Rock On

by Dan Kennedy

  “Wow, nice. Whose office is this?”

  “Some guy who told someone at Warners about Madonna, or knew Madonna way back in the day and told her to sign with them, or knew her manager . . . something. Anyway, he comes in, honestly, maybe once or twice a month. This place just kind of sits here for him. He’ll probably never even know you had a shoot in here,” Vallerie says.

  Over the next week, a camera crew is hired up, and this guy’s office is completely converted. The furniture’s moved out of the way; all of Fat Joe’s gold and platinum record awards are sent over; the big Terror Squad diamond piece is delivered; a metal briefcase filled with fake cash is brought in and lit perfectly; instantly these big huge floor-to-ceiling velvet drapes are brought in to adorn all windows; dolly track is laid down from the door to the desk for the opening shot, light rigging clogs and lines the ceiling; more furniture is moved out; angles are cheated; monitors are set up so I can see the shot — none of this, of course, is done by me. Foot soldiers from the video production department have made this whole scene a reality, propping me up to be applauded and probably paid a bigger Christmas bonus.

  Fat Joe and his posse arrive. My God, this is how it should be. There is so much love and loyalty between these guys. I think to myself: I don’t know why white people can’t be more like this. We need the nicknames and handshakes . . . more embraces!

  I check around to make sure there are food and drinks. Our stingy little budget has allowed for a deli tray of cold cuts, some sliced fruit, and cheeses for this huge man and his wife and posse of lifelong friends. And with a smile and a laugh, he changes all that and it goes something like this:

  “What’s this shit we got here, B?”

  (B?)

  “Oh, well, have some cheese, and grapes and things here. That’s for you; for all of you, so help yourselves. But then let’s try a run through of . . .”

  “We gonna call and get some real food up in here first.” He yells into the next room to his wife: “Honey! Let’s get some barbecue up in here from [name unintelligible]. And find out what everybody wants for drinks, all they got over here now is some little cheese cubes an’ shit.”

  Oh, my God, they’re laughing at the deli trays. These guys rule! I haven’t wanted to be somebody’s friend this badly since I was seven.

  “Yeah, thing is the budget the label has for this whole shoot is really only . . .”

  “This breaks the bank, then you have ’em call Joe. They got my phone number and if somebody’s sweatin’ it you have ’em call me, a’ight, B?”

  I’m not supposed to be calling him B back, right?

  “Yeah. Yeah! Call barbecue up. Up here. Get some up in here.”

  Right on! This is feeling like some kind of super feel-good Disney script where the suburban white geek finds a new friend in a huge gangster hip guy with a heart of gold.

  “Call them. I know, look at this!” I add, maybe too excitedly.

  A very sobering look from one of his right-hand men. Mean-looking guy, too. Holy shit, what’s his nickname? They should call him “Killer” or “The Executioner” or something heavy like that. Still locked in on me with the glare just because I agreed with Fat Joe about the fruit tray or whatever? Jesus, relax, dude. He’s still your friend, okay? God.

  I walk into the conference room across the hall from where Fat Joe is to see if any of his guys need any help getting the TV tuned into cable or anything. Smoke. The room is filled with it. It must be something electrical. Quick! Get a fire extinguisher. Wait. Are they smoking pot? In the conference room? You can’t just go smoking pot in the conference room! Can you smoke pot in the conference room? Not cool! Not cool at all!

  Okay, I’m cool with it.

  It’s cool, it’s cool, alright.

  I’m down with it, no big deal.

  Pot’s no big deal.

  Shit, stop staring at them.

  You’re staring at them.

  Stop it, you look uptight.

  It’s illegal, though.

  Whatever.

  Apparently I’ve stood here stunned too long and it looks like I want some. And now the mean looking dude is holding it out toward me. Be cool about it.

  “Nah, I’m all set. Thanks, though. Thanks.” Okay shut up.

  The food comes and one of the foot soldiers from video production pays the tab with cash and gets a receipt. It’s like a big cookout up here. The shoot is almost secondary to all of them getting together, high and laughing, telling stories about the neighborhood back in the day, watching the Knicks game on the TV, talking about the record business and what’s happening and how it didn’t used to be that way, talking about how it’s gonna be. I wish these guys worked here.

  We get to shooting the commercial for his new album. And the whole idea to this thirty-second-long commercial is that we see Fat Joe sitting behind this huge desk in this gorgeous piece of prime Manhattan real estate. A briefcase of cash on the table, a light in front of him, but he’s sitting back and his face is in a dramatic shadow. The camera tracks up toward him. When I give him the cue, he leans in and says the name of his new album, Loyalty. That’s the whole idea; camera moves through huge corner of prime Manhattan real estate, we see the platinum albums on the wall, the diamonds on the table, the briefcase filled with cash, and large man sitting behind a huge desk; the large man behind the huge desk leans forward out of the shadow and into the light, we see that the man is Fat Joe, and he simply says the word Loyalty. The viewer of this commercial will then see an album cover that has a picture of Fat Joe on it and the word Loyalty. The viewer will then say to themselves, “Ah, I see the new Fat Joe album is titled Loyalty. I would expect it to be available in stores now.” If there is any doubt in the viewer’s mind, an announcer’s voiceover will say, “Loyalty. The new album from Fat Joe. In stores now.”

  I sit down at the little monitor, put a pair of headphones on, and we try the first one. I’m watching the shot unfold and I’ve just realized I’m not going to be able to sit here silent.

  “Cut! Okay, Joe, don’t tap your foot like that, because I’m seeing it in the bottom of the shot. Let’s do it again.”

  “Okay, yeah, won’t do that. Sorry.”

  Whoa. No way. That was so easy. He was so kind and professional about that.

  “And it’s important that you lean forward when we get to the end of the shot. When we push all the way in, we need your face in the light just in front of you.”

  “Ah, yeah. Some kinda Scarface shit, right, B? B knows how to do this shit, let’s go!”

  As we run through a few more takes, I have that moment we all have at different points in our lives; that moment where you see a side of yourself you’ve yet to meet. And it turns out, I really kind of like telling huge hip-hop kingpins what to do. There’s a bit of charge in that for a white guy with middling confidence. I start coming up with a lot of great things to add on when I say “Cut.”

  “Cut! Okay, remember, I don’t know who’s in the shadow yet, Joe. The first time we’re seeing you should be when you lean in. Alright, people, let’s do another one!”

  The camera starts back at its first position and I can’t help thinking, Ooh, I have to say that little part at the end where I say, “Alright, people! that was nice.” We continue shooting a few more takes and I’ve got a nice assortment of things to say that I must’ve picked up watching Inside the Actors Studio or something, because they sound perfect. I’ve got, “Cut! I’m still seeing a hot spot when the camera hits the mark, can somebody check that?” and I also trot out a little number that goes, “Cut! That was beautiful, let’s do one more like that, but Joe, don’t be in a hurry to say the line. You’re running the show here, you’re taking your own sweet time to speak up — don’t make the move in a hurry for the camera, you don’t care about the camera. Okay, everybody, let’s go again, please.”

  When we’re done shooting the commercial, they’re gone. Just like that, which seems so fast for all of the work leading up to it,
but I guess come to think of it, once you actually get around to it, it doesn’t take too long to get five, ten, or fifteen takes of one thirty-second shot, for one thirty-second TV commercial, featuring one guy, saying one word. And just as quickly as Fat Joe and his posse arrived, they recede into the night. I walk over to the window and look down from way up here; an aerial view of the Range Rover and Mercedes caravan leaving at the bottom of the building. It snakes its way past Radio City Music Hall and Rockefeller Plaza, rolling out of view and off to all of the places I imagine them showing up. I head back to my office and fill out one of those voucher things so a sensible luxury sedan will come to take me home.

