I STILL WANTED TO WORK in A&R, but I knew I’d never make it unless I forced the issue. During one of my lunches with Jason, I concocted a plan. Jason had gained some momentum with White Lion—MTV was playing the video to their single “Wait”—but he couldn’t get the band on tour with a big act. At the same time, Aerosmith released Permanent Vacation on Geffen Records, and it caught fire, eventually going five times platinum. I knew that Aerosmith had a world tour planned to support the album. It didn’t take a genius to know which strings to pull.
Kalodner was good friends with Aerosmith’s manager, Tim Collins. He’d even introduced me to Tim. So one night I invited both Jason and Kalodner to dinner. As the two men circled each other, I flat out asked Kalodner if he could talk Tim into putting White Lion on the Permanent Vacation tour. Kalodner agreed. I was stunned—another rich older guy was listening to me. Maybe Ahmet was right about the power of pussy.
Part of White Lion’s promotional campaign involved sending giant stuffed lions to radio DJs and asking them to add “Wait” to their playlists. We sent one of the lions and a tape to Tim, and he offered White Lion a slot opening for Aerosmith, easy as that. Within a few months, White Lion’s album went double platinum.
Ahmet celebrated the success as much as I did. He hated Kalodner and Geffen, but he loved money more. And he needed a hit. In recent years Atlantic had taken a nosedive and struggled to stay afloat, surviving on the strength of its back catalog and Larry’s Dance Department, with hit acts like Nu Shooz, Stacey Q, and Debbie Gibson. Atlantic also distributed Island Records and Virgin Records, giving Ahmet access to groups like U2 and Melissa Etheridge, and all the money they brought in. But as far as rock ’n’ roll went, Geffen reigned supreme with Guns N’ Roses, Whitesnake, and Sonic Youth along with a who’s who of established stars like Elton John, Joni Mitchell, and Peter Gabriel. Geffen continued to beat Atlantic into the 1990s, signing Nirvana, Weezer, and Beck, among others. Ahmet couldn’t compete with Geffen, but with White Lion, he could at least keep his nemesis in sight.
To celebrate White Lion’s success, we had a party after the band’s show at Madison Square Garden. The whole company was there. Ahmet and Jason presented the band with a platinum album, and then they surprised me with a platinum album of my own. Ahmet even made a speech about me. For those who could read between the lines, Ahmet was praising me for fucking Kalodner and getting the Aerosmith tour out of it—he said things like, “This is a girl who goes above and beyond.” I proved I could play the game by his rules and at a high level, and it changed the way he saw me.
Jason shared Ahmet’s excitement, and as my best friend, he shared the credit, telling Doug what I had done. A few days later, Doug came in to get his messages and told me how highly Jason spoke of me. He said he’d keep an eye on me, and that I might be the first to go from a secretarial desk to the A&R Department.
I felt like I had been given the key to a secret club.
With Doug now in my corner, along with Jason and Kalodner, I felt closer than ever to A&R. I just needed a break, and it wasn’t long in coming. A few days after the party for White Lion, Jason dashed into my office. He had just come from an AA meeting with Steve Pritchett, a manager in Doc McGhee’s New York office. Doc managed Mötley Crüe and Bon Jovi, among others, and according to Pritchett, he had just signed a new band called Skid Row. Skid Row had an upcoming show at Birch Hill, a club in Sayreville, New Jersey. “You’re going with me,” Jason insisted. “It will be worth it.”
During the ride to Jersey, Jason filled me in on the details—the band was a side project of Jon Bon Jovi. What he said next nearly knocked me out: Bon Jovi was taking Skid Row on tour as their opening act.
This was huge. Bon Jovi’s third album, Slippery When Wet, had just come out, and on the back of such mammoth singles as “Wanted Dead or Alive,” “Livin’ on a Prayer,” and “You Give Love a Bad Name,” the album went twelve times platinum. Skid Row now had my full attention.
I got even more excited when we arrived at the club. Jason and I squeezed into the packed crowd and stood surrounded by hundreds of Jersey girls (and guys, for that matter) who were ravenously awaiting showtime. As soon as the lead singer took the stage, I knew why. Skid Row’s front man, Sebastian Bach, was one of the most beautiful men I’d ever seen. He wasn’t my type—way too pretty—but I could see he was absolutely breathtaking, nonetheless. He stood a lean six foot three, with a mane of blond hair, high cheekbones, and lips so pouty and full they belonged on a Victoria’s Secret model. Bottom line: he was a star.
