As I said, it was always an adventure at Ponte’s. One day I got an urgent call from Pauli, saying it was important, that Joe Ponte had died and in order to show respect I had to attend the funeral. I was to meet him at the restaurant and we would go to the funeral home together. As I walked in, there was Mary, the coat check woman, who would officially greet and screen everyone. “Hi, Mary,” I said. “What a tragedy.”
She looked at me confused, saying, “Yeah, it’s terrible.”
“When did it happen?” I asked. She was further confused, but not wanting to offend, she replied, “Yes, it was terrible,” and hugged me at that moment. I was surprised to see Angelo Ponte come in the door. I ran to him and hugged him.
“Angelo, I’m so sorry.” He hugged me back, and I said, “I can’t believe Joe is gone.”
“Yeah, what are you going to do?” he said. “That’s life.”
Hugging him again, I said, “I’m waiting for Pauli. We are going to the funeral home.” Angelo sadly said, “I’ll see you there.”
When Pauli and I arrived at the funeral home we got out of the car, and Pauli commented, “Why don’t they let us alone, let him rest in peace,” referring to all the FBI and others staked out behind trees and cars, photographing everyone attending the funeral, even me. I was nobody; it didn’t matter that I was documented. Once inside, the place looked like a botanical garden. The flower arrangements were gigantic, covering every wall and aisle up to the coffin. Well-wishers kept coming in groups, all decked out, some young, others old with canes, all with pinky rings, hugging and kissing cheeks and extending hands. Pauli and I got in the line to view the body, and as we got up to a very elaborate coffin, we kneeled down. That’s when I saw Joe lying there, rosary beads in hand, a giant Jesus cross on his chest, surrounded by photos of his family. I turned to Pauli and whispered.
“That’s not Joe Ponte.”
Pauli answered back, “No, it’s Joe Piney.”
“Joe Piney? Who the hell is that? I don’t even know him.” Nor had I ever heard of him.
None of that mattered to Pauli. Joe Piney was a made guy, and in Pauli’s mind he had to go to the funeral to show respect and, mainly, to be seen doing it. I quickly made the sign of the cross, mumbled a few nondescript words, and asked Pauli, “What am I doing here? Let’s get the hell out of here,” and headed for the door. Pauli stopped and hugged and kissed everyone along the way. We got back in the car after being photographed again and sped off.
This experience was a ball that I never felt comfortable with. I wasn’t interested in anything business-wise ever happening; it was purely just entertaining, and it always felt like a movie set.
Woodstock 2, 1994
Almost twenty-five years after Woodstock ’69, in 1994, my longtime friend and partner at the time, Peter Saile, and I approached Michael Lang with the idea to organize Woodstock 2 on the twenty-fifth anniversary of the original festival. In our attempt to bring all the ol’ players back together who hadn’t spoken to each other in twenty-five years, we set up meetings with Warner Brothers Records, John Roberts, Joel Rosen, and Michael Lang. One name was missing: Artie Kornfeld. It was made clear they did not want to include him, and he was not invited to any of the meetings. Although Artie was devastated, he will never admit to it. I couldn’t believe it myself; one of the original creators of the most famous music festival of all time is still, to this day, left out. Some people will never be able to share. They need the spotlight, always keeping their thumb on others and surrounding themselves with serfs and followers, not other generals. They especially exclude you if you are equal or of greater worth than them. I have learned this the hard way and work diligently to avoid that conflict daily with people who live by this Machiavellian theory.
Based on those preliminary meetings, we drafted contracts and agreements and put the money we raised in an escrow account. Then in the middle of negotiations, things went left: they all got together without me and Peter, deciding that they could get a bigger and better deal by partnering with Pepsi. Needless to say, this deal did not include Peter and me.
There was, however, one problem with that maneuver: the town of Bethel wasn’t agreeing to let it happen. They would not let Michael back. Since 1969, the town elders never forgot the mess of the first festival, and resented never being included in the festivities or the opportunity to make any income. So the town of Woodstock and the Yasgur family decided to make their own plans for the Woodstock Twenty-Fifth Anniversary on the original Holy Ground of Yasgur’s farm.
