Pop Records: Moguls, Money & Monsters
LIFE, metaphysicians of the record industry will tell you, is a super-monster smash; dig it. It is performed in an illogical world that is both flat and round, where 33 1/3 r.p.m. exerts a fearful centrifugal force. The U.S., particularly that extensive tribe of its citizenry under 30, is electronically in thrall to the thrumming, incessant sound of music, a phenomenon that has handed the record business a supremely marketable mania. Every week, hundreds of records are poured into radio stations by promoters trying to crack the crucial list of Top 40 hits that get saturation air play. Every year, 5,000 new albums pile upon endless racks in drugstores and supermarkets, there to await the ready purses of Mom and her affluent children.
Last year those purses responded to the galactic, 16-track, monster-smash tune of nearly $2 billion in records and tapes ($3.3 billion worldwide), making music, for the first measurable time in history, the most popular form of entertainment in America. The television may drone on in the living room, but there is little that youth wants to hear from Archie Bunker or Marcus Welby--especially since it has found both relevance and escape in magical sound.
With such sales, no wonder the conglomerates are conglomerating in the record business. From film studios to breakfast-food makers to rent-a-car companies--everyone is trying to buy up a label and go from wax to riches. Even the moguls are falling in with the style, if not the substance, of rock culture. They are not necessarily above trying out guru beads, stackheel boots or an unmarked cigarette.
Your basic bopper on the beach, however, cannot see them for the stars. Today's pop-rock pantheon is the new Hollywood; its principal gods have filled the void left by the Harlows and Gables. Any number of the pop world's scores of superstars could serve to illustrate the process. Four who exemplify its various aspects as vividly as any are Balladeer Carole King, Hard-Rocker Ian Anderson, Pop-Jazz Songstress Roberta Flack and Fey Troubadour Harry Nilsson. Not exactly household names, they nevertheless enjoy more status with the young than a Newman or a Taylor. They are more lavishly remunerated than, say, Redford or Mac-Graw. Indeed, everything about the music industry of the '70s is reminiscent of Hollywood in the '30s and '40s: moguls, superstars and promoters operating in a world charged with sex and power and conspiring to sell slick, tuneful packages to a voracious public.
Vaudevillians. Fortunately, that public by and large insists upon a modicum of quality. Bizarre vaudevillians like Jethro Tull, the manic-impressive group for which Anderson is lead singer and flutist, are still artisans right down to their self-mocking codpieces and plaid jerkins. Singer-Composer King, 29, spins out her multitextured ballads with craft and sensitivity and raises her piano playing to something more than mere accompaniment. Nilsson, 31, blithe and winsome with his pen as well as his voice, first projected himself as a sort of sad-clown chronicler of Middle America (Nobody Cares About the Railroads Anymore, Mr. Tin ker), now is a zany mod-rocker (Coconut, Spaceman). In the poised, warmly expressive style of Flack, 33, the earthy emotions of gospel (Told Jesus) mix with the more polished, sinuous phrasing of jazz (Tryin' Times).
The present pop market is so vast and varied that it seems able to accommodate a limitless range of recording styles. The names on the album covers alone denote the bewildering diversity. There are Mott the Hoople, Sly and the Family Stone, Aztec Two-Step, Five Pound Smile, Weather Report, Dr. Hook and the Medicine Show, Rasputin's Stash, Highway Robbery--old groups, new groups, weird groups, funny groups, groups never heard of before, groups never to be heard of again.
There are holdovers from the first wave of rock revolution in the '60s, like those satanic princes the Rolling Stones, who still sing a violent song of and for themselves with frenzied power. There are emergent personalities like Carly Simon, 28, who epitomizes much that youth finds glamorous in the pop-rock world: daughter of Richard Simon, co-founder of Simon & Schuster, publishers, wife of Folk-Rock-Star James Taylor (TIME cover, March 1, 1971), exemplar of Sarah Lawrence cerebral-voluptuary chic. Aficionados all over the country are comparing notes on the possible lovers referred to in Carly's You're So Vain, a top-selling single for the past four weeks. There are in-between figures like Elton John, 25, an established English performer who is still capable of breaking out with a monster like Crocodile Rock, currently Billboard's No. 1 single. In person, the ebullient John flings himself onstage in a cape that makes him look like Michael Pollard playing Captain Marvel, kicks away the piano stool and plays from a handstand position, among others.
