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MONEY FOR NOTHING: GREED AND EXPLOITATION IN THE MUSIC INDUSTRY

by Simon Garfield

(Faber & Faber)

'The foundation of the American music industry is built absolutely on corruption and a lack of creative and artistic instinct. '

—Morrissey

An inflammatory quote like the above is known as a 'gimme'—easy to accept at face value (because supposedly Morrissey's been there and he should know) and just grandly condemnatory enough to raise the hackles on your average major-label veep who might counter with a comment like 'Absurd!' It conjures up the image of some embittered semibureaucrat who sits behind a desk in some A&R department hating the music he deals with on a day-to-day basis; it also plays well to all the wannabes, stars in transition, and stymied players within the industry who need a rationalization for failure. If that were all there was to Simon Garfield's Money For Nothing: Greed and Exploitation In The Music Industry (retitled from its original publication in '86 as Expensive Habits: The Dark Side of the Music Industry), the book could be dismissed as just a sensational collection of grouchy propaganda. Happily, such is not the case because Garfield's work is a bruising and sarcastic exposure of the inner wheelings and dealings of the industry at the major level from the point of view of someone with an analytically fair mind.

'You mean a kid'll eat the middle of an Oreo first?'

Money's central thesis revolves around how the artist can, again and again, expect to be schwicked somewhere along the line in his/her career despite independent legal advisement; Garfield shows by example that it's happened to everyone from Pete Townshend down to noted 'whowuzzit' Hazel O'Connor. In this book, Townshend's retelling of the Who's signing important contractual documents while under the influence of booze and drugs is laughable but not so far removed from the typical experience of struggling and ambitious artists who wish to keep their careers moving at all costs. Garfield's advice to the pop musician in this realm seems to be a perverse corollary to Murphy's Law: Count on being offered a contract, terrible in nature and by design, when things are at their blackest. Rather than renegotiate, you will sign.

Garfield also dispels the myth that once signed, the fledgling rock 'n' roller is given a bag of money and whisked away to some never-never land where the company harmoniously promotes his career, releases records, and, in general, oversees the insurance of a 'fair shot' at the brass ring. He cites the destruction of the career of Hazel O'Connor as the graphic example, others but countless abound,the latest and most obvious being L.A.'s Jetboy, who would, at this juncture, probably be only too happy to write affidavits for future editions of Money.

Interwoven with the numerous tales of skullduggery, criminal idiocy, and outright swindle is a solid picture of how the industry works (if you want to see it). It becomes obvious (if it wasn't already) that record labels ARE NOT patrons of the 'arts and that the sooner the aspiring entertainer grasps this fact, the better. Garfield does show that the majors ARE businesses much like any other; they sell a 'product' and are, of course, interested in typical 'business-y' things like profit, units sold, and market share. That this particular 'product' might be a little more significant than toilet paper in its capacity to inspire or enlighten the human condition doesn't enter the picture at all— don't look for nobility within a record company. Morrissey's quote can now be put in its proper perspective; it is, as one might expect, a naive interpretation of reality. Unfortunately, and Garfield shows us this in Money, much of it is true.

The only flaw in this book is that it is such a relentless downer. After reading it there seems to be no justification for any sane mind to contemplate a career within the entertainment industry. The inference is that artists are, generally speaking, gullible fools. Well, if you must be a 'gullible fool' then you ought to seriously consider purchasing a copy of Money and reading it carefully.

'My nature is to be very trusting. I was just convinced that we wouldn't get fucked—I don't know why. And I would be today, too, if I hadn't learned so many awful lessons about this industry. '

—Pete Townshend, in Money For Nothing,

1985, George Smith

OHM EM

BOOK SIGNING BASH

Featuring Richard Meltzer and Nick Tosches.

See Hear, New York City, July 7,1988.

