When Brown was finally inducted in 1993, Ahmet introduced her. As she accepted her award, Brown said, “I really don’t think there’s much more to say at this point . . . except where’s my gold record, Ahmet?” The singer then thanked him for the gift he had brought her after her automobile accident in 1949. Saying this award was also a gift, she added, “The only thing left for me to do now is record for Atlantic again.”
As Brown wrote in her autobiography, “Many tried their darndest to conjure up where I had this hatred going for Ahmet Ertegun. I told them that was not and never had been the case. Anger and resentment, undoubtedly, and a burning sense of injustice. For every Picasso he had hanging on his wall, I had a damp patch on mine. But hatred? Never.” While Begle described the two as “good-natured ex-combatants,” this was before Brown learned from Dave Marsh that Ahmet and Herb Abramson had been partners with her manager, Dorothy Calloway.
In Jerry Wexler’s view, “It was not as if Ruth Brown did not have a point to make about the royalties but you must remember that her career went into decline and she wound up in the red because there were always these ‘twos and fews’ she would come in for. She kept coming in for a little taste. ‘Can I get twenty-five hundred? Can you give me a thousand?’ The money went on the record. It was a charge against royalties. And she is such a little hypocrite. When she would see Ahmet, it was, ‘Oh, Ahmet, how are you, darling?’ It was just horrible.”
In Begle’s words, “Ruth was difficult. Absolutely. And a diva of major proportions, yes.” In 1987 before the royalty dispute had been resolved, Brown was appearing in “a little off-Broadway show called Staggerlee.” As the singer was sitting in her dressing room after a performance, she was told a man from the record company was there to see her. Brown asked who it was and what record company he was from only to hear her visitor answer, “It’s Ahmet from Atlantic.”
In Brown’s words, “I just looked at him, he looked at me, and I think his eyes got watery, and I got watery. Before I knew it, the tears were running. And he just walked over to me, and I embraced him, and he said in my ear, ‘Let’s don’t talk now, but everything’s going to be all right. I’d never let anything happen to you.’ ” As he turned away, Ahmet said, “You know, Ruth, you got a good lawyer.” Insofar as Ahmet and his first great star were concerned, it was Rashomon right to the bitter end.
3
Like Topsy, the event Ahmet had originally planned to hold at Radio City Music Hall on May 14, 1988, to celebrate his label’s fortieth anniversary grew and grew until it became an extravaganza that began in Madison Square Garden at one-thirty in the afternoon and did not end until twelve hours later when Led Zeppelin performed live for the first time since the death of drummer John Bonham. Officially entitled “Atlantic Records Fortieth Anniversary: It’s Only Rock & Roll,” the marathon concert was broadcast live overseas on HBO, while in America, ABC aired highlights of the show.
With tickets priced at $50 to $100 and Coca-Cola having provided $3 million for corporate sponsorship rights as well as a guarantee of another $2 million in merchandising, the show raised more than $10 million for charities ranging from Amnesty International to the fledgling Rhythm & Blues Foundation. In the course of a single day, the concert also provided Ahmet with the opportunity to demonstrate the unique position he held in the history of what had now become the most popular form of music in the world.
The show began with the Coasters doing “That Is Rock ’n’ Roll,” followed by Stephen Stills and Graham Nash performing “Southern Cross” to a nearly empty arena without band mate David Crosby, who lay sick in his hotel bed. At one-forty-five in the afternoon, Phil Collins, who had begun his career as the drummer in Genesis, took the stage to perform “In the Air Tonight.”
In 1980, Collins had played Ahmet a final mix of the song only to have him ask where the downbeat was. After Collins pointed it out to him, Ahmet said, “You know that, I know that, but the kids listening on the radio won’t know that.” Returning to London, Collins added drums to his two-track mix and the song became a huge hit that established his solo career. Collins explained, “Ahmet was not only musical, but he also knew the audience’s shortcomings—no point in being hip if they miss it.” The two became such close friends that, in Collins’s words, “On more than the odd occasion, he referred to me as ‘the son he never had.’ ”
Among the show’s many highlights were LaVern Baker giving her first performance in America in two decades, Ben E. King doing a medley of Drifters’ songs, guitarist Steve Cropper leading a tribute to Otis Redding, and Foreigner doing “I Want to Know What Love Is” with Stills, Collins, and Roberta Flack. Sam Moore and Dan Aykroyd appeared as the Blues Brothers, the Rascals played together for the first time in seventeen years, the Bee Gees performed after a nine-year hiatus, and Rufus Thomas, then seventy-one years old, did “Walking the Dog” in shorts and platform boots.