Not only groups and individuals but also entire genres are swirling in wild profusion through today's pop-record scene. The most prevalent type these days is the solo troubadour who sings of quiet, simple joys, of lost loves and lonely roads; this strain encompasses such individual stylists as King, Simon, Nilsson and Taylor. Country rock is thriving with The Band (not to be confused with Nashville-based Country and Western, a separate universe); flower-power rock with The Grateful Dead. Progressive rock and jazz are teaming up in such potent combinations as Santana and the Mahavishnu Orchestra. Perhaps the hottest trend lies in the sweet soul of Flack and other black artists like Billy Paul (Me and Mrs. Jones) who are leading the field in the first large-scale cross-over of black performers into the pop mainstream and of black record buyers into traditionally white markets.
Observes Columbia Records President Clive Davis (see box page 64), the most dynamic mover in the pop-rock groundswell: "One kind of music absorbed everything else in the '60s. In a sense it was a revolution. But now the universe of music has absorbed that, and is expanding on all fronts. You have the individual emerging again and artists coming from all areas of music. Beyond that, there are so many existing artists from the '60s who have maintained themselves that the market is much more scattered. There is not one sort of music that is dominating now."
As for the stars who are flourishing in this energetic eclecticism, many of them have come to learn, as did Garfield and Garland before them, that life at the top can be hard cheese. Record sales are highly volatile, and the vaulting ascents and steep dives of pop reputations can give even hardy souls a severe case of the bends. As Rock Entrepreneur Bill Graham says: "What's it like to be 23 years old, sell a million records, own a boat, a car, a lot of real estate, and not have worked 20 years to get it?"
Many performers are what Publicist Gary Stromberg calls "gifted children --vulnerable, naive, spoiled, easily hurt. They can be brats, because the first time they ever got on a plane it was first-class." If the psychological pressures do not crush them, the physical rigors of touring, drugs and sex may. Two of the most incandescent of their number in the '60s, Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix, died a good 45 years too soon on the self-destructive road to that discovery.
Success may be hard to handle, but the decline that often follows is worse. "Those who don't plan ahead get into trouble," says Stromberg. "The group breaks up, and they aren't good at communicating in other ways than music. There is nothing left for them to do. So they keep on trying to put together a new group, and they keep on living in a dream world."
Even successful performers who can maintain their temperamental equilibrium are often painfully entangled in the coils of the record industry's machinery: the complexities of the recording studio, the inanities of promotional gimmicks, the potentially damaging imponderables of commercialism. The creative musicians among them dwell in a strained symbiosis with the moneymen. Says Guitarist Jerry Garcia of The Grateful Dead, one of Warner Bros.' top record sellers: "I resent being just another face in a corporate personality. There isn't even a Warner 'brother' to talk to. The music business and The Grateful Dead are in two different orbits, two different universes."
Asylum. Such strain produces a special effect on performers born of a highly sensitized generation that takes its own emotional pulse almost hourly. As Rock Singer Todd Rundgren describes it: "Your whole life becomes represented by what you do rather than what you are. To compensate for this you make a caricature of yourself, assert your own personality more than you would ordinarily need to. You dress louder, behave louder; your life becomes a performance, except when you are by yourself."
Many of the new breed of stars go to considerable lengths to be by themselves. Top groups are demanding autonomy in their recording activities, and sometimes acquire their own private recording studios, where they can be relatively free of the influence of their record companies. The asylum, as the record industry likes to designate itself, is increasingly being taken over by the inmates. Explains Jethro Tull's Anderson, 25, a former art student: "I moved away from painting because I wanted to remove myself from the influence of tutors and teachers. In being a rock musician, you should be left totally to your own devices. Any talent that emerges is something that comes from within you."
Anderson, the son of a Blackpool businessman, belies his bizarre appearance by eschewing drugs and cultivating an earnest strain of religious feeling. He originates most of the group's music through "just strumming a few lines on the guitar," and he admits that he picked up the flute one day "because it was the only instrument in the shop." He describes his onstage gyrations--twisting, hopping on one leg, hair flying--partly as "hamming it up" but also as a form of "conducting--you're actually another way of playing, another force."
Flack, who was trained as a classical soprano and later played piano in jazz clubs and taught music in public schools, has settled in a suburb of Washington, D.C. From there she directs her own Washington-based publishing firm, talent agency and production company in a characteristically slow, steady and thoughtful way.