I have come to learn that if you stay true and honest, things have a knack of turning around.
Bert Padell was at this time representing Sid Bernstein, the original Beatles organizer responsible for first bringing them to America. Sid was brought in to organize and produce a three-day Woodstock event on the original site. Bert set up a meeting with Sid and me and I was hired by Sid to help produce his event, funded by the Rulens, a wealthy family from upstate New York in the real estate business. And so the war began between both Woodstocks. One had the original name; the other had the original hallowed ground. Since Artie was not involved with either side, I convinced Sid that it would be a good idea and valuable marketing tool if I invited Artie to participate and lend his name to add credibility to our event by having one of the other original creators now participating on the original site. I made arrangements to pay Artie a fee and have him come to New York from Florida. At that time he had a phobia with flying, so we arranged for him to come up by train.
Even though I had been left out of Michael’s plans I felt obligated to meet with him to explain I was working on the original site. We discussed a plan I had come up with to join together the two Woodstock festivals. Since both events were happening at the same time and going to be filmed and broadcasted, we agreed that at the perfect moment we would do a live TV feed switching between the two festivals, bringing them together without anyone knowing. The entire thing would be a closely guarded secret, the perfect clandestine coup. Both festival goers and TV viewers would get what they wanted, the old and the new together. I thought Michael agreed in principle. It was a surprise to me when he changed his mind.
The battle between the two festivals “escalated.” Sid could not use the Woodstock name since it was owned by Michael’s group, Woodstock Ventures. Letters, TV stories, and newspaper articles filled with threats and allegations, one side accusing the other of not being the true Woodstock anniversary. Festival reporters showed up in droves. Sid and the Rulens decided to name our event after the town of Bethel, where Yasgur’s farm is actually located: “Bethel ’94 the Reunion at Yasgur’s Farm.”
Instead of Bethel, Michael was forced to have his version of the Woodstock Twenty-Fifth Anniversary festival in Saugerties, New York, ten miles east of Woodstock. Everyone wondered, How can it be a twenty-fifth Woodstock anniversary miles away from Yasgur’s farm and without any of the original 1969 performers? It just didn’t feel right. The show we were putting on, meanwhile, included many of the original ’69 acts: Richie Havens, Judy Collins, John Sebastian, Mountain, Sha Na Na, Country, Canned Heat, and Joe Cocker, just to name a few.
Construction on both sites and stages began. After several weeks, we were in full swing, and then out of nowhere the Rulens got cold feet. They pulled the plug on our festival on August 1, 1994, ten days before the event. My tail was more than between my legs. Charli talked to Michael. I don’t know what she said; all I know is Artie, Charli, my kids, Frankie, and Jaime, and I were invited by Michael to participate in his event.
One great thing I must thank Michael for is that Charli and I, along with our kids, got to stand on the stage of a Woodstock festival together. Who would have thought that would happen twenty-five years ago?
It was weird, though. Artie had no job to do, nothing but bum cigarettes, steal backstage and all-access passes and food vouchers so we could eat at the commissaries. He walked around with an old wet news article showing him as one of the original produc
ers, and showed it to everyone. It was hard to see him reduced to that. This was the great Artie Kornfeld.
The Label Records
In 1995, I formed LeisureTime Productions and The Label Records out of necessity, since the bottom of the rock market fell out along with every other kind of music, except hip hop. I signed my very first hip hop artist, The Soul Snatchers, to “The Label,” as everyone referred to it, and their recording of “Blam, Blam,” distributed by Morris Levi’s son Adam on his hip hop label “Warlock.” In a flash I was immersed in the world of rap and the hip hop lifestyle.
