And Party Every Day: The Inside Story of Casablanca Records Read Online Free PDF Page A

say about anyone. He also never did drugs—ever. Cecil was a gentleman, and he knew how to take care of business.
    One evening, Cecil and I went to the Apollo Theater in Harlem to see a show by Honey Cone, an all-girl vocal trio coming off a string of hits for Hot Wax Records, which we distributed through Buddah. Cecil drove us there in his big Cadillac through Central Park. Just when we were about to leave the park, he locked all the doors. I was taken aback, and I immediately thought, “These are his people. Why is he locking the doors?” When I mentioned this, he replied, “These definitely are not my people!” In 1971, Harlem was not the safest place to be; even the cops walked three or four abreast for protection. But Cecil’s action surprised me, as I frequently went to Harlem to visit record shops and WLIB-AM radio. I had never felt threatened, and I couldn’t possibly have been more Jewish or more white.
    My sense of security vanished that evening. In the Apollo, we both had a growing sense that we were being sized up. For what reason, we didn’t know, but we were both New York kids, and that sixth sense comes with the territory. We left the show fearing a confrontation outside the backstage entrance, which is where Cecil had parked. By a stroke of luck, the boyfriend of one of the Honey Cone girls was at the theater that night, and he came outside with us. His name was Thad Spencer, and he was a professional boxer who had come very close to fighting Muhammad Ali for the heavyweight title in late 1967, before the government stripped Ali of his mantle for dodging the draft for the Vietnam War. The unsavory types who had seemed intent on confronting us behind the theater clearly recognized Thad, and they parted like the Red Sea. No one came close to touching us.
    Around this time, we had another close call. One day, two big black guys with equally huge Afros walked into our offices. They waltzed by Neil’s secretary, Barbara, went into Neil’s office, and shut the door. Taking out their guns, they laid them on the desk in front of them and told Neil he was on trial. They claimed we had purchased a certain record and the deal included distribution rights; they were concerned that the original distributor, who happened to be a popular gospel disc jockey named Joe Bostwick whose contract we were not aware of, was being pushed out into the streets by “the Man.” In this era, there was a movement in the black community against “the Man” who was making money on the backs of black performers.
    Barbara called Cecil Holmes, maybe figuring that because he was black, he could help calm the situation. Cecil walked into Neil’s office and addressed the two thugs as “brothers,” but he was quickly told to sit down and shut up. He had no stroke with these guys. They told Neil that he had twenty-four hours to get the situation taken care of and that they would return the following day—if Neil didn’t make it right, there would be trouble. In the meantime, Barbara, cool as she was, sat at her desk trying to scheme a way out of this mess. She called a guy named Nate, who was our “cleaner,” so to speak, and who was likely involved with the Mob in ways I never knew. The next day, when the thugs returned, they found Nate standing in Neil’s office. They turned on their heels and walked quietly out of the building. In an attempt to reach a middle ground, we gave Bostwick mail-order rights to the record.
    Of course, this event shook Neil, but the fact that he had the protection of some major crime figures probably made him a little more comfortable about the situation. Mafia protection was a dual-edged sword, however, and he always told me that he had never wanted to ask a favor of “those people,” as he would be paying it back for the rest of his life. The Mafia would have connections in the music industry for many years to come.

    One day, Neil received a call from a disc jockey friend of his in San Francisco,