Samplers. Brooklyn-born King got her professional start in the hurly-burly of $50-a-week songwriting in Manhattan's Tin Pan Alley, now lives an almost reclusive life with her husband and three children in Los Angeles' Laurel Canyon. As in her New York days, she slops around in nondescript clothes and talks rapidly when excited. But there is a new restraint and self-possession; she studies yoga, favors tea and Japanese-style raw fish and enjoys sewing samplers. She refuses all public appearances except infrequent concerts. This ploy provides a notable exception to the record-industry folk wisdom that touring and promotion are necessary to sell records. Without benefit of hoopla, King's 1971 album Tapestry has racked up a worldwide total of 9,000,000 sales, making it the biggest-selling LP by a single performer in recording history.
More than any other pop-record star, Nilsson has defined the boundaries of his professional activity by the four walls of the recording studio. His career is completely a product of recording technology, since he rarely gives any live performances at all. Brooklyn-born like King, he worked for a few years as a computer programmer in a Van Nuys, Calif., bank, until one of the demonstration records that he was flogging to record companies on the side won him a contract. Friends suggest that part of his reluctance to perform comes from his shyness and engaging eccentricity. Nilsson insists that performing is "a separate occupation. I like concentrating my energies in the studio and doing other things with the rest of my time." Among the other things: playing Ping Pong, reading science fiction and developing ideas for films and TV shows. Nilsson keeps a flat in London and often records there instead of in the U.S.--a tribute to the London studios' more sophisticated electronic wizardry.
Some pop stars' isolationist tendencies are rooted in stark self-preservation. Take the bubble-gum idols, David Cassidy, 22, of The Partridge Family, and Donny Osmond, 15, of the Osmond Brothers. Their very lives are sometimes in peril. That is to be expected when the magazines that address themselves to their pubescent followers run features like "Take a Shower with David," inviting fans to send in bars of soap with love messages carved into them. David has discovered that you can lose a lot of shirts to clawing young crowds that way. Donny and his older brother Wayne once sneaked out of their hotel while on tour only to be mobbed in an electronics store. An exasperated Wayne asked the obvious: "Now how many 13-year-old girls would you expect to find in an electronics store?"
Craving. The answer is, of course, that you can find them hanging out in worshipful multitudes wherever their warbling royalty might chance to be. Not even the Sinatras or Monroes produced cults to rival those formed in the '60s and '70s. Says Joseph Smith, a former disk jockey who is co-chief of Warner Bros. Records: "Music is participatory now. You've got a generation buying it that has lived through ten years of craziness and crisis. The music has reflected every facet of that period." He adds: "Those kids need those albums. You can't separate it from their lives." Publicist Stromberg recalls the incident of a tearful, angry teen-ager screaming at a cop who had just ejected him from a Rolling Stones concert in Boston for scuffling. "You have no idea, no idea at all," shouted the teenager, "what this concert means to me!"
Clearly the pop world has come a long way since the Crew-Cuts first sang Sh-Boom. When Elvis Presley twitched at the head of a pack of oil-gun-groomed Teen Angels, white youth abandoned the syrupy somnolence of Joni James and Patti Page to share, at a safe distance, the black experience expressed in rhythm and blues. In the late '50s, the sullen sounds of American rock gave way to the urban folk madrigals of the Kingston Trio. They and their imitators were in turn swept from the popular field by those definitive merry mercenaries the Beatles.
The British conquest of the American pop scene was total until 1967 and the storied Monterey Pop Festival. Indeed, the current health and wealth of the various record companies is a direct reflection of who tuned in to the festival and who did not. Most of today's successful moguls were there, contract-signing pens at the ready. At the time, the three top record companies were RCA, Capitol and Columbia. Joe Smith of Warner had pre-empted the pack by signing Jimi Hendrix before the festival. But the most enterprising of all was Columbia's Clive Davis, who in the wake of the festival signed Janis Joplin; Blood, Sweat and Tears; Santana; and Chicago. To their eventual sorrow, RCA and Capitol were still viewing such affairs--indeed, all of rock--as something of a passing fad. It was not; the war was on.