“Are you going to try and sign them?” I asked Jason on the way back to the city.
“It won’t happen,” he said. “They’re already in talks with Geffen.”
He didn’t need to say more. Atlantic couldn’t—or wouldn’t—compete with Geffen financially. Ahmet acted like every band he signed was taking his personal money. David Geffen, on the other hand, never hesitated to throw money at a band. He’d spend twice what Ahmet would.
The next day I called Kalodner to tell him about the Skid Row show. He knew about them, and he told me Doc was in talks with Tom Zutaut, the A&R executive at Geffen responsible for signing Tesla and Guns N’ Roses. The paperwork was all but drawn up. So now I knew the situation. If I wanted to reach A&R status, I had to do the impossible: get Ahmet to spend money, and fast.
Kalodner said he had been invited to dinner at Bon Jovi’s house in New Jersey, and he asked me to join him. Maybe he wanted to help my career, or maybe he just didn’t see me as a threat. I played it cool. Dinner with Jon Bon Jovi and a chance to find out more about Skid Row? No big deal.
Bon Jovi lived in Rumson, a wealthy New Jersey suburb, in a modest but nice house (smaller than the French château–style mansion he has now). He was handsome and friendly as he greeted us at the door and introduced us to his girlfriend (and future wife), Dorothea Hurley. Kalodner split off with Jon to talk about Skid Row while I got to know Dorothea. She seemed warm and down to earth, with a natural beauty that was simple without being plain. She and Jon were high school sweethearts and, as I learned during our conversation, she was a martial arts champion. Any other night, I would have loved to learn more about her, but on this night, I couldn’t help but give half my attention to Kalodner’s discussion with Jon.
The doorbell sounded and Richie Sambora entered with Playboy model Ashley Lahua. After a few more cocktails, we moved into the dining room, where Dorothea served a delicious, home-cooked macaroni dinner.
“So what’s it like working for Ahmet?” Jon asked. Even he wasn’t immune to the Ahmet Ertegun mystique.
“Let’s just say, everything you’ve heard is true,” I said.
That got some laughs, but I wasn’t joking. As dinner progressed, the guys at the table seemed more interested in talking about my job answering Ahmet’s phone than their careers as rich and famous rock stars.
“I heard Ahmet can out-party Zeppelin,” Jon said.
“That’s how he signed the Stones,” someone added.
This was true—Ahmet had signed the Rolling Stones to Atlantic in 1971. At the time, every label wanted the band, but Ahmet wanted them more: he was enamored with Mick Jagger; he wanted to be Mick Jagger; I think he even wanted to fuck Mick Jagger. Mick seemed to take priority over everyone in Ahmet’s life, even Mica. Ahmet would carry on about Mick to the point where I thought he was in love with him. Ahmet was also an alcoholic, a drug abuser, and a sexual maniac. As it turned out, this worked in his favor with the Stones. After a night of hard partying, Mick finally told Ahmet that the Stones wanted to sign with Atlantic. Ahmet fell asleep while he was talking. Later, Ahmet said of the incident, “I think the fact that I fell asleep while he was telling me they wanted to go on Atlantic absolutely solidified the deal because in his mind he thought, This is a guy who doesn’t give a shit.” When it came time to sign the contract, legend has it that Ahmet was so trashed on bourbon he fell out of his chair.
While everyone marveled at Ahmet’s drunken coup with the Stones, I kept a close eye on Jon’s reaction. He was so fascinated by Ahmet that I realized I might be able to use him to help steer Skid Row to Atlantic. Yes, money was a major roadblock, but the buzz about Skid Row was so strong I knew I had to try to make something happen. I believed in the band, but more importantly, I believed in myself. The time had come to leave my secretarial desk behind.
After dinner, we sat around playing cards. I waited until Kalodner was busy talking to Richie Sambora, then I approached Jon.
“You know, Ahmet would love to meet you,” I said.
“Man, that guy’s a legend,” Jon said dreamily.
Yes, Ahmet sure was a legend. And I’d just thrown down the only card I had to play.
“You should talk to him about Skid Row,” I said. “I’ve seen him break a band. When he believes in a project, there’s no greater force in the business.”
As Jon and I talked, Kalodner caught my eye. He smiled imperceptibly, so no one else in the room would notice. He knew I was trying to edge him out of the deal but his ego was too big to worry about it. Besides, he had so many notches on his A&R belt that Skid Row hardly mattered to him.
At work the following Monday, I buzzed Jason’s office. “Can you stop by my desk?”