The record started with a bang, or should I say a stabbing. MC Hakim of The Soul Snatchers was arrested for violating parole because of a domestic dispute. After I visited him at the Queens House of Detention and paid for his bail, he was released. I finished the deal with Adam Levi, the record was released, but then Hakim stabbed someone to death and went on the lam. I lost my bond money. That’s how my first hip hop experience started; unfortunately it didn’t stop there. My reputation was growing within the hip hop community, and that’s when I met Travis “Spunk” Macklin and Eric “Rud” Rudnicki, the famous Rud of Casanova Rudd and Supper Lover Cee, MCs of the classic “Do the James.” My other hip hop artists included T-Roc, Tommy Gunn/Miss Jones, Sham and the Professor, Pop Mega, and Sound Mind, a Nine Inch Nails–type rock band from Cincinnati.
All of a sudden my office was the hub at Bert’s, crawling with my crew. Almost every day we were smoking three or four blunts at a time made with my twenty-five-dollar Cuban Monte Christos. There was so much smoke that it would travel out the vents and smell up the whole building. We smoked and burned everything to hide the smell, and I naïvely believed or maybe I just didn’t care that no one was sure it was us. Those that did know usually came in to join us.
I was now a hip hop maven, showing up at recording studios and clubs in Queens, Harlem, Brooklyn, and Manhattan until four in the morning. I guess I was experiencing a version of that wise guy walking into a restaurant with wanting-to-be-seen-as-very-important syndrome. Charli and the kids and all of my friends thought I was crazy. I wasn’t crazy; I was stupid. I mean stupid, but not as dumb as Pop Megga. Pop was in line to be the next Biggie Smalls. Everyone was talking about him, waiting for our record to drop. We finished the record Ghetto News and I made a deal with Sony. They were excited and so was I. They agreed to shoot a video. Now comes the good part.
On the day of the shoot the story that is now famous folklore in the hip hop world began. Pop and the crew gathered in Queens to make their way to the city. As they entered the subway, some paid the fare, but not Pop, since he didn’t have the money and none of the crew would lend him the $1.25. So all 350 pounds of him decided to jump the turnstile, and as he struggled to get through, he was caught and arrested. When the cops checked his record it turned up that he had an outstanding out-of-state warrant and was on probation in New York, so they immediately took him to jail. That was the end of the video and the beginning of the end of the record deal, but not the end of the story. I visited Pop at Rikers Island before he was extradited to Maryland and put in prison for six months. All he kept doing was calling me collect and requesting money for himself and his kids. Pop over the years must have cost me over $50,000 dollars.
In 1997, after Pop, I thought I had had enough of the good life, until Big Daddy Kane showed up at the office. Kane said he was interested in coming out of retirement and wanted me to put out his comeback record. This guy was a true legend, one of the founders of hip hop. I always believed my theory when it came to a song: “Once a hit, always a hit.” Everyone knew Kane, so I thought to myself I didn’t have to reinvent the wheel. I signed him to The Label, produced and put out his new record, Veteranz Day. The Label had worldwide distribution through PolyGram/Mercury and Blackheart Records, which was owned by my longtime friend and manager of Joan Jett, Kenny Laguna.
After we shot a music video for the single, Kane changed his mind; he wanted a different song to be the single. We shot another video, but everything we did he would say, “I changed my mind.” He cost us hundreds of thousands of dollars. As you can see, even though I grabbed the ball I wasn’t any good at making money with hip hop. I must say through the ups and downs I really liked all of them and I know they liked and respected me. How do I know? It’s been over thirty years now and they still call me. I truly liked playing with that ball and on occasion I still do. Even if some of the balls don’t bounce, in most cases they lead to others that do.
I’m a hammer waiting for a nail.
In Charli’s Words
For a while, Frank was constantly surrounded by rappers, and sometimes our apartment was filled with ten guys or more. Jaime and Frankie would stay in their rooms; I don’t think they ever understood what Daddy was doing with all of these guys. I would walk in the house and I was never sure either what they were up to, but really, they were the nicest guys and very respectful to me. Upon looking at this group of guys, though, you just have to do a double take. Our building is primarily religious Jews who have never experienced anything close to a group of guys like these. Our neighbors must have looked through the peep hole on their apartment door and been cautiously interested, probably wondering what exactly was going on in my apartment. A few times the cops even came to check on us; they too wondered why our guests kept showing up at all hours.
