Photo by Adam Wallacavage earwax
Brian Howard works the product. Music publicists are whores. Lower breeds who prostitute themselves
on a daily basis, taking money to hock, peddle and schmooze in
shameless attempts to score press and radio play for any band
or record label willing to pay the price. Publicists are the lowest
of the low, a bunch beneath contempt. Or at least that's what I thought. As a Vital Staff Member at City Paper and earSHOT magazine, I spend many hours each day doing Important Stuff.
But as the de facto operator for City Paper's complicated-but-not-nearly-as-complicated-as-it-used-to-be
phone/voice mail system, I spend a good hour or so of my day answering
the telephone. And most of the phone calls we receive here are
from publicity slime. Since I spend a good part of that hour thwarting
their tentacled advances, I figured I had their schtick down pretty
well. There are seven basic species of publicist: 1) The showbiz guy: "Heeeyyy, is blah blah in? I want to let you
in on this great show, blah blah at the blah blah on blah blah."
2) The bubbly rock 'n' roll sorority girl: "HiiiiiiiYA. Who covers
pop music for you guys?" 3) The I'm-with-a-major-label-so-you-have-to-take-my-call guy:
"This is so-and-so from Warner/Geffen/Sony. Connect me with so-and-so."
4) The sneaky, I'm-going-to-hide-the-fact-that-I'm-a-publicist
publicist: "Hi, can I talk to so and so?" "Can I tell her who's calling?" "Uh, just tell her it's [insert name]." "Can I tell her what it's regarding?" "It's personal." 5) The-I-can't-pronounce-the-contact-name-I-have-so-I'm-going-to-make-bizarre-assumptions-on-phonetics
publicist: "Hi, is Marzheeeet Ditwhayyyyhlerrrr in?" 6) The timid/easily swayed: "Is so-and-so in?" "No, would you like his voice mail?" "Please." 7) The straight-up publicist: "Look, there's this band coming
through town that's pretty good. Take a listen to the CD. Write
a preview if you like it. I'm too proud to beg." James Stockstill, a friend from our days hocking porno mags as
clerks at Tower Books South Street, is now the publicist for Up
Records in Seattle. So while I was vacationing in Seattle last
month I called him and said that I'd like to spend a day as a
publicist, hassling music editors other than my own. He said,
"No problem," grinning his little ironic grin. (We were talking
on the phone, but it's the kind of grin you can hear.) Up Records is a three-person operation run out of a tiny office
on the sixth floor of the Terminal Sales Building on downtown
Seattle's First Avenue, the same building that houses the "mighty
indie empire" of Sub Pop records. But unlike Sub Pop, with its
myriad resources, reputation as the label that broke grunge, and
a back catalogue that includes superstars like Nirvana, Mudhoney,
Sebadoh and Soundgarden, the folks at Up have to scratch and claw.
Their roster includes some incredible up-and-comers (rockers Modest
Mouse and Built to Spill, mixologists Land of the Loops, to name
a few), but none with the clout of Sub Pop's MTV galvanized alumni.
So the trio of Stockstill, Britt Ury and Chris Takino each do
a little bit of everything. As I walk into the shoebox-sized office, lined on two walls with
stacks of CDs, LPs and singles, Britt, director of information
services, is taping up boxes of posters promoting the new Modest
Mouse record. James is picking up lunch. Chris, the big cheese,
is chatting with Rich, the president of Sub Pop. (Rich comments
that he's always respected Philadelphia because it's a city that
has the balls to bomb people. I told him that MOVE happened a
long time ago; Philly's not nearly as ballsy anymore.) James arrives with burritos and it's time to start publicizing.
I sit down with James to make my first phone call and discover
that there's a gnawing pain in my stomach: I'm nervous. And I don't understand why; I'm calling my own kind; I've been
on the other side of this phone call a million times. Perhaps
it's because this small organization - a label that's doing quite
well for itself despite its size and resources - has no formal
office, no cubicles to speak of, and the rest of the office will
be privy to every novice pitch I make. In order to help me focus, James has set up an incentive program:
Each interview I secure lands me a T-shirt of my choice; a preview
or review with picture - an LP; a preview or review without picture
- a single. We're calling today to promote two Up bands on tour.
I do a practice call with James: "Hi, this is Brian from Up records, how are you doing? I'm calling
because we have a couple of bands coming through town, Modest
Mouse and 764-HERO? We sent you an advance of Modest Mouse's new
record. Have you had a chance to listen to it? I was wondering
if you'd be interested in doing a preview of the show." "Stiff. You're not trying to make a sale," James explains. "Just
be yourself, tell them what you think of the record, try to convince
them to give it a listen." With that advice, I feel more assured, but am still unsure of
the science. What do I say if they say no? Where do I go next
if they say yes? What do I say if they tell me to go to hell?
What do I say, period. Unfortunately, it never gets that far. I'm calling Portland papers
and of the four on the list, James only has current contact names
for one, which means I'll have to use the unsavory, clunky and
largely inefficient "can I talk to your music editor" line. The Daily Vanguard, The U Portland Beacon and the Reed College Quest yield no fruit. Each college call results in a snippy "she's
not in/she's on the phone, would you like to leave a message,"
and straight to voice mail. Was I this self-important as a college
music editor? Probably. I'm ousted from my seat; James has to call the big guys - Rolling Stone, Raygun, Spin - tasks which require deftness and finesse; they're not to be
trusted to a green-behind-the-gills pretender. So I'm put to work
on mailing out finished copies of Modest Mouse's new CD, The Lonesome Crowded West, which suits me just fine. The envelopes have been packed and sealed,
only mailing labels need to be attached. I spent two college summers
in the mail room of J.T. Baker Chemical in Philipsburg, NJ, so
I'm a whiz with stickers. James finishes his calls and I'm up again after striking out.
Now on to San Francisco. This time I have most of the requisite
contact names and am backed with facts: Modest Mouse played San
Francisco two months ago and they sold out a mid-sized hall with
hundreds of people left standing outside; they're playing two
shows this time to compensate; their new record hits the stores
two days before the show. All for naught as I still can't get through. The student editor
at Berkeley's Daily Californian is at class; Dan Strachota's voice mail at SF's East Bay Express is gentile but still voice mail; Silke Tudor at SF Weekly can't talk; the numbers at American Music Press, SF Foghorn and San Jose's South Bay Music Review have all inexplicably been disconnected; and the receptionist
at The Times in San Jose says incredulously, "No one from entertainment is
in on Friday." "We're dealing with a lot of weeklies here," says James. "And
weeklies aren't going to write about you unless the band is coming
to town." Which means that he's not in constant contact with them
like he is with music publications. "So for me, it's love 'em
and leave 'em on an endless repeat cycle." It explains a lot. "This probably wasn't what you were expecting, was it?" says James.
"Welcome to the world of publicity." With a newfound respect for the folks who interrupt my Important
Work about twice an hour, I thank him for the opportunity but
vow never to try this again. But will I be nicer to publicists
from here out? Probably not.
Publicity Stunt