A brutal war it is, too, masterminded in the conference rooms of conglomerates and waged in the trenches where producers, promoters, distributors, program directors and disk jockeys all snap and claw at the big sound-dollar. The battle rages continually around one crucial question: Is it a hit (ding!) or a miss (thud)? Since only one record in 25 gets a serious shot at survival, the odds are long; simply to break even, a single must sell 25,000 copies, an album 85,000. But then it takes only a couple of hits to compensate for dozens of dogs. This is the era of the almighty album, and a monster single usually means not only a gold record (1,000,000 copies) but, when included on an LP, may even guarantee a gold album ($1,000,000).
Snowball Effect. The selling of a record begins with the selling of the recording artist or group--first to the company, then to the public. Company scouts screen processions of talent--sometimes from managers, sometimes from the street, sometimes bearing impressive credits, sometimes clutching a tape recorded in their living room. Says Don Heckman, head of RCA's East Coast "contemporary" operation: "The top 10% of what is available to you is always cream. It doesn't take anything to recognize that someone like Carole King is a monster talent. It is the area between 90% and 40% that is the problem. The majority of artists that you bring in have to be worked with, and careers rise and fall on what happens with them."
When the boardroom executives decide that a particular song or performer is ready, then the promotional wheels are put into action. A typical example is RCA's handling of one of its hot new properties: David Bowie, a spry English rock-vaudeville performer who flaunts his bisexuality.
Enter now the office of Stu Ginsburg, head of publicity for RCA's rock arm. His midtown Manhattan office is festooned with posters, cutouts, promotional T shirts, freaky record albums. Munching a chocolate cookie and propping his saddle shoes on a well-littered desk, Ginsburg explains: "You want to create a snowball effect. So you arrange live tours in patterned locations so that the radio and press coverage will overlap. You want to come into a city with advance air play, and you want to leave the city with press and more air play. It spreads. New York stations spread to Jersey, and so on."
Nowadays most record companies have taken over the role of tour agent. So when company executives decided to showcase Bowie, they first chartered a plane and flew a load of American rock writers to London, then arranged an American tour for Bowie. Local promoters, working in tandem with RCA, pushed Bowie's records at area rock stations, also offered interviews to local newspapers and FM disk jockeys.
Not Rational. As the Bowie caravan moved round the nation, RCA operatives at its center scrambled for more and more press attention. In some cities, Bowie sold well without much trouble; in others, local promoters filled seats by giving away tickets through organized radio contests. In many cases, RCA bought mounds of advertising at local stations and occasionally gave the station a piece of the concert action--thus ensuring air play of Bowie's records. All together, RCA laid $100,000 worth of promotion on Bowie's slender nose.
Although Carole King and Harry Nilsson have made it without going through the Bowie process, even King served her apprenticeship writing songs for other performers, and Nilsson arrived only with the help of the pop-cult film smash Midnight Cowboy. One of his early singles, Everybody's Talkin', was released three times in two years with no visible means of support. Then the song was picked up for the Jon Voight-Dustin Hoffman movie. Shortly after the film came out, RCA Promoter Larry Douglas walked into the office of Program Director Walt Turner at WSAI in Cincinnati and threw the record on his desk. "Goddammit," he bellowed, "you're going to play that record!" Turner looked up in amusement. "Douglas," he asked softly, "are you still pushing that thing?" Turner finally agreed to let Douglas take him and his wife to see Midnight Cowboy. The record was played on WSAI the next day. Similar breakthroughs occurred all round the country, and eventually the single sold about 900,000 copies.
No, the promoter's lot is not a rational one. Clive Davis of Columbia, which led all other record companies last year with gross worldwide sales of around $340 million,* observes in explanation of his outfit's success: "There's no real difference between our operation and that of most other companies. You stand or fall with your list." Admits Stan Cornyn, Warner Bros.' vice president for creative services (meaning largely ads and promotion): "The reality is that if you have a good record, you can't kill it with a stick; if you have a terrible record, you cannot elect it Pope. If you have a middle-level record, it helps to have promotion."
A good promotion man must get radio play if his song is going to go anywhere on the charts. (An exception to the rule is the record, always an LP, that gains a following through exposure on FM stations, as many Jethro Tull albums have done.) This is really what all the planning and promotion is about. It is no easy task in these days when nearly all major radio stations play only the Top 40 current hits.
The Top 40 idea might charitably be called the brainchild of Los Angeles-based Program Director Bill Drake, who runs the action for RKO's 14 powerful pop-music stations. The concept is founded on the premise that the average radio audience changes every 30 minutes. Thus the notion is to keep repeating--over and over and over again--the same monster items that everyone wants to hear. In fact, Top 40 is an illusory designation; 25 is more like it. "Getting a record into air play," says Kal Rudman, publisher of an East Coast record tip sheet, "is tougher than getting a bill through Congress."