The list of those who did not appear at the show was equally impressive. Mick Jagger and Keith Richards had said they would be there but did not appear. Nor did Neil Young or Eric Clapton, “who did not want to be railroaded into a Cream reunion.” Pete Townshend of The Who, whom Doug Morris had signed to Atco as a solo act, was also not there. Nor were INXS, the J. Geils Band, Bette Midler, or Chic. Aretha Franklin did not appear because her fear of flying had kept her in Detroit. The most significant no-show was Ray Charles, who did not perform because he was appearing across town with Peter Martins and the New York City Ballet at Lincoln Center, a gig Ahmet had persuaded him to play with Fathead Newman, Phil Guilbeau, and Hank Crawford from his original band.
Having been left behind by the rock market, the artist Ahmet had respected above all others had re-signed with Atlantic in 1977. Eager to make hits with Charles for a new audience, Jerry Wexler had offered to take the artist to record in Muscle Shoals only to have him say, “I got my own ideas, cousin,” and then insist he would only deal with Ahmet. The two clashed over the material Charles had chosen to record and after Charles refused to work with any of the producers Ahmet suggested, he was forced to release an album by Charles that went nowhere. By 1980, both men were ready to call it quits and Charles went his own way again, this time for good.
After Ahmet had spent some time backstage at Madison Square Garden reminiscing about the old days with Ruth Brown and Fathead Newman, the tenor sax player told him he had to go join Charles at Lincoln Center. Saying “Tell Ray I said hello,” Ahmet moved off only to have Newman turn to Ruth Brown and say, “I won’t tell Ahmet what Ray really told me to tell him.” “Don’t,” she replied. “It’s been a good evening so far.”
Escorted by their bodyguards, Henry Kissinger and his wife, Nancy, arrived at the show at five P.M. as a rejuvenated Crosby, along with Stills and Nash, were playing “Wooden Ships.” Finding Mica, who was wearing an Atlantic Records warmup jacket and a strand of enormous pearls, the Kissingers made their way past Bill and Chessy Rayner, Sid Bass, Mercedes Kellogg, and Jerry Zipkin to greet Ahmet. As a cloud of marijuana smoke drifted their way from an adjoining section, Ahmet kissed the Kissingers on both cheeks, introduced them to Steve Ross, and then escorted the couple backstage.
In the years since Kissinger had helped bring Pelé to the Cosmos, he and Ahmet had become good friends who often traveled together with their wives. In 1974 while Kissinger was still serving as secretary of state, Ahmet had traveled with him to Turkey. With Turkish troops having occupied Cyprus and peace talks to resolve the future of the island under way in Geneva, Kissinger told Ahmet he did not want to give any interviews during his visit. Nonetheless, there were headlines about him in the Turkish newspapers every day. As Kissinger would later say of their visit, “Ahmet had appointed himself as my press secretary and held interviews about my thoughts, which made me wildly popular in Turkey. Even when he was driving you mad, you couldn’t really be angry at Ahmet.”
After a military coup took place in Turkey in 1980 and there was no contact between the American government and the new regi
me, Ahmet invited Kissinger to stay at his summer home in Bodrum and then arranged a trip to Ankara, where they met with the new president and the defense and foreign ministers. In Ahmet’s words, “It was important for America and Turkey and it was a pleasure for me.”
Five years later, Ahmet and Mica and the Kissingers visited China. In Kissinger’s words, “I tried to explain to Ahmet that the Chinese take everything that is said in my presence seriously because I have a certain status there. Ahmet might have been willing to accept that if I had not made the mistake of telling a Chinese leader that Turks have no sense of humor. This obliged Ahmet to tell a joke every time we met a Chinese official. Some of them, I’m sure, they had never heard before.”
