A Scuffle at the Palace (or, how to properly sign a band to a major label)
“I call people rich when they're able to meet the requirements of their imagination.” ― Henry James
Cows, Shtick, Mudmen and Thyme Pt. 2
(to be read following the previous Signal)
Most great bands have a record or two in their catalog that are underrated, that for one reason or another never achieved the status of their more well-known releases, may it be from the changing of public taste, poor distribution/marketing, untimely release date…many reasons. These records are gifts to the fan, discoveries they make while record shopping or talking to a someone in-the-know.
I feel that way about Mudhoney’s My Brother The Cow, their follow-up to their Reprise debut Piece of Cake. Listening to it now, it feels more like the true follow-up to their break-out record Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge (their final record on Sub Pop, the one BEFORE ‘Cake), with that grungy thick guitar suet—riffs almighty—alongside great songs with a cynical bite. It was a reaction record, in true punk steed, ripping apart the overripe scene they had helped to build. Lead singer Mark Arm was back-to-healthy for the making of this record, and they were back with engineer Jack Endino, who helped dial in their iconic studio sound with Touch Me I’m Sick, the single that launched 1000 plaid wearing losers, launching the grunge era.
I have been listening to the record a lot since realizing it was 30 (thanks, Ronnie) years old. I remember the day I opened the Fed Ex at work, finding the mixes of the record, playing the songs for Michael Ostin, the head of the A&R department in his office: as soon as the Steve Turner guitar chords stampeded through the opening number Judgement, Rage, Retribution and Thyme, he turned up the stereo, bobbing his head with a full grin, excited at how great the record sounded, how great the guitars sounded. It was a moment akin to two teenage friends listening for the first time to what would become a favorite record. Our bobbing and jamming kept going, through the album’s second song, Generation Spokesmodel, with another classic Mud guitar riff mixed with biting lyrics about misappropriated worship, into the dirty swing of the following bluesy gutter-power of What Moves The Heart. Michael was excited about the record, about what the band was saying and how they were saying it; Michael, unfortunately, would be gone from the label within months of our meeting, starting up Dreamworks Records with his dad, Mo Ostin, and Lenny Waronker.
Mudhoney was the greatest band to come out of the grunge era…the most electrifyingly dangerous live, the true bastard sons of Stooges and the MC5…mixing punk and garage and the best metallic sensibilities. As the grunge era ended they delivered a masterpiece; a tough commercial moment for the sound, but a fantastic piece of art for the listening public. Which is why I was so very distraught leaving the Warner Bros. Records Ski Lodge at sunset after my meeting with the label CEO. The band I worked with had delivered a great record, and I was worried it was not going to get any kind of shot upon release…all based on a misunderstanding by the eternally mixed up Courtney Love.
Nevertheless it was off to Musso and Franks to meet up with Mudhoney for a celebration dinner of the record and to raise a glass to Mark Arm on his birthday. Mark, Steve, Dan Peters and Matt Lukin and manager Bob Whittaker beat me there; I took the final seat at the table in the middle of the classic eatery, just in time to insert a drink order into the round. Musso’s classic Manhattan went down my stressed gullet like mana dew, as did the next and the next and the next, washing down the day.
By the time we finished our meal and arrived at the The Palace to see Sebadoh, I was walking yet wasted. Work worry merry-go-rounding around my head. Over and over. Entering the theater, I handed in my ticket and submitted to the obligatory search. I assumed I was slipping right through…that is until the hulking doorman pulled out a forgotten pipe from my right front pocket. A small sandstone pipe. These were the days before pot was legal, and I had been caught bringing the wrong thing into the club. I apologized for having the pipe. That I would bring it back to my car. NO, he said, I AM TAKING IT. Ah, c’mon man…give me my pipe back. NO WAY GUY, NOW MOVE ON.
It was a young, drunk, and dark moment. I yelled at the doorman, who was twice my size…telling him that there was no reason for him being such a dick. And then, I flipped him two mighty, forceful birds and walked into the club.
The Palace was packed, but the Ash kids were visible at the center bar, giving me a wave over as I walked in. They were having their Interscope hang (since the Warner’s courting happened earlier in the day), the competing label was put on the town trying to ink a deal. Why not give the guys a hug, Interscope or no Interscope, remind them of the good times earlier in the day, the the possible future good times offered by the bunny? I was back-slapping distance from the lead singer when I was jumped from behind and thrown down upon the beer-sticky floor of the Palace.
Two pairs of hands grabbed each of my shoulders, and whipped my Manhattan-soaked frame off the floor and plowed me through the startled indie rock crowd towards a side exit of the club, leading to an outside caged area. Being thrown face-first against the Palace’s outside brick wall, the two men started kicking and throwing elbows into my torso. What the hell was this all about, I asked? YOU THREW A PUNCH AT (the name of the doorman) YOU LITTLE FUCK. What????? No I didn’t! THE FUCK YOU DID.