There are only three legitimate ways to get on the air. RCA Promotion Director Frank Mancini sums them up: "Hit the secondaries, hassle the Top 40 people, or do both." The likeliest route to success is through the secondaries--the hot stations in such medium-sized cities as Youngstown, Ohio; Hartford. Conn.; and San Diego, which tend to have more flexible program directors than the rigidly scheduled big-league stations. There are plenty of valid forms of blandishment, and some of them are quite inventive. One promo man in Cleveland dressed up in a Superman costume and climbed a fire escape to the third-floor window of a program director's office so that he could spring inside with his wares. Another managed to pose as a waiter in a program director's favorite restaurant, then served up his "push" single to the program director on a silver platter.
RCA's man on the West Coast, Lou Galliani, is the epitome of the new look in rising record-company executives, tricked out in velvet jeans, flowery shirts, shell beads around his neck and African trading beads around his wrist. He carries a leather shoulder bag and has a house near San Francisco that is decorated with animals, tropical fish and a delectable girl friend. Galliani sends the usual flowers and small gifts to radio-station employees (the bag limit is $25 by FCC law), procures the usual concert tickets and arranges the usual listener contests for trips to Hawaii with Elvis, or whatever. But he has been known to branch out from there. He once sent out tape cassettes containing "personalized" obscene telephone calls to several female radio-station employees. When the David Bowie entourage came to town, Galliani took out an ad in the personals column of Rolling Stone: "Desperate. Must have two tickets to see David Bowie performance in San Francisco, Oct. 28. Will pay up to $100 each. Call Clive or Ahmet." Meaning, of course, the rival potentates at Columbia and Atlantic.
There is also another, less frivolous way of winning favor. The term, coined during the Alan Freed scandal of the '50s, is payola. Its forms have changed, and in some areas it has been drastically reduced. Most radio formats now make it extremely difficult, if not impossible, for under-the-counter money to influence play lists. Top 40 jockeys no longer have control over their lists; program directors, in turn, are too tightly pressed by audience demand to fool around. Nonetheless, corruption persists.
Bloodsucker. "Payola is still the industry's little bastard," writes Roger Karshner, former vice president at Capitol, in his book The Music Machine. "No one will admit to him, but everybody pays child support, and the little devil keeps coming back for more--not openly of course, but quietly in sneakers. The greedy little bloodsucker has gone underground." That essentially means the burgeoning black radio stations. The going prices for air play these days range from an occasional $50 in some regional stations to as much as $ 1,000 for a week of concentrated play in the big city rhythm-and-blues stations. One industry attorney flatly asserts: "Nearly every black radio station in the U.S. is involved in payola."
A black executive of a major West Coast record company objects to such categorical accusations. "Hell," he says, "don't pin this on the black folk. White payola is still bigger; it always has been. The black cats get $50 to $100; the white guys get color-TV sets." The R. and B. stations do seem to be more susceptible to payola, thanks to more elastic formats and to the fact that pay scales for black DJs are lower. Payola takes on increasing importance in this area because of the growing number of sweet-soul crossovers and the mounting influence of middle-class blacks (who can now afford albums) on the shape of the charts.
Industry executives are quick to note, defensively but with some point, that parties, junkets and the free use of facilities are acceptable in other businesses--why not in records? Yet the fact remains that record companies, at least indirectly, try to buy their way onto the air waves. One executive admits: "There's a lot of bread being passed around, man." Bread is rarely hard cash these days (too risky), but it often takes such forms as plane tickets, appliances and household renovation. There are grand old standbys (hard and soft women) and grisly new stratagems (hard and soft drugs). "Dope is a no-no," says one executive, "but some guys are passing it out."
It was probably inevitable that a $3 billion business would attract the omnivorous eye of the Mafia. Jukeboxes have always been a Mob staple; of the 58 gang chiefs arrested at the 1957 Apalachin, N.Y.. underworld convention, nine had jukebox interests. The Mob also allegedly hit pay dirt recently by counterfeiting records at a New Jersey plant and bootlegging them in England and even Yugoslavia. According to reports, a summit conference of Mafia record bootleggers was held three months ago in Manhattan's Plaza Hotel. Deals were supposedly consummated in the hotel's genteel Palm Court, while near by, mink-wrapped dowagers spooned their strawberry parfaits.
Inside or outside the Mob, counterfeiting or pirating records is a lucrative adjunct to the legitimate record industry. Anybody who has access to modern taping or disk-pressing equipment can duplicate a record thousands of times over without paying royalties. Experts figure that pirates raked off nearly $200 million in profits last year. As one executive moans: "We are being penalized by technological progress."
Finger Popping. Still, such penalties are pittances compared with the bountiful legal profits to be made through old-fashioned executive ingenuity. Take Producer-Publisher Wes Farrell, who brought music to The Partridge Family and vice versa. One day he was watching the pilot for the family's television show and took an interest in David Cassidy. soon to become America's white-clad Aubrey Beardsley faun. "I wondered," Farrell recalled, "why nobody had asked him if he could sing." As it turned out, David was not destined to be confused with Richard Tucker. No matter. Farrell called in 60 songwriters, who ground out some 300 tunes suitable for framing David. Within a year one of them, I Think I Love You, had sold 3.6 million copies.
Since most stars are bought and not made, money remains the deadliest weapon in a major company's arsenal. Witness a recent weekly singles meeting in the RCA board room. Gathered around a table piled high with cherry and pineapple Danish, 15 upbeat execs popped their fingers and wiggled their shoulders to the sounds being explained, then piped in, by Advertising and Merchandising Director Bil Keane. Soon Keane played "the Sneak of the Week," and everyone at the table was invited to guess who the newly acquired artist was. "Wilson Pickett!" someone shouted, and RCA President Rocco Laginestra confirmed that Pickett had been signed. "You stole him from Atlantic?" another executive was asked. "Right," came the answer. "How'd you do it?" The reply, this time accompanied by a blood-and-feathery grin: "Money."
In a similar singles meeting at Columbia Records recently, a fair portion of the session was dedicated to promoting an album by Cartoonist-Humorist Shel Silverstein. It seemed that a Seattle jockey had taken an interest in one routine about a rather septic young lady named Sylvia Stout, who for reasons of her own, refuses to take the garbage out. One idea struck the table like a bolt, and was promptly accepted: distribute little packets of garbage in Seattle supermarkets. Dynamite.
If the industry does have its share of garbage, there is less of it than was produced in myriad Hollywood film stinkeroos of the '30s and '40s. Indeed, the concept of artistic control that permeates the industry has produced an American pop-rock sound of increasingly high quality. As evidenced by the Beatles' Sgt. Pepper, for example, or the Beach Boys' Surf's Up, the freewheeling pop artists of the last decade, left to cavort in their electronic playpens, can produce sounds as aesthetically extraordinary as they are profitable. They have become casually expert in the manipulation of far-out electronic paraphernalia like the Moog synthesizer, and they have learned to use the LP format in strikingly expressive new ways. Ian Anderson is preparing an album for Jethro Tull called Passion Play, which will use the recording medium to put across some of Anderson's religious ideas, as well as frame what he calls "a total theater trip."
Quadraphonic. The future of the industry seems to be bounded only by Con Edison's capacities. The widely heralded quadraphonic sound, which feeds four channels through separate speakers, is now a commercial reality, both in terms of recording techniques and home playing equipment. Experiments in tapes and cassettes are proceeding apace. The latest innovation: a video cassette that will show a live performance even as the music is being played. At the same time, more and more TV outlets are booking pop-record stars, opening up further possibilities for intermedia promotion; both ABC and NBC are experimenting with late-night programs featuring rock groups.
Though the increased sophistication of electronic gadgetry will continue to contribute immeasurably to the growth of the industry, the key to the business is still the writhing, ululating, switched-on men and women of music, the curve and contour of their artistry. Record executives, who live perpetually in the future, are watching, waiting, wondering: What will the next supermonster sound be? "If I knew what was coming," says Wes Farrell, "I would come into the office once a year and charge $100,000 a minute for my time. But the most exciting part of my life is that I don't know what's coming."
Whether what's coming is a West Texas farm boy playing Bach fugues on a cactus pear or the White House staff singing footlight favorites, you can bet your quadraphonic tape deck that Farrell and his competitors will be on hand, those contract-signing ballpoints at the ready; dig it.
*Runners-up: RCA ($203 million sales), Warner Communications ($180 million), Capitol ($130 million).
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