FUCK THE BUNNY

THE LARGER war I waged was on Warner Brothers, the Bugs Bunny company which, in the wake of Clive’s demise, had come on like gangbusters. Warner’s Mo Ostin and Joe Smith had clout, but Steve Ross was the big boss. Ross had parlayed a funeral parlor/parking lot business into a multimedia conglomerate. With Warner movies and Warner music at his command, Ross was a smooth operator, a much beloved leader who, unlike CBS, paid his underlings well. With the Grateful Dead, Van Morrison, Black Sabbath and James Taylor, Warner was winning market shares left and right. Ross also had a selling tool that I lacked: Ross told artists he could put them in the movies. I had no movies to put them in. But I did have money, deep CBS money, and I was willing to spend it.

I was intent on making noise. As a label honcho, I needed an identity. Artists had images, and in this new era of corporate power so did execs. Ahmet Ertegun—whose Atlantic label was bought by Ross—was a music maven, a sophisticate and suave bon vivant who could party all night. With his flair for self-promotion, Clive’s image was genius hitmaker. The scandal behind him—he pleaded guilty to minor charges and was rightfully let off with a small fine and no jail time—Clive was busy starting his new Arista label. He was looking to regain his championship, but how would I gain mine?

By knockout, that’s how. By charging out of my corner like Raging Bull. By finding a way to shock my staff—and the industry—with the fact that Columbia Records was ready, willing, able and eager to win at any cost.

“Win what?” one of my associates asked me as I was thinking out loud.

“The war. We’re going to war with Warner.”

War required a battle cry, so I had banners printed at our annual convention with slogans that couldn’t be faulted for their subtlety. They read, “Fuck Warner. Fuck the Bunny.”

A few of my people were appalled, but most were pleased. After all, war is exhilarating. War elicits loyalty, solidarity. War gives us purpose and drive. War was what I wanted. War was who I was. The Music Warrior was about to move. I gathered my forces, I gave my hyped-up speeches, I set my sights on the competition and the first thing I saw was James Taylor. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to steal JT from Warner? What a way to start the war!

Nat Weiss, James’s lawyer, happened to mention that his client felt neglected by Warner, where all attention was on Fleetwood Mac.

“Tell James I’ll give his career my personal attention,” I said.

James was interested. We met and hit it off. You had to like James Taylor. As a singer/songwriter, he had that feeling-healing aura that calmed the most tumultuous soul, even mine. As a man, he had manners, charm and elegance. In those days, he also liked to get high. He called me a Yiddish comic and applauded my humor. I called him a WASP prince and praised his talent. He spoke of his loyalty to Warner; I spoke of my ability to promote him like he’d never been promoted before. He said he’d sign. I said he’d never regret it.

Hopes were high. Contracts were drawn. Plans were made. We were to meet at Nat Weiss’s apartment for the official signing. I took June along to witness this history-making moment—the luring of a major artist away from a major label. Rumor had it that Warner chief Mo Ostin was flying across the country to undo my deal. I’d also heard Mrs. Mo was working on Mrs. Taylor, aka Carly Simon, then very pregnant. Poor Mo couldn’t handle it alone.

In addition to a fat contract, I brought along a multimillion-dollar check. I arrived early. James arrived late—so late, in fact, we started wondering whether he’d show. It was past midnight when he finally walked in, and he looked ashen. His manager, Peter Asher, said he’d been going through hell.

“Why?” I wanted to know.

“The Warner people have been working him over,” Peter said. “They’ve been lobbying him to stay.”

“Tell those assholes the deal is done.”

“It isn’t done, Walter,” said James. “I have feelings about this.”

“How about my feelings?” I asked. “We’ve been working this deal night and day. You’re getting everything you want.”

“I want my integrity intact.”

“And that’s what I’m buying—your integrity as a great artist.”

“The Warner people helped make my career.”

“And we’re taking your career to another level. Look, James, this is no time for kvetching.”

“I told James to take as much time as he needs,” said Asher. “Let him think it over.”

I grabbed Asher and yelled, “Shut up, you redheaded English traitor!”