See Hear, a nifty store that sells music mags, zines, books and postcards, is only about the size of a library aisle, but it hosts a great party nonetheless. Funkies of every shape, style and hair dye spilled out onto the sidewalk clutching pens and copies of Meltzer's The Aesthetics of Rock and his new gem L.A. Is the Capital of Kansas, or Tosches's new Cut Numbers. Tosches looked older than I hear he really is, while Meltzer donned an orange-and-blue rugby shirt with the sleeves rolled up impossibly tight for the occasion. 'Beer! Wine! Soda!' announced owner Ted Gottfried at suitable interludes, and I got a Rheingold. 'A bohemian beer,' according to Ted. I handed Meltzer, who has a suitably possessed expression and wildly unfocused eyes, my copy of the new book. 'What's your name?' he said. 'Karen,' I said. 'With a K?' he asked. 'Yeah,' I said. 'With an E?' he said. 'Yeah,' I said, 'and with an R. I've only read the first paragraph but I really like it.' 'Let me point out some other good passages,' he said, and wrote on the title page, 'KAREN—PIECE THAT STARTS ON P. 129 IS OKAY. R. Meltzer '88.' I read it later, and it's about sex. I told Meltzer I liked a piece he wrote in the L.A. Weekly a while back. 'You know what they did to that?' he said, eyeballs gnawing out my brain. 'They cut out three paragraphs, 'cause I had to explain why I was sick in bed looking at business cards, so I said I had cancer of the penis. Then they cut out the sections that were related to that. And they cut out fourteen sections 'cause they offended advertisers.' I thanked him and wandered away to write down what he had just said and slurp my Rheingold. It was a fun party.

Karen Schoemer

FOOD PROCESSING (Putnam Publishing)

'Slow freezing with air/Promotes dehydration/While forming large ice crystals/ That damage tissue structure.' A quote from the Slayer epic When Hell Freezes Over or maybe a Blizzard of Ozz outtake? Nope, just part of one lurid ad run in a recent edition of Food Processing magazine. Or the surface, it's just another t ade mag, but its straight-faced reporting rarely acknowledges the twisted nature of the reality it covers. In a Teenage Food Survey, they find out that not only are the teens fans of meat and sugar (surprise!) but that all of 26% 'thought it was very important to know what ingredients go into the food they buy.' Elsewhere, you can find out that fried hamburger contains a substance that inhibits skin cancer in mice and that you can get frozen food licenses from the U.S. Army. It's a sure eye-opener for those who think food grows on trees; sadly, it's not available where food products, er, food is sold to the public.

Michael Davis

THREESOMES by Arno Karlen (Beech Tree Books)

Arno Karlen must like to have q good time. Why else would he spend the better part of two decades doin' research on a subject as unorthodox (depending, I guess, on which part of the country you're from) as sexual triads? While the rather scholarly subtitle 'Studies In Sex, Power and Intimacy' might suggest a Masters & Johnson-like volume for the menage a trois set, there's plenty here to redden the cheeks of the more prudish amongst us in this sexually-uptight decade, with Q & A accounts of one-nighters and three-way marriages that would probably send Jackie Collins running for the shower. Do yourself a favor—read Threesomes, then pass it along to a couple of really close friends.

Steve Peters

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TED NUGENT'S WHIPLASH BASH (Atlantic Video)

'Warning: This program contains adult language,' boasts the slipcover of this 80-odd minute New Year's Eve strut-athon. And, as slipcovers go, this 'un's trustworthy enough—Ted delivers all the drooling, lascivious goods, mostly in a stream-of-speed rant that goes somethin' like 'heyallyacrazymuthafuckasareyahavinafuckingreattimeboytheresalottagoodpussyinDeeeeeeetroit!' Then he goes and spoils the effect by explaining his 'attitude' to an off-screen presence in grizzled hippie fashion—much talk of the cosmos. Fortunately, Ted then shows off a pair of vicious hunting dogs and shoots a few rounds of ammo. And the show? Much like the Nooge's career, the laughable rubs uglies with the truly earthshakin' at regular intervals. Ted's trademark Tarzan entrance and subsequent striptease (both of which could fall into either category, depending on your personal tastes) are separated by yawners like 'That's The Story Of Love' and 'Painkiller' as well as spleen-crushers such as 'Free For AH' and a truly inspiring, just post-midnight medley of 'Journey To The Center Of The Mind/Baby Please Don't Go.' In large parts, the kickass factor is determined by who does the singin'. If it's Derek St. Holmes, as it is on the bulk of the material, all A-OK. When Ted takes the mike, tho', lock up yer poodles and hide the good china. Thing is, the guy looks like he's havin' such a good time, it's hard to fault 'im. I can't remember seein' any single performer (outside o' maybe Tiffany) smile so broadly/so often as Ted. Maybe there's somethin' to be said for all that Bambi-killin' after all.

David Sprague