  INAPPROPRIATE GREEETINGS AND SALUTATIONS FOR MIDDLE-AGED WHITE RECORD EXECUTIVES TO EXCHANGE

  1. Hello, Dawg.

  2. What is up, my niggaz?

  3. Respec (sic).

  4. True dat.

  5. Steve from accounts payable is a hater, yo.

  POSITIVELY FIFTY-SECOND STREET: A FIELD GUIDE TO A FEW OF THE SPECIES I’VE SPOTTED HERE IN THE OFFICE

  The Heavy Hitter

  You’re making seven figures. You’re probably responsible for some label’s big superstar’s success. Or maybe you’re just good at convincing people you’re responsible for some label’s big superstar’s success. On the low end, the books probably show a high six- or low-seven-figure salary, but it’s no secret that the bonuses would most likely double or triple that each year. What confuses me about you guys is how credibility varies wildly amongst you — there are the good apples; met one once that was asking to take a zero salary until things turned around in the business, was saying he was fine taking one for the team by setting aside his salary and just getting paid on his acts’ records if they sold. But there’s the other kind of apples, too — I saw one of you in the elevator just before you got put on the cut list. I was riding up to some meeting. You got on the elevator with the co-whatever. Copresident, cochairman, co-something. You were still intact in the company, in control, in the money, still in the big corner office upstairs, in well with everybody. The Co-Guy was talking to you, and I was the ghost standing there overhearing the whole thing. And since everyone’s so good at ignoring each other in the elevator, you guys just talked like I wasn’t there. Your partner told you there was nothing to worry about, said something like, “I think we look fine, and I don’t think there’s anything you need to worry about. Honestly.” Of course, three weeks later you were a grown man literally weeping as your assistants started bubble-wrapping everything in your huge corner office. Whoops, turns out you had something to worry about after all.

  Upper Management

  You lurk in the same places; same corner offices, same executive washrooms. But instead of seven figures, you’re grossing well into six. You haven’t signed anyone, but maybe you have, like, an other-worldly hunch for picking hit singles for radio from an album of nine filler songs with two made-for-radio singles. You make your picks after the two songs have been tested to death by independent research firms whom the label pays to call random everyday people up on the telephone, play them a short section of the song, then ask them if they like it or not. The firm then tells you which one is statistically bound to be a hit. Sometimes they even use computer programs to analyze characteristics of the song. How long is the chorus? What’s the chord progression? How long till we get to the chorus? How many beats per minute is the song recorded at? At any rate, when the research comes in telling you what song is statistically most likely bound to be a hit, you then pick that song as the first single to be serviced to radio stations. I may be missing something here, but am pretty sure that covers your day in your corner office. I know you’re on the phone a lot, so there might be a little more to it.

  Glorified Middle Manager

  Smaller office, sure. And you’re using the regular old nonexecutive washroom, so you’re not making small talk with influential cohorts while you urinate, a peculiar thrill that you’ve not yet come to know. You do anything from producing music videos to spending your days convincing VH1 and MTV to play the music video from the forthcoming album, even though something like 78 percent of MTV’s programming is reality shows as opposed to music videos. You’re probably kissing the two-hundred-grand mark and you might even be a ways north of that. If you’re not, well, at least you get to tell your friends that you took a six-figure gig since they’re certainly giving you anywhere from a hundred to a hundred and seventy-five plus bonuses. If you’re super savvy, you’ve got your own little business incorporated and you can make even more money by invoicing the company additional fees for creative and production services that are mutually regarded as above and beyond your day-to-day job. Yes, we see that you’ve got the newest Blackberry. Now. Put. It. Down.

  Glorified Foot Soldier

  You’re basically on the same program as the Glorified Middle Manager, but the only catch is, you can’t manage anyone, so you probably wouldn’t survive in any other corporate environ. You may not survive in this one. While you can’t manage others, you have this weird little way of keeping to yourself and creating things when told. And sometimes the things you create generate money for the company by way of increased sales. Advertising, maybe the random idea born in weekend isolation, maybe a way to market a band that won’t do them in. Sometimes you write the copy for Holiday Gift Guides for the November issues of women’s magazines that feature a paid advertisement/holiday gift guide about the best holiday records, which all happen to be issued by the company you’re working for (surprise). And you write the guide in such a way that your bosses actually see a sales spike. Your low self-esteem tells you that the sales spike is seasonal and dependable, no matter who writes about the albums. Anyway, your talents are unremarkable enough to keep you largely anonymous at the upper reaches of the company, and enough of a justified expense to keep you well paid, which leads to the harder-working and way lesser-paid foot soldiers resenting you. So your life is a charming mix of benign obscurity and walking around feeling the weight of stares that make you feel like a voodoo doll full of pins. The Glorified Foot Soldier is a lonely little soldier that way.

  Real Foot Soldier

  Who was there when, say, slow-jam diva Brandy needed new clothes brought to her hotel room in the snow storm? Or some gangster princess hip-hop starlet was freaking out because she thought her arms looked fat in the scenes where she’s wearing a leather corset in her video? You! You’re the real deal, because you actually do something. Truth is, you work harder than practically everyone above you and make way less. Understand these things:

  1. You’re connected to the culture that the company pays through the nose to try and understand, because you are a card-carrying member of that generation.

  2. You’re more connected to the word on the street and bands than almost everyone above you in the company, though they are being overpaid to act like they understand.

  3. The older people working above you at the label are, in most cases, intimidated by you (see points one and two). Here’s another thing you should be let in on: they know you are worth way more money and that they’re getting you on the cheap, and they go to great lengths to never let you realize any of this. Whoops. Now I’ve done it. Cat’s out of the bag. Well, since I gave away the big secret, maybe you should ask for a raise. Oh, I forgot, there’s a line of three hundred people who, for some reason, are willing to do your job for less or even as an unpaid intern. Does this baffle you? This baffles me, too. Hang in there.

  YOU’VE GOT AN IDEA, AND THE ONLY PROBLEM WITH THAT IS THIS: IDEAS MAKE THE ROBOTS ATTACK

  These days, between the hours of eleven PM and about two or three AM, I’m wide awake downloading music and scribbling notes like a gainfully employed, insomniac version of Dustin Hoffman in Rainman, or an overzealous and barely rehabilitated middle-aged delinquent trying to turn over a new leaf with night classes.

  I’m seduced away from sleep by the idea that, between the new Apple laptop the company bought me and the high-
speed wireless Internet access in the apartment, there’s essentially a record store in every room. I’ve got another monkey on my back, sister. The only reason I even get around to falling asleep at all is because at a certain point I give in to a particularly dreamy section of a song blasting in my headphones and drift off to sleep in the living room. I defy you to listen to any of the huge, brooding, genius, beautiful, and haunting songs by Mogwai in AKG K240 headphones at three in the morning without next waking up tangled in headphone cords, in a panic because you’re late for work. The scribbling of notes makes it somehow seem like I’m a go-getter adult man applying due diligence to his office job, and less like it’s an addiction or disorder — my girlfriend is impressed, as opposed to concerned about my lack of self-control; not staring or judging . . . admiring. The notes are observations about my new music consumption habits, sentences and thoughts at once embarrassing, ambitious, confused, disjointed, but strangely and surprisingly well-organized. And one night at around 3:40 AM it hits me, I’m confronted with it, there’s no denying it, no covering it up; I take the first step and admit it: I’ve got an idea. A what? Yes! An idea!

  And this pile of notes, over a period of a month or two of staying up late downloading music, cooks down into a seven-or eight-page presentation. I give it to Vallerie, who sends it up to a copresident as well as a senior vice-something. The most groundbreaking, mind-blowing part of this idea is probably the way it speeds upward into the top reaches of the company at breakneck speed; a nosebleed-inducing ascent. I start thinking it’s a sting operation; that they’re going to get me into the conference room with the copresidents and then sue me for downloading music. I have already planned out a defense, telling them the truth: Larry, a VP in marketing, is the one that told me about Limewire and helped me install it on my work laptop. I didn’t even want it at first, but he told me it was the most incredible thing. He told me how you can find files of anything and you don’t have to go through the hassle of ripping CDs, and he was right! I only wanted to try it once, but I got hooked my first night using it! Almost instantly I was as excited about music as I was when I was nine, searching and downloading and sharing every night. And only weeks after Larry hooked me up with Limewire, Warner Music’s legal department sent our entire staff an e-mail saying that the RIAA was going to start suing people, and that if any of us had any illegal downloading applications such as Limewire on our work or personal computers, we should uninstall them. I disregarded that e-mail. And now this! A sting. I knew something was up. I’ve got the usual symptoms of your basic good old-fashioned jitters — some difficulty performing minor everyday tasks; physical coordination giving way occasionally to spasmodic movement and a stilted gait; auditory hallucinations; the edges of the lips and tips of the fingers turn a pale blue; heart and respiratory rates become arrhythmic while a high fever persists, loss of depth perception sets in, and a brittle crackling sound can be easily detected in the lungs without the use of a stethoscope.