The book is told in an interview style, mostly from the perspective of Jac Holzman. Most all of the players are represented, adding their two cents and often offering a different side of the story from Holzman. It's admirable that he allows for conflicting and sometimes critical opinions from the other voices. A few of the players try to romanticize the era but they mostly come off as comical. There are a few passages about the business of music that get a wee bit tedious, but it's fascinating (and horrifying) to watch the business leave the hands of the music lovers and fall into the control of lawyers and marketers. The only false notes come from Holzman's justification of Elektra's merger with Warner and Atlantic. Elektra seemed never to lose money and it's conceivable that if they hadn't joined the corporate giants that they could have continued a trend-setting wave. But Holzman wanted out of the business and rather than turn the reins over to one of the many employees who shared his vision, the label went the way of most independents and lost its personality. Mr Lucky Book Reviews
|
|
|
Post by TheWallsScreamedPoetry on Jan 20, 2005 14:36:26 GMT
March 30th 1995 Paul Rothchild dies
Doors producer Paul Rothchild - born 4-18-35 died 3-30-95. His piercing intelligence, fervent musicianship, irreverent sense of humour and impeccable studio-craft were essential elements of the Doors' sound and without Rothchild's talents the music created on the Doors' albums, from their debut through to Morrison Hotel, would not have been possible. Best remembered as the man who helped the Doors put their violent, dark sound down on tape, producer Paul Rothchild was a key figure in the coming of age of '60s rock. As the house producer at Elektra Records Rothchild worked with the likes of Janis Joplin, Love, the Paul Butterfield Blues Band and the Doors, among others. The son of an opera singer, Rothchild studied classical conducting before becoming entranced by the early '60s New England folk scene. He began recording Boston folk groups such as the Charles River Valley Boys and Tom Rush and releasing the records on his own Mount Auburn Records. Rothchild then moved on to the folk-based Elektra Records in 1963, becoming their house producer. At Elektra he recorded folky singer/songwriters such as Tim Buckley, but when the label began its foray into the rock world Rothchild quickly adjusted by signing and producing the Paul Butterfield Blues band and the L.A. band Love. In 1967 Rothchild was asked to produce a newly signed Elektra band, the Doors. As the group began laying down the tracks at Sunset Studios that would comprise their first album, Rothchild essentially became the "fifth Door," ushering the group through the album making process and helping them capture their dynamic live sound on wax. He continued producing the band's albums through Morrison Hotel, acting as a calming and solidifying presence to the increasingly disparate group and taking a particular interest in fostering the intellectual leanings of singer Jim Morrison. Rothchild resigned as the group's producer midway through L.A. Woman, though, as he had been recently producing Janis Joplin's Pearl, a project in which everyone was wholly committed, and had grown tired of the Doors unprofessionalism and poor attitude. Rothchild continued producing through the '70s, working on projects such as the soundtrack to the Bette Midler movie The Rose as well as albums by the Outlaws and Bonnie Raitt. An incredibly versatile producer who was equally at home recording the intimate folk music of Tim Buckley or the psychedelic experimentation of Love, Rothchild died in 1995 after a five year battle with lung cancer.
|
|