I did like them, Pop, Rud, and Spunk. They were very affectionate and respectful, commenting on our great family life whenever they came over, and I treated them like they were family. I always had food and drinks for them, and for the holidays presents for their kids; they were fun and they really loved Frank and still do. They know that he tried very hard to help all of them. There was a real bond, a friendship, and there was nothing they wouldn’t do for him, and nothing Frank would not do for them. If Frank needed their help all he would have to do is make one phone call and twenty guys would show up. For years, I would get collect phone calls from the Concord Correctional Facility asking if I would accept the call, and I always said yes. It would be Pop calling to say hello and that he just wrote a dozen or more songs. Frank said he was the most talented songwriter he ever knew.
One day Pop telephoned and said he was up for parole. We were delighted and asked when.
He said, “Well I decided not to take the parole. Knowing me, I will do something else and be right back in so I might as well finish my time, get out and be free.” What happened to Pop was very discouraging because we always thought, being such a natural talent, he would be a great success, not only for us but also for him and his family. But it never happened because he kept going in and out of jail. Just the other day some guy called asking for Frank. I asked, “Who is it?” He said, “Mick,” and I said, “Mick Jagger?” He started to laugh. No, not Jagger. He needed to talk to Frank right away and said he was around the block. I could sense something was up, and he reluctantly gave me his name, saying Pop asked him to call. It sounded familiar, and I told him to call back because Frank was out of town.
Tommy Mottola
While Peter Saile and I were doing well raising money for various projects with The Label Records, Bert Padell was representing Tommy Mottola, who was a big shot manager and producer in the record industry. He had a management company called Champion Entertainment. Among other artists, Tommy was responsible for Dr. Buzzard’s Savannah Band, Mariah Carey, Hall and Oates, and John Cougar Mellencamp. Tommy’s buddy Walter Yetnikoff asked him to become president of Sony Records and Tommy accepted. In order to avoid any conflicts of interest between him, the artist, and the label, he would have to sell all his interests in Champion Entertainment.
As soon as Bert told us, I grabbed the ball. Peter and I immediately jumped on it. What an opportunity. To slide right into a major management company would be a major coup for us. Bert set up a meeting at Tommy’s office, which was followed by several more meetings, and ultimately a decision by all parties that Peter and I would raise the money, $5 million, to buy Cham
pion Entertainment from Tommy. I thought I died and went to heaven. We brought in accountants, bookkeepers, lawyers, secretaries, and assistants all to analyze Champion’s value and ROI. Our investors were requesting backup to all the numbers, including profits, loss, loans, operating expenses, etc. Then came our own accountant’s initial review and summary of what had to be done.
That’s when problems surfaced. We found out the books were not consolidated; each group had its own set of books and records. Some things were cross collateralized between artist and production companies, and some things were simply misfiled. We also discovered that documents between the management company and the artists had lapsed, expired, or in some cases didn’t even exist. It was a nightmare.
It took us a couple of months to put it all together into a package acceptable to our investors. Tommy was already working at Sony. We visited him in his big plush office. His whole demeanor had changed. He was now the serious president of Sony records, and along with that position came paranoia and hints of Machiavelli. His office was dark, the shades were pulled down, and rumor had it he had a gun in his top drawer. He told us that as a matter of fact he did. Now that he was at Sony, we would have to speak to John Sykes, a media maven who had been brought in by Tommy to run Champion with his associate partner Al Smith. That’s when I felt something was wrong. I didn’t realize I had just lost the ball, which was confirmed at our next meeting. It was a lesson I thought I had learned at Burlington Mills about killing the Indians and selling them Bibles. Now this all backfired in my face Tommy and the others at Champion decided to take all the information and work that we gathered and do it themselves without us, sort of a leverage buyout. That is a lesson I will never let happen again. Yeah, right!
Frank & Charli Page 27
