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

who told him about a record that was burning up the local airwaves. The song, called “Oh Happy Day,” had been recorded by a religious group, The Edwin Hawkins Singers. Neil had the DJ play the song over the phone and then decided that he wanted to put it out on Buddah immediately. Neil called Edwin Hawkins right away, but he could not close the deal over the phone—he would have to go to San Francisco and work the deal in person.
    When an unsigned band has a hit on its hands, the competition among the labels to sign the act develops at a lightning pace, and Neil was fearful that while he was in transit from New York to San Francisco someone else would call Hawkins and close the deal on the phone. Hawkins had implied to Neil during their conversation that he was fielding offers from other labels and was waiting to hear back from them.
    Reasoning that Hawkins wouldn’t be able to field other calls if he were on the phone (luckily, call waiting had yet to be invented), Neil had Artie Ripp call Hawkins and keep him talking. While Neil traveled half a day to get to San Francisco to lock up the record, Artie kept Hawkins on the phone, determined to prevent someone else from beating us to the punch. When Hawkins was done talking and hung up, Artie would immediately call back with something else to discuss. This lasted for hours, until Neil finally arrived. Buddah got the record, and it was a monster hit.
    One of the more colorful characters I met during this time was Paul Colby. Paul was a strange little man, and he owned The Bitter End in Greenwich Village. He had a reputation for being difficult, but due to the amount of money we spent at his club, we got along wonderfully with him. I would go to the club at least once a week to see various artists (Bette Midler with Barry Manilow on piano stands out), and I was always given a great reception and the best seat in the house, no matter how packed it was. Although the cramped venue was maybe seventy-five seats jammed together to the point where you couldn’t even walk around, it was famous. It was our first choice when we wanted to impress out-of-towners. My first meeting with Brewer and Shipley, for instance, was at The Bitter End. It was also my first meeting with cocaine. The duo may have been famous for songs about weed (“One Toke over the Line” and “Tarkio Road”), but they seemed equally at home with blow. The backstage area at The Bitter End was nothing more than two rooms containing a beat-up old couch, a table, and a few chairs. Between shows that night, we were smoking some weed when Brewer and Shipley began to do some lines of coke, scooping up the dust with long pinkie fingernails that they kept manicured in a spoon shape for just that purpose. Initially, it did nothing for me, but after a few minutes the coke overrode the pot and I began to feel a different kind of buzz. It wasn’t a big revelatory experience, but I didn’t hate it, and I continued to do the stuff for years.
    The early days at Buddah were filled with that anything-can-happen sense you have when you’re young and your life is spread out before you. Each day was a learning experience. After the work day was over, between 6:00 and 7:00 p.m., a few of us would gather in Neil’s office to smoke pot and drink Blue Nun. These hangout sessions were not structured meetings; but, looking back, I’m sure Neil knew that sometimes things would happen during them. The West Coast was still open for business, so a call or two might come in during the sessions. No one wanted to rush home, especially if they did not live in the city, and many of us had regular dining engagements with industry people, so we used the time to cool our heels (and avoid the traffic) while we waited for the dinner hour to roll around. We would sit and bullshit or listen to some product by bands on the label or new artists Neil was considering signing. I began to see a little more of Neil’s identity during these times. He was