Never Write A Letter To The Bee Gees

One of the part time jobs I had in LA was working for a company called Left Bank. They managed bands like Duran Duran, The Cranberries, and the Bee Gees. One of the Big Kahunas in the company used to be a standup comic back in NY. He said he was glad he left the profession because now he could pay his bills. And eat. On a regular basis.

Quitter. I floated round the office but mainly was on the Reception Desk because of my personality. I’ll talk to a dead person, and have, so I was the perfect choice to terrify encourage the wannabes who came in and were nervous. My job was to get them to relax so they wouldn’t be so annoying when they met with the managers. Most of them told me to shut the fuck up ignored me.

I got tons of free CDs and learned some disappointing things. When they got musician submissions in the mail, and they got a lot, they were automatically tossed into a large closet, never to be seen again or opened. If you didn’t have an agent, manager or lawyer submitting you, that was the end of that. Very few people called to check on their submissions. I remember one in the few months I worked there. Later on, when I started writing screenplays, I never blindly sent out scripts but took a more professional route and tossed them directly into the trash.

I had no idea how hard they worked to get airplay. The woman in charge of that department fielded over a hundred calls a day. If you worked for her, you had to be calm and serene because the pace was frantic. I lasted 4 days with her before my head fell off. But at least I understood why you heard the same shitty songs over and over and over while you were driving 4 blocks to the dry cleaners.

To this day I never listen to music on the radio. Flashbacks. I always wonder if YouTube made their job easier.

Never write a fan letter to a management company. I can tell you exactly where they end up. If you do by chance get an autographed picture, it was signed by the secretary to the janitor.

Once I worked for the big manager, Tommy. Everyone loved him. He was smart and funny and really sweet. One day I got a call.

“Left Bank.”
“Yeah, let me talk to Tommy.”
“Who shall I say is calling?”
“Me.”
“Me who?” I laughed a little but wanted to say, ARE YOU KIDDING ALREADY?
"Meeeeeeeeeeeee.”

Yeah that helps, draw it out.

“Meeeeeeeeeee who?” Was this guy high? Music + spaz phone call = drugs.
“Meeeeeeeeeeeeeee.”

Seriously, what is wrong with people?

“Meeeeeeeeeeeeeee WHO?”
“MeeeeeeTTTTTTTTTT.”

Meetuh? Who the hell is meetuh?

And then I remembered, that’s what they called Meatloaf. One of their clients.

Now that I've put up the promotional CD cover, I realize it says "Must be returned on demand of copyright owner." Yeah, well they don't know where I live and if they find me, I hope they bring a big box.

End of chat.