James was on the verge of tears. He said how much he liked me. He said how much he liked Mo Ostin. Asher insisted James be allowed further reflection. I insisted we weren’t leaving without a contract. James wanted to walk around the block. Fine, walk around the block, but hurry. Before he left, he stood before me and bowed. The gesture was neither gratuitous nor sarcastic. It was the gesture of a gentleman. Hours went by—2 A.M., 3 A.M.—before James returned. While he was out deliberating, I assured Weiss and Asher that Taylor had only two choices: sign the contract or die by my hand.

He half-signed.

“I’m writing ‘James,’” he said, “but not ‘Taylor.’”

“Fine,” I said. “Put an X if that makes you happy, but take the check.”

We were all exhausted, relieved, ecstatic. I’d pulled it off. I’d acquired one of the premier talents in pop music. Columbia Records was richer for the acquisition. James’s first CBS album was a huge success with a number-one single, “Handy Man.” Fuck Warner.

         

“Fuck Yetnikoff,” was the word back from Warner. Their wrath took the form of recruiting Paul Simon. Meanwhile, Paul owed Columbia another record. In spite of the antagonism between me and Paul, all parties thought it best to try to negotiate a new contract. So we did. We screamed at each other for months. During one marathon session, I drank a bottle of scotch while Paul drank a bottle of wine. That same night we finally agreed on a number—or so we thought. It was a huge deal, worth $14 million. But when the papers were presented to Paul, he was certain I’d agreed to $14.5 million. I was certain he was bullshitting. I wouldn’t budge—and neither would he.

In one last attempt to see eye-to-eye, he came to my office on Passover Eve. By then I knew how intensely Warner was pressuring him to sign with them.

“I’ve had a brainstorm,” he said sarcastically. “I’ve decided to put a series of Elizabethan sonnets to music. That’s going to be my new album.”

“It’ll sell five copies.”

“I’m not in charge of sales, I’m in charge of songs. I’m fascinated by the Elizabethan era. So that’s that.”

“That isn’t that. You’ll give me an album of regular Paul Simon songs.”

“And you’ll bury it.”

“Don’t be a jerk. I have a corporate responsibility to sell records.”

“No one’s ever accused you of being responsible.”

“For a teeny tiny little squirt you’ve got a big mouth.”

“If you want an album of Paul Simon songs, you write them.”

“You write them, and you deliver them on time.”

“Don’t hold your breath.”

“You know, Simon,” I said, “back in your beloved Elizabethan times, guys like you were wandering troubadours working for a chicken. Do you know how many artists are signed to CBS, and how many want to be signed? Thousands. I’m tired of your whining. Go somewhere else with your demands. I don’t want to see you anymore. All I want is a proper Paul Simon album.”

And then I went to my seder.

Paul’s next shot was to call other CBS artists—James Taylor, Billy Joel—asking them to record duets with him. Simon thought that if his last Columbia album was a series of duets with Columbia artists, I couldn’t bury it. I’d have to promote it. That was his way of outfoxing me.

It wasn’t a foolish move. But it didn’t work because James and Billy called for my advice. “Do what you want,” I told them. “But if the tables were turned, if you were in trouble and needed Simon to sing with you, do you think he’d come running? Besides, I can’t control my marketing and promotion people. They aren’t going to be happy about your collaborating with Simon. They don’t like him any more than I do.”

I made my point. The duets were never recorded. Meanwhile, Steve Ross and Mo Ostin signed Paul, in spite of his obligation to us. The fighting went on. Lawsuits were launched. We finally received a big cash settlement of a million and a half dollars, and that was that. Paul became a Warner artist.

Simon’s first move was to write and star in a Warner movie, One Trick Pony, in which a sadly misunderstood artist of unwavering integrity battles a heartless and exploitative music label. The film was boring and self-indulgent. Its only saving grace was an evil character modeled after me. Paul called him Walter Fox. Walter is a corporate cad with a sexy wife. In the film, Paul gets to screw Walter’s wife. That was Paul’s revenge. My revenge was the box office: both the movie and soundtrack were resounding flops.

The battle with Paul made Arthur Taylor nervous. He thought I was dealing too precipitously, too personally.

“Don’t be impulsive, Walter,” he warned. “You’re going to make a major mistake. These things need to be thought through.”

“Look, Arthur,” I explained, “there’s a method to my madness. I’m putting out the word that artists can’t run over us. We’ll pay and pay big for the right artists, but we won’t act like we have no leverage. I’m trying to establish a mutual balance of terror between us and the artist.”

I used that balance of terror to define myself as a boss. It was a conscious part of the image I was looking to cultivate. In the case of James Taylor, I saw that I could hang with the artist, charm the artist, lure the artist into a deal. I could convince the artist of my ability to sell and promote his music. In the case of Paul Simon, I saw the opposite—that I wasn’t afraid to alienate an artist whom I felt had turned against us. I wasn’t afraid to publicly feud with an artist, letting him—and the world—know that CBS Records was bigger than any one act. I realized that a label’s greatest bargaining power is the artist’s insecurity.

As a corporate captain, I saw myself as a cheerleader. If I didn’t have the ear to recruit new musical talent, I had the smarts to recognize others who did. And hire them. I saw myself as a teamster. My job was to get the horses moving in the same direction. My job was to lead the troops into battle. My role model was General Patton. I was struck by something said to me by a friend who’d fought in the Israeli Army: “No officer will give the command ‘Advance.’ The command is always ‘Follow me.’” Maybe my energy was extreme, even crazy. But it worked. It got people moving, it enlivened and emboldened the workplace. When anyone asked me, I could state my philosophy in a phrase—stay in the game. And the game was about hits, hits and more hits.

         

The hefty paperweight I threw at Arthur Taylor nearly hit him in the head. He ducked just in time.

As I was rushing to catch a plane for California, he had called me to his office to complain about the fancy Cadillacs and long limousines that lined Fifty-second Street next to Black Rock. “It’s bad for the corporate image,” Taylor said. “It looks vulgar.”

“Why is this my business?”

“They belong to people in your division.”

“They belong to guys who work for Philly International Records, an independent label.”

“Well, tell those guys not to park there.”

“Arthur, are you serious? This is what you have to do all day—worry about parking? As long as they keep making hits, they can park in our goddamn lobby.”

“Tell them to move their cars.”

“You tell them. I’m leaving for L.A.”

“Walter, this is your responsibility.”

That’s when I threw the paperweight. Although it missed him, he fell out of his chair and ran out of his office.

Two days later he called me at the Beverly Hills Hotel. I figured I was fired.

“In the spirit of noblesse oblige,” he said, “I offer you an apology and expect one in return.”

“In the spirit of Brooklyn, New York,” I replied, “I accept your apology and hope you never do something that stupid again.”

         

Back home in Great Neck, June and the boys were seeing less of me. I was running from conference to conference, country to country. As my salary got bigger, June got sadder. I couldn’t understand why. Wasn’t this America, where happiness and money are synonymous?

She, the former Bohemian, was bored in the ’burbs.

“If you’re bored,” I said, “start a business.”

She did—a travel agency—which meant we saw even less of each other. If someone had accused me of being callous and uncaring about my family, I would have pointed to our luxuries. I was doing too well in my work, getting too successful too quickly, to bother with introspection. Everywhere I looked I was seeing dollar signs.

I was also seeing more of Sarah Dash, but Sarah wasn’t enough. I started screwing my secretary, who didn’t seem to mind that I was screwing Sarah. Not to mention Diana.

“Walter,” my secretary said, “I’ve never seen anyone take off and put on his clothes so many times in one day.”

         

Michael Jackson wanted to write and produce. Representing his group, he, rather than his father, came to see me. He reasoned rightly that he’d be a better spokesman than his bullying dad. The first Jackson-Gamble/Huff album had spawned one hit—“Enjoy Yourself”—but the second album bombed. My staff was less than enthusiastic about the Jacksons’ commercial prospects.

Sitting across from my desk, Michael was a composed young man. He was dressed in jeans and a plain red T-shirt. He’d grown a few inches in the last couple of years. I saw a tall, good-looking nineteen-year-old with an easy smile and ingratiating manner. He spoke so quietly that I had to lean in to listen. His words were carefully chosen. He was shy but determined, a young man on a mission.

First he discussed a movie he had just made with Quincy Jones and Diana Ross, The Wiz, in which he played a scarecrow. He was excited about its upcoming release and pleased with his singing and dancing. I sensed that the project, done on his own without his family, had renewed his confidence.