At a formal dinner one night, Ahmet told a joke about a Chinese rabbi who had gone to services at Temple Emanu-El in New York. Asked about the experience, the rabbi said he had loved the service and the synagogue was beautiful but, “I didn’t see anyone who looked Jewish.” Because the hosts did not get the punch line, Kissinger was forced to explain it to them.
While Kissinger knew nothing about the world of rock ’n’ roll and “had no connection whatsoever with that kind of music,” he was comfortable with fellow celebrities like Michael Douglas, Bill Murray, and Bianca Jagger, all of whom were backstage that night at Madison Square Garden. Introducing Kissinger to someone he had never met, Ahmet said, “Henry, this is my friend Wilson Pickett.”
Known for good reason as “The Wicked Mr. Pickett,” the legendary soul singer had recorded classics like “In the Midnight Hour” and “Mustang Sally” for Jerry Wexler and then gotten them both banned from the Stax studios in Memphis after starting a fistfight with soul singer Percy Sledge. When he was asked to record a cover version of the Beatles’ “Hey Jude,” Pickett insisted Jerry Wexler would never release a song called “Hey Jew.” Short-tempered and physically explosive, Pickett regularly carried a gun. In May 1988, he was still on probation for having brought a loaded shotgun to a bar fight in New Jersey.
Delighted to be meeting the former secretary of state, Pickett said, “Henry Kissinger, my man!” and then gave him a big hug. Beaming, Kissinger replied, “Mr. Pickett, a pleasure.” It was a moment only Ahmet could have engineered. The point was underlined when Phil Collins walked up and introduced himself by saying, “How do you do, Dr. Kissinger? I’m Otis Redding.” Courteously, Kissinger, who had never lost his thick German accent, replied, “I luff your music, Otis.” Without missing a beat, Ahmet then dragged Kissinger off down the hall.
At midnight, Led Zeppelin finally took the stage for their long-awaited reunion performance. After flying in from London on the Concorde, Jimmy Page had spent six minutes rehearsing with his former band mates and John Bonham’s son and then insisted Atlantic rent the hotel suite next to his so he would not be disturbed by the telephone. Opening their thirty-one-minute set with “Kashmir,” the band also performed “Whole Lotta Love” and “Stairway to Heaven.” The celebration continued after the show at a party where at five in the morning Ahmet said, “I’m a happy man.”
Some days later, Ahmet sent Jerry Wexler a form letter on Atlantic Records Fortieth Anniversary stationery in which he wrote, “Dear Jerry, Thank you for being involved in the fortieth anniversary of Atlantic Records. Having so many members of the Atlantic family under one roof was a thrill that I do not expect to ever be repeated in my lifetime. I want you to know that your participation had very special meaning for me and I will always remember it. With warmest personal regards and much love, Sincerely, Ahmet.”
Unfortunately, as Wexler would later say, “I declined to appear at Atlantic’s fortieth anniversary. Because of the way it was being produced for television, they were going to drag me out like a wooden Indian and use me as a prop. It was all Ahmet and there was no sense of collegiality. So I didn’t go.” When Wexler received Ahmet’s letter, in the words of Jerry Greenberg, “He went crazy.”
NINETEEN
Clash of the Titans
“You get to be a certain age and these things happen and you say, ‘Look, this is not a fight for me to start at my age.’ Right now, I have a very, very comfortable job. Most people my age have been retired for years. I have the luxury of picking what I do and doing whatever I like with very few obligations and a lot of perks. Why would I now upset the apple cart? Because it is not something I can control.”
—Ahmet Ertegun
1
In the spring of 1983, the Atari Corporation, which had accounted for a third of Warner’s annual income and been one of the fastest growing companies in United States history, suffered a precipitous $500 million loss that caused the price of Warner’s common stock to plummet from $60 to $20 a share. In the new regime Steve Ross instituted to save his company from ruin, Ahmet was forced to use all his considerable diplomatic skills in order to survive.
Intent on spinning off Atari as he had done with other ventures once they had proved to be no longer profitable, Ross authorized Warner executive Bob Morgado to do “all the cost cutting” for him so he could restore Warner Communications to its former lucrative position. After Morgado had “let over a thousand employees in the corporation go,” he turned his attention with Ross’s blessing to the music division. As Joe Smith explained, “The music division was bloated and not doing well and Steve couldn’t fire anybody so he brought in Morgado. He was not a real likable guy and didn’t fit with the music guys.”
As chief of staff for Governor Hugh Carey of New York, Morgado had worked with Wall Street banker Felix Rohatyn to help create the MAC bonds that bailed New York City out of its financial difficulties in the 1970s. He had also been instrumental in planning and constructing the World Financial Center and the Javits Convention Center in Manhattan. Just before Carey left office in 1982, Steve Ross made Morgado his special assistant and then put him in charge of the record companies at Warner Communications.
Accurately, Morgado saw Atlantic, Warner Brothers, and Elektra as three separate labels that were being run “imperially” by Ahmet, Mo Ostin, and Bob Krasnow. Unable to change the structure at Atlantic because “Ahmet stood there, blocking the doorway,” Morgado decided instead to start with what he called his “area of greatest opportunity.” In the words of Warner’s label executive and author Stan Cornyn, this was also “a euphemism for ‘least-defended fortress’—WEA International,” a division then being run by Nesuhi.
Linda Moran, who worked for thirty-five years at Atlantic and then at the Warner Music Group, said, “Nesuhi put Warner Music International together. He handpicked the head of every country. It was his idea to create it.” Nonetheless, Morgado felt the division was, in Cornyn’s words, “loose, undirected, and indifferent.” Yet another issue was that none of the label heads, Ahmet among them, was pleased with the man Nesuhi had chosen to succeed him as the head of the division.
In May 1985, Morgado brought in Castilian-born Ramón López, the former head of Polygram Records in the United Kingdom, on an equal footing with Nesuhi as the vice chairman of Warner International. Refusing to concede power to López, Nesuhi continued running the division as he always had. In response to Morgado’s urging, the label heads, Mo Ostin and Ahmet among them, decided less than a year later to cancel Nesuhi’s contract and replace him with López.
While Ahmet and Nesuhi had over the years begun leading increasingly separate lives, the bond between them was still so strong that Ahmet could not bring himself to tell his brother the bad news. In part this was because Ahmet would have been unable, in Cornyn’s words, to answer the question, “With all your power, you couldn’t stop this?” According to Cornyn, Ahmet then asked Ostin to inform his brother of the decision. Ostin explained, “I don’t think Ahmet could have stopped it. It was a situation which had steam-rollered to the point where there was no turning back. It wasn’t anything Ahmet instigated. I think he just recognized this was going on and also felt there was no way he could prevent it.” David Horowitz was the one who actually told Nesuhi of the decision.
Moving to an office next to the one occupied by Morgado on the twenty-ninth floor of 75 Rockefeller Plaza, Nesuhi began recording jazz for East/West, a label Atlantic had once distributed that Ahmet reactivated for his brother to run. He also led the fight by the International Federation of Phonograph Industries to stamp out record piracy in Hong Kong, Singapore, Egypt, Turkey, and South Korea.
On March 20, 1989, Nesuhi wrote a long letter to his old friend Jerry Wexler. Going into detail about his recent medical history, Nesuhi noted he had begun experiencing stomach pains more than a year earlier only to be misdiagnosed by a doctor in London. After seeing a physician in New York who suspected he was suffering from ulcers, Nesuhi had learned he was suffering from large cell lymphoma in his stomach.
After having an ulcer and part of his stomach removed and losing thirty pounds, Nesuhi was now about to begin undergoing chemotherapy and expected to “be fully fit and well again after six treatments.” Staying in Ahmet’s house so he could get “some peace and quiet” while his daughter Leyla and his son Rustem from his fourth marriage were home, Nesuhi urged Wexler to begin writing his book. “Frankly,” he confessed, “I am also thinking seriously of starting a book of my own; the trouble is, I can’t write English half as well as you can.”
Two months later, Nesuhi was admitted to Mount Sinai Hospital in Manhattan. On July 15, 1989, at the age of seventy-one, he died from complications following cancer surgery. In his obituary in The New York Times the next day, Susan Heller Anderson wrote, “Elegant and dapper, Mr. Ertegun spoke several languages—all of them quietly. He was a reticent person in a flamboyant industry, and had two passions outside music—soccer and art.”
The Last Sultan Page 38