“I have a ten o’clock with Doug. Can it wait until lunch?”
“No. Hurry up.”
Doug’s line rang. “Doug Morris’s office,” I said.
“Hey, Dorothy, it’s Toby. Is Doug around?”
“No.” I hung up. That annoying fuck was the last thing I needed.
Toby Emmerich was a rich kid who started at Atlantic shortly after I did. Despite Ahmet’s fervent “You must start at the bottom” speech at my job interview, I watched him hire Toby right into A&R off the street with no experience. Ahmet wanted a painting from the André Emmerich Gallery on Fifty-Seventh Street, and André Emmerich was Toby’s father. On Toby’s first day, he was fast-tracked straight to Tunc’s office for A&R prep: “Listen, you motherfucker, you’ll get a credit card and an expense account, and Doug will approve your travel.” It pays to have a rich father.
Toby nauseated me. I guess it wasn’t his fault, but he was a daily reminder that only women (and I guess men without connections) had to start at the bottom. It didn’t help that Toby was an unabashed ass-kisser. The unspoken rule at Atlantic was that you never bothered Ahmet or Doug. If they wanted you, they’d find you. From the moment Toby started, he was constantly clamoring for their attention. As a result of all this, I resented Toby and never gave Doug his messages.
Toby appeared in my doorway.
“I’m busy, Toby.” I looked behind him to see if Jason was on the way. The last thing I wanted was Toby to catch the scent of an embryonic deal.
“Do you mind if I shut the door?” Toby asked.
“Go ahead. But I only have a minute.”
“I want to know why you’re so rude to me. I mean, obviously you don’t like me. Why?”
“OK, Toby—you want to know why? I’ll tell you why. You’re a fucking ass-kisser. I’m busting my ass to get into the A&R Department, and you just waltz in there with your family connections and you have the nerve to call me all day long like I’m your secretary. I take orders from Ahmet. He’s earned it. You haven’t.”
“Listen, I like you and I want us to get along. Don’t make it so impossible, OK?”
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll give you this: you have balls. I respect that.”
Satisfied with our newly established détente, he left. I followed him into the hall and peered around for Jason. Still no sign of him.
I buzzed his office again.
“What are you doing that’s so important up there, open-heart surgery?”
“Jesus, Dorothy. Keep your skirt on—I’ll be right there.”
When he finally arrived, I told him to close the door.
“Let me guess,” he said, “you banged Bon Jovi last night.”
“Better.”
“Sambora too?”
I rolled my eyes. “No, smartass. I talked Jon into considering bringing Skid Row to Atlantic.”
Jason and I huddled in my office, scheming. We needed a way to foul the Geffen deal and get Skid Row. First, I pumped Jason up, telling him that he needed this just as much as I did. Then we went to work on Tunc, who had once tried to sign Bon Jovi and kept the band’s original demo tape in his desk drawer as a sort of talisman, a reminder of what could happen when you missed out on a new act. I told Tunc about the dinner at Bon Jovi’s house and said we needed to rally as a company to fight Geffen. “Are we going to miss another multiplatinum act?” I asked him, almost as a taunt. I also suggested we get Ahmet involved.
Tunc promised he would speak to Ahmet, but I couldn’t wait for that. When Ahmet arrived that afternoon, I burst into his office and said, “Ahmet, we need to sign Skid Row. They have the Bon Jovi tour.”
“Tours don’t sell records,” he replied.
I knew he was wrong, but I wasn’t going to challenge him. That would only turn him off. Undaunted, I went back to Tunc’s office. “You have to go speak to him, Turk to Turk,” I said to Tunc. “Aren’t we tired of losing to Geffen? This will be huge, I promise. Tell him to fire me if it isn’t.”
Tunc called Ahmet, and I slunk back to my desk. It was agony. I had put Skid Row on the table, but Tunc and Ahmet excluded me from the most important conversation. I went to Jason’s office to ease my nerves. “I don’t want to be cut out of this,” I said. “I don’t want to be a secretary anymore.”
Finally, Tunc buzzed me. “Honey, come in here,” he said. I’d never been so happy to hear that gruff voice. I grabbed a pen and notepad and hurried into Ahmet’s office. Ahmet was sitting in his usual place behind his desk, while Tunc paced the floor in front of him.
“Everybody wants this band,” Tunc said. Then, turning to me: “Tell him.”
“It’s true,” I said, weighing my words. “Everybody wants them, but Geffen is the most likely place for them to go.” I knew that would needle him.
