A Friend in the Music Business: The ASCAP Story

By Bruce Pollock

On February 13, 1914, a group of the nation's most distinguished and popular songwriters gathered together in New York City to support the mission of ASCAP, a new organization for publishers and songwriters. A few years later, ASCAP received its mandate from the Supreme Court to collect royalties for the public performance of copyrighted material. Over the course the next century, ASCAP has been as prominent a force for the advancement and nurture and financial well-being of songwriters as any record label or publishing outfit one would care to name. With a responsive board of directors made up entirely of songwriter/composer and publisher members, ASCAP has defended creators' rights at every turn against those who would seek to devalue music. Today, with copyright under renewed assault, its mission is as resonant and vital as ever, along with its relatively new role as a nurturer of the young artists who represent the future of music. Award-winning music writer Bruce Pollock explores the growth and changes within this complex society and its relationship to emerging technologies, in the context of 100 years of an ever-evolving music business, to see how ASCAP has become, for those who hope to make a living making music, now more than ever, “a friend in the music business.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: RowmanLittlefield
• Release date: Jan 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781480386105

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Copyright © 2014 by Bruce Pollock

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, without written permission, except by a newspaper or magazine reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review.

Published in 2014 by Hal Leonard Books

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Book design by Publishers’ Design and Production Services, Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Pollock, Bruce.

A friend in the music business : the ASCAP story / Bruce Pollock.

pages cm

Includes bibliographical references and index.

ISBN 978-1-4234-9221-4

1. American Society of Composers, Authors and Publishers. 2. Music trade—United States. I. Title. 

ML3790.P66 2014

338.7'61780973—dc23

2013042806

www.halleonardbooks.com

Contents

Foreword: Why ASCAP Matters by Quincy Jones

Preface by Lyle Lovett

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1: Herbert’s Victory

Chapter 2: Buck Stops Here

Chapter 3: Radio Waves

Chapter 4: TV vs. Rock ’n’ Roll

Chapter 5: The Comeback

Chapter 6: Seeding the Garden of Creativity

Chapter 7: New Blood, Nashville, and Capitol Hill

Chapter 8: Gridlock, Grants, and Gigabytes

Chapter 9: A Common Cause

Chapter 10: Follow the Dollar

Chapter 11: Playback and Fast Forward

Appendix A: ASCAP Leadership Through the Years

Appendix B: ASCAP Membership Activities

Appendix C: The ASCAP Foundation and Its Programs

Appendix D: ASCAP and Oscar

Appendix E: ASCAP Recipients of the Pulitzer Prize

Appendix F: ASCAP and Tony

Appendix G: ASCAP and Grammy

Notes

Selected Bibliography

Photos

Foreword

Why ASCAP Matters

I first joined ASCAP in 1955. I had previously spent a lot of time in France, and I knew about SACEM (Société des Auteurs, Compositeurs et Éditeurs de Musique), the French equivalent of ASCAP. I heard the United States had their own version of it, so that’s why I became a member. Also, many other composers and songwriters that I was familiar with were members too, like Duke Ellington and Count Basie.

For nearly 60 years, I’ve worked as a producer, arranger, songwriter, and composer in almost every musical style—including pop, jazz, R&B, rock ’n’ roll, and classical—and in all media forms, including records, film, and TV. It’s been an amazing journey. And through it all, ASCAP has always been there for me, making sure I received fair compensation for my work, thereby ensuring I could continue to work and grow as a creative artist. This has always been their main role—to be the champion for all their member songwriters and composers.

But in today’s music business, there is a proliferation of piracy everywhere in the world. Songwriters and music industry professionals are challenged to stave off this epidemic, because the means for producing, replicating, and disseminating intellectual property such as music is so quick, easy, and accessible to everyone. In this climate, the challenge is, how do songwriters and composers continue to be properly compensated for their work? The solutions are not easy to find, but if we don’t discover them, there aren’t going to be songwriters to write the great songs of the future. That’s why ASCAP is absolutely as essential now as it ever was and maybe even more so. It’s a game-changing time throughout the business, with people reluctant to pay for various uses of music. That’s why it’s important for ASCAP to persevere—to make every effort to work with the entire music industry, as well as legislative bodies, in making sure songwriters continue to be treated fairly in terms of appropriate compensation. So far, for the first 100 years of their existence, they’ve done a great job; they’ve consistently worked very hard to represent us at every turn, whenever there’s been a challenge to our right to make a living from our creative work. ASCAP has their hands full, but they keep working at it and finding solutions. As songwriters, we certainly need them. They are essential to our existence.

I talk to young songwriters all the time. I tell them don’t forget God’s rules, and that’s to have humility with your creativity and grace with your success. Start with that. That’s very important. Then I tell them join ASCAP and you’ll get protected from piracy, because ASCAP is a rights protection organization. I tell them ASCAP will champion your right to earn a living on your creative work, and what’s more, will collect revenue on your behalf for that work.

Right now, as a society, we are not respecting the rights of songwriters—that they need to be compensated for their intellectual property, which is their songs and compositions. The world is running outside the boundaries of the concept of intellectual property rights, and we’ve got to get back in them, because it’s about respect for people’s property and the morality of not just stealing it because it is so easy to do. But even though the business is in trouble, young songwriters are creating great music. Music and water will be the last things to disappear from this planet. People can’t live without music. So we’ll need ASCAP to be doing their job until the very end.

I was so honored when I received the ASCAP Founders Award in 2013. Some incredible musicians have been recipients of this prestigious honor. ASCAP has an amazing legacy and a long heritage of nurturing and supporting the creative process. That’s why I try to do as many ASCAP events as my schedule permits. We all need to do our part to keep ASCAP visible and in the public’s eye, so everyone knows how important it is that they are there.

I was elected to be on the board of ASCAP, but at the time I was in the middle of an incredibly heavy workload, especially working with Michael Jackson and all my other endeavors in the ’80s. So I wrote a long letter to ASCAP recommending that Marilyn Bergman take my place on the board—which she did, and not surprisingly, she later became an awesome president and chairman of ASCAP for a period of fifteen years, until 2009. (Currently, Paul Williams has taken the reins and is continuing to do a wonderful job.) I’ve known Marilyn and Alan Bergman since we were next-door neighbors and worked together on the songs for In the Heat of the Night in 1967. She’s like family. I knew she’d be right for the board because I knew her soul, her mind, and her God-given gifts. She definitely has a leader’s mind. She’s brilliant. You can hear it in her lyrics.

If you want to know what ASCAP’s mission is and always has been, just read the first few lines of How Do You Keep the Music Playing? with music by Michel Legrand and lyrics by Marilyn and Alan Bergman:

How do you keep the music playing?

How do you make it last?

How do you keep the song from fading too fast?

Quincy Jones

November 2013

Preface

Because of my admiration for great ASCAP songwriters, I decided to join the Society in 1984. ASCAP members and fellow Texans Guy Clark, Townes Van Zandt, Steven Fromholz, Willis Alan Ramsey, and Rodney Crowell were all songwriters I listened to and admired greatly. And there were non-Texans I admired who formed a circle of songwriting royalty at ASCