Looking For Jack

12/3/1993

Gatherings of our clan are unique occurrences. Is there any group as adept as those in the entertainment business at making small talk about absolutely nothing? Let’s face it. The useless information quotient redlines after five minutes with any select few.

It’s a product of our environment, I assume. Most really don’t have a choice except to babble on in a group. It wasn’t long ago that our jobs were part and parcel of meeting and eating with our counterparts, whether record or radio. Now, it’s hard to take a phone call, much less schedule a face-to-face conversation. There are too many other meetings inside the building.

What’s going on here?

Last week’s Editorial struck a chord with many about the relationships between programmers and record promotion people. Many programmers said they would value establishing relationships, but they never get the chance. More often than not, their contact with record company representatives comes through a phone call. Or fax.

What happened to the personal appearance?

The job had changed. And the people.

When I programmed KHJ Los Angeles in the mid-‘70s, there would be 60 record people in the lobby on music day. And lunches and dinners throughout the week. In the early ‘80s when I programmed KFRC in San Francisco, 30 would be lined up. And a couple of lunches and dinners would be scheduled each week. In the mid-‘80s at WAPP New York, maybe 10 would be there. There weren’t any lunches. Maybe a dinner. And in 1990 at KWOD in Sacramento, we were lucky if we saw one person a month. Dinners? Forget about it.

In three years at KWOD, I never met half of the record company representatives who were based in San Francisco, less than 90 miles away. Boys and girls, personal contact isn’t an option, it’s mandatory. And should be consistent. Whatever happened to road trips?

Get out of the office. Make more visits and fewer telephone calls. Every promotion person should have a calendar with consistent personal appointments with those in the assigned territory. And heads of promotion should study those calendars and make LPMs accountable. You can’t develop relationships if they don’t know who you are.

What if the programmer refuses to meet with you? What if you can’t get in to see him? Then you should resign. Or be fired. You’re paid to develop relationships. Find a way.

It’s really simple. If you aren’t meeting with your radio contacts on a consistent basis, you aren’t doing your job.

So it all boils down to group meetings at conventions. Or Parties. Or other record companies’ functions. I swear, at most record company showcases, you see more employees of other record companies than you do radio people. And it becomes a feeding frenzy.

When did you get in? Where are you staying? I’ve been trying to call you for weeks. I’ve been meaning to talk with you for a while. What are you doing afterwards? Do you want to grab a quick drink somewhere quiet where we can talk?

And all of this without eye contact. Because the gazes are over shoulders, checking the room to see if there’s someone more important. It’s all bullshit. And easy to see through. Plastic meetings in plastic places always melt in the heat of the real world.

Nowhere is this trait more prevalent than in Los Angeles, the land of shallow waters… and people. Even outside the finite world of radio and records, it exists in spades. Only in El Lay is the artist less important than the people who might be present. Nobody watches the stage. They check out the audience to see who’s there.

And even the audience is reduced to the parallel system. Lesser-known stars or bit players aren’t important. You must spot large and larger players as you move up the food chain.

And, of course, you’re always out to bag the big one. It ain’t a great party unless “he’s” there. And it doesn’t count if you don’t see “him.”

Who is “he?”

It depends on where you are. In New York, it’s Donald. In Miami, Gloria. In Minneapolis, it’s Prince. But in L.A. and everywhere else, for that matter, it’s not Jeff or Rick or Keith or Kevin. It’s Jack.

Jack Nicholson.

Everyone’s always looking for Jack. For star gazers it’s a full-time occupation. For all of us at concerts or parties, it’s at least part-time work. Colin Hay, former lead singer of Men At Work, even wrote a song about it. (He never saw Jack, either.)

Not long ago, I caught him. Nailed the bastard in the Monkey Bar in Beverly Hills. The thrill of a lifetime for a Mississippi-born hillbilly. The sheer excitement of it all made me temporarily insane enough to walk right up to him.

“I’ve been looking for you, Jack,” I said, grinning like a mule eating briars.

He flashed a smile back. “Hey, and I’ve been looking for you.”

Jack Nicholson looking for me? I was stunned. But only for a moment. Until he slapped me gently on the cheek and said, “Get me a white wine, will you?”

From the penthouse to the outhouse in less than a minute.

Don’t you just love L.A.?