“Fuck Geffen,” Ahmet said.
“You want Kalodner to get these guys?” Tunc pushed. “You want a fucking repeat of what happened with Bon Jovi? These guys are going to be a hit.”
“Okay,” Ahmet said. “We’ll go see them.”
I ordered a helicopter to take us to see Skid Row the next night in Allentown, Pennsylvania. The prospects were bleak—I had heard through the grapevine that Geffen was giving a shitload up front and a three-quarter mechanical rate. The mechanical rate is the percentage from each record sale that goes to the band. Geffen’s offer was the standard industry rate, but Ahmet couldn’t be counted on to match it, let alone beat it. Still, I couldn’t back down now. As long as Ahmet got on the chopper, I knew we still had a chance.
On a freezing Saturday night in March 1988, I met Jason, Tunc, and a Turkish hanger-on who was rumored to be Ahmet’s godson at the heliport on Thirty-Fourth Street. When Ahmet arrived, I could tell he was high. I asked his driver, Ray, what he was on. Ray was a tall African American man with a fun personality and one bad eye. Only Ahmet would hire a half-blind driver. Ray told me it was the usual mix—cocaine and vodka—but it made me nervous. I didn’t want anything to go wrong, including Ahmet getting too fucked up to function.
As soon as we lifted off, Ahmet started drinking again. As for the rest of us, the mood was serious. Again, it was standard protocol to leave Ahmet alone unless he engaged you first, so we all sat silently in the helicopter like we were on our way to church.
Jenny had advised me to order two limos to pick us up at the heliport in Pennsylvania and told me to use Carey Limo, because Atlantic had an account with them. I followed her directions, figuring she had done this before, but I still felt nervous all the way there. When we landed, the limos were waiting, as arranged. I could breathe again.
“How was your trip?” Ahmet asked one of the drivers holding open a door.
“Fine, thanks. Just a little long,” the driver said.
“Traffic?”
“No . . . we came from Pittsburgh.”
Ahmet leveled me with a look. I knew something was wrong but I didn’t know what. They came on time, didn’t they? Once everyone had piled in the car, Ahmet turned to me. “You ordered the cars from Pittsburgh?” he screamed. “That’s five hours away! This is going to cost me a fortune. You’re fired, and I’m taking the money out of your last check.” Not being well versed in Pennsylvania geography, I had trusted Jenny, and she had set me up. Ahmet berated me for most of the ride, and his elephant brain never forgot the incident. Even years later, he’d bring it up just to fuck with me.
He finished his tirade by calling me an idiot. I agreed. Then he got hungry. We drove around the small Pennsylvania town for twenty minutes, but the best place we could find was a twenty-four-hour International House of Pancakes. We ordered pancakes, bacon, waffles, and pitchers of soda and beer, and the bill came to fourteen dollars, which amused Ahmet to no end. He blew his nose with that kind of money.
Finally, we arrived at the club—it was actually a converted roller skating rink. Heavy metal music blasted from the sound system as we waited for the show to start. I felt nervous. I felt excited. Then I felt something else: Ahmet’s hand between my legs. I tried to slap it away, but he was surprisingly strong for an old man. He moved up to my tits. I begged Tunc and the others to stop him, but they were too scared of him to help. He was like an octopus, eight arms flailing. I couldn’t fucking believe it. I had taken my career into my own hands by bringing Ahmet here. My future rested on the outcome of this night. I was desperate to prove that I was more than a secretary—I knew I had the savvy to succeed as an executive. I wanted to be taken seriously, but Ahmet wasn’t interested in my brain or my ears. He didn’t see me as an asset to be developed. I was a piece of pussy in a packed nightclub, surrounded by cowards.
I don’t know the laws in Pennsylvania, but in New York State, Ahmet’s behavior qualified as sexual battery:
Article 130, Class A Misdemeanor: A person is guilty of forcible touching when such a person intentionally, and for no legitimate purpose, forcibly touches the sexual or intimate parts of another person for the purpose of degrading or abusing such person; includes squeezing, grabbing, or pinching.
Again, however, it is worth noting that terms such as “sexual battery” weren’t in anyone’s vocabulary at the time. When you grow up in a world where men can grope you at whim and with impunity, you don’t see it as something you have the power to stop. I also rationalized it—there was no guarantee I wouldn’t get the same treatment at any other job. A woman could have her tits grabbed working at a bank just as easily as in the music industry. So I stuck with it. I still had my price, and every time they raised the stakes, I anted up.