Warner Bros. A&R man Tim Carr was also at the Palace that night, circling Ash as one tends to do with a hopeful signing. He has seen me roughly dragged out of the club, and followed my path outside (a true friend). Barely asking what was going on, he too was thrown against the wall, my two assailants ceasing assaulting me as they put us both in choke holds. We had a long moment of staring at each other, Tim and I, he had true surprise talking out of his wide wide open eyes. The silence was broken by a voice from behind us. “What are you fuckers doing? That guy your hitting…its David Katznelson. He works at Warner Bros Records and he would not hurt anyone.” It was Eric Erlandson, guitarist from the band Hole (ironic, no?), and his then girlfriend Drew Barrymore, coming to my aid, standing in the Palace parking lot on the other side of the gated area. They are right (listen to a Barrymore!), I said, I work at Warner Bros. I am at the club for work…why would I hit anyone.
Then came another voice, a calm, rich release-the-prisoner-I’ll-handle voice, and Tim and I were free. It was the Palace’s manager on duty, a mustachioed ringer for Homer Simpson’s neighbor Ned Flanders, who swiftly swifted the security back into the club, apologizing for the misunderstanding, asking me if there was anything he could do. Yes, I said…I want my pipe back.
Nothing like surviving an unexpected beating to take one’s mind off of one’s troubles. Tim and I walked back into the theater as Sebadoh took the stage. The Ash members celebrated my return to the bar as if I was a long lost war comrade and I retorted, suggesting I by a round of tequllia shots. For me. For them. For the Mudhoney guys, who had heard some strange something about my troubles and sought me out concerned. Tim responded to my drink offer quietly, reminding me Ash were at the show with the Interscope team. Interscope? I said loudly…forget Interscope! And the shots were passed. I might have even bought one for the nearby Interscope A&R person.
The rest of the night was as uneventful as the Sebedoh show, more toasting to the moment, more celebrating the good time at hand. I drank and cheersed and cheersed some more until I lay my head on the pillow, only remembering the problems at work when I woke up late, hung and nauseous the next morning with a message from Danny Goldberg’s office. The CEO of Warner Bros. Records wanted to have lunch with me on the lot as soon as I could muscle my way into the office….
End of part two. The final installment will post next week.
HAPPY 100th BIRTHDAY to GENE AMMONS!
Thanks to David Pescovitz and Boing Boing for making the 1923 Ten Commandments film, with the new score by Steve Berlin, Steven Drozd and Scott Amendola, a Passover evergreen. May we all be more free.
TREASURES UNTOLD: A MODERN 78 READ
Another record store day came and went, and with it, the publishing of a book curated by Tompkins Square, wonderfully designed by Barbara Bersche (my wife) containing essays and interviews with the freaks who collect 78 records (those items made of bug parts that were the main recorded musical buying form from the 1910s til the 1950s). I can call them freaks, because I am one of them, and my essay about being the most pathetic of 78 collectors sits amid some of the great record collectors our day. It is interesting the theme that runs throughout many of these stories. Collecting records…78s…is a joyful sickness. At least it is self-acknowledged! This is a book filled with music history, collector craziness and a hell of a lot of humanity.
A 100-year-old drag performance from Penn’s Mask & Wig made music history
Here is a great article around the release of a 78 100 years ago this past week….A perfect example of what Josh Rosenthal discussed in the book: these 78s are so packed with history, awaiting to be tapped.
George Freeman played among giants, for he too was a giant. One of the most quietly influential jazz guitar players from the early break out days of bee bop, post-world-war-two smaller band configurations to being one of the most funky jazz guitarists out there in the late 60s/early 70s. The above article has a few choice recordings he was on, including one with Charlie Parker. If you want more, check out this recording he was on with Richard “Groove” Holmes. and Gene Ammons (so funky).
Ned Rorem’s Brilliant and Beautiful Scrapbooks and Diaries
An ode to modern classical composer and diarist Ned Rorem: “A bon vivant in Paris and New York for more than half a century, Rorem seemed to know all the high-brow artistic set — Pablo Picasso, Balthus, James Baldwin, Jean Cocteau, Aaron Copland, Leonard Bernstein, Tennessee Williams, Noël Coward. He went on benders with Kenneth Anger, the notorious underground filmmaker. Openly gay when that was a shocking rarity, his published diaries were wildly indiscreet, creating a sensation when they were published six decades ago.”
“Oh God, the Mess!”: Peter Wolf and Danny Fields Revisit the Backroom at Max’s Kansas City
There is SO much in this interview about the greatest artists of that time. Oh course, Danny Fields, manager of the Velvet Underground, A&R person who signed both the MC5 and The Stooges on the same day, knows all. This is fantastic.
Slow Music
By Tomas Tranströmer
The building is closed. Sun beats in through the windowpanes
and warms the surfaces of desks
strong enough to bear the weight of human destiny.
~
We’re outdoors today, on the long wide slope.
Many in dark clothing. You can stand in the sun with your eyes closed
and feel yourself being blown slowly forward.
~
I come to the water so rarely. But I’m here now,
among large stones with peaceful backs.
Stones that slowly wandered backward out of the waves.
Happy 110th birthday Werner Wolf Glaser
‘David Katznelson Throws A Punch At Bouncer’ would be worldwide news.
I await the rest of the Mudhoney story with bated breath! As cool as the band was, and as much as Pearl Jam has become one of my top bands of all time, I have a special place in my heart for Satchel. Shawn Smith (RIP🌹) was a master of his craft and the soul of the Seattle scene, imho.