“I want to do a solo album,” he said, “but my family feels we should do another Jackson record first. I want to honor my family’s wishes.”

“Good, because that will also honor our contract.”

“But I want to write and produce the record myself. My brothers will help me. My brother Randy and I have written some great songs.”

“What about Gamble and Huff?”

“They’re geniuses, Mr. Yetnikoff, and they’ve taught me plenty. But I’m ready to step out. Me and my brothers have our own ideas.”

Michael was convincing. I didn’t doubt his hard work or his sincerity. I also knew he was driven to succeed. What I didn’t know was whether he could produce hits.

“I’ll take a chance,” I said. “But one chance only. If your new record bombs, I’m selling you back to Berry Gordy.”

“You won’t be sorry.”

I wasn’t. In 1979, an otherwise dismal sales year, the Jacksons’ “Shake Your Body (Down to the Ground)” was a top-ten hit, selling over two million copies. Some consider it the most sensuous dance song in that supersensuous era known as disco.

         

My regime began when disco fever was flaming. Self-indulgence was everywhere. I was everywhere, running over to Studio 54, where the security guy guarding the door also worked at Black Rock. That meant I was waved in so I could party with my new friend, Steve Rubell, who owned the glittering joint. I told myself it was work. And crazily enough, it was. There was David Geffen, hocking me about some deal he wanted to do. There was Liza Minnelli, recently signed to Columbia, oohing and aahing about how thrilled she was to be recording for a company led by me. There was Mick Jagger, wondering why I, as opposed to my friendly rival Ahmet Ertegun, the Great Pasha of Atlantic Records, hadn’t pursued his Rolling Stones. “All in good time, Mick,” I said. “All in good time.”

The very tone and texture of time changed. Everyone wanted my time, which took on new value. Time spent with family diminished. Time spent with artists increased. Important people wanted my time, affirming the fact that my time was more important than theirs.

“Mr. Paley wants a little of your time,” his secretary called to say.

I hurried to his office.

“Just wanted you to know that Arthur Taylor is gone,” he said. “He wasn’t the man I thought he was. So I’m replacing him with John Backe. You’ll like Backe, Backe will like you. So carry on.”

“Any plans for my adoption, Mr. Paley?”

“That’s between you and your psychiatrist.”

I laughed at the boss’s joke, but still felt a chill. When Paley threw the paperweight at your head, he didn’t miss.

         

I ran over to England for our yearly convention, arriving late at the Grosvenor House. Diana was waiting, Diana was angry—“why can’t you spend more time with me?”—but Diana was horny. So was I. I was always horny. We screwed and slept late. They called from the InterContinental, where the big meeting was starting. John Backe was there. Where was I? Everyone was waiting. I threw on my clothes and raced over. Hurrying into the InterContinental, I was stopped by Lisa Robinson, a journalist, who insisted I listen to something by this fabulous singer/songwriter.

“Lisa, I’m late. Not now.”

“He’s right here, you have to hear him.”

I turned around, and standing on the street, his guitar hooked up to a little amp, was a gawky guy with glasses.

“I don’t have time, Lisa.”

“It’ll take two seconds.”

“I don’t have one second.”

She motioned to the guy to start playing. I heard something, but I had no time to digest it. I was frantic to get to the meeting.

“Out of my way, Lisa.”

“You’re making a mistake. He has hits. You must sign him.”

“Fine, I’ll tell my A&R man to sign him.”

As a result of that reasoned adjudication, Elvis Costello came to Columbia Records.

I stirred the troops at the meeting, and later, back at the hotel, Diana stirred me when she spoke of other lovers. Out of deep insanity and insane hypocrisy, I insisted she see no other men. She insisted that when it came to philandering, she was no match for me. The more we drank, the hotter our dissonance; she ran out the door; I caught her, embraced her.

“What do you want from me?” I asked her.

“Pull down my panties. Then spank me. Then kiss it and make it better. And then go down on me.”

“Right here in the hallway?”

“Right here in the hallway.”

I did as I was told. I had no idea if anyone spotted us. I was too busy screwing to notice. When we were through she said, “This relationship is totally nuts. I’m leaving right now.”

“It is nuts,” I agreed, “but when can I see you again?”

“Never,” she insisted, and disappeared.