I knew Ahmet didn’t grab me out of sexual attraction. I could have been any girl; that’s how high he was. Still I felt insulted, hurt, ashamed, and degraded. I also felt defiant. I was going to make this Skid Row deal happen no matter what. I’d show him and everyone else what I was worth.
Mercifully, Sebastian Bach took the stage, his long hair swinging, his gorgeous face puckered into a rocker’s scowl, and Ahmet stopped groping me. Skid Row played the same forty-five-minute set I’d seen a month ago in New Jersey, but I was too nervous to enjoy it this time. I kept an eye constantly on Ahmet, trying to gauge his thoughts and feelings.
After the show, we went backstage and found ourselves with just the band—no girls, no hangers-on. Sebastian came right over to us, and I could tell from the way he looked at Ahmet that he was starstruck. Ahmet was an old pro at this; he knew just how to break through the awe. “Let’s have a fucking drink, man!” he shouted. Everyone cheered. The Jack Daniel’s came out and Ahmet started pounding, performing a feat of power drinking that seemed to impress the band more than his roster of platinum albums did. Then he trotted out his war stories—Mick Jagger, Robert Plant, Eric Clapton. Skid Row was in heaven. It was remarkable to witness a master hit maker working a room full of up-and-coming musicians. “You have that quality,” he told Sebastian. I don’t know who was happier to hear him say it—Sebastian or me.
When we boarded the helicopter an hour later Ahmet was wasted beyond repair. He kept grabbing at my legs. I’d had the foresight to wear shorts under my skirt. He pulled my legs apart and said, “She came prepared.”
By the time we landed in Manhattan, it was four in the morning. Ahmet took one step on the tarmac and fell flat on his face. Ray scrambled to help him into the car. Looking at Ahmet sprawled out on the pavement, I didn’t envy Ray’s job. I did, however, understand it. Our first job at Atlantic was to protect Ahmet when he lost control. He was, after all, a living legend, not expendable like the rest of us.
As strange as it is to say of a man who sexually battered me, I still felt loyal to Ahmet. He had taken me in and shown me a world beyond my wildest fantasies. He had given me shelter, clothes, food, and perks that I could never have imagined growing up in Brooklyn. Where others saw my weaknesses as poison, Ahmet embraced them. Unlike my father, he accepted me and listened to me. My feelings for him were complex, and they still are. I lived in a “boys will be boys” world, where sexual harassment was taken for granted. I knew it was wrong, but I didn’t consider fighting it. Fight it how, and with what power? The only option, it seemed, was to grit my teeth and bear it.
The physical effects of Ahmet’s touching went away as soon as he took his hands off me. The mental and emotional effects were much more insidious. I began suffering from acute anxiety and panic attacks (though I didn’t know what these conditions were at the time). The pressure was constant and unbearable. I took all the responsibility for Ahmet’s actions on my shoulders, and it weighed me down.
As usual with Ahmet, by the next morning all was forgotten. I told Noreen what had happened, and she blasted Tunc for his inaction, but Ahmet and I never spoke about it. When I came to work, Ahmet was already making calls from his home to Doug. He wanted to go after Skid Row. He called me and said, “Get me Doc McGhee.” I quickly patched the call through. I wished I’d taken enough interest in the phones to figure out a way to eavesdrop on their conversation, but all I could do was go about my secretarial tasks, making Ahmet’s appointments and taking his other calls, waiting to learn my fate.
On the off chance the deal went through, I felt terrified that they’d forget my role in it. I don’t want to say everyone involved discounted me because I was Ahmet’s secretary, but they didn’t include me in any meetings. I had set the wheels in motion, but they had complete control over whether or not I got to take the ride.
After the phone call with Doc, Ahmet appeared in the office. I still didn’t know anything. In desperation, I buzzed Jason.
“What’s going on?”
“I’ll call you back,” he said.
Half an hour later, I saw Ahmet go into Tunc’s office. I followed. “We got ’em!” Tunc said. Victory! I went around the room hugging and kissing Ahmet, Jason, and even nasty old Tunc. I felt confident and talented, maybe for the first time in my life.
A few weeks later, Ahmet called me into his office. I didn’t suspect anything until I saw Doug there too. “You can go upstairs to the ninth floor,” Doug said. “You’ve been promoted. I’m giving you a raise up to $30,000. Congratulations.” Despite working so hard for this moment, I almost couldn’t believe it. Forty years into its existence, Atlantic had just hired its first female A&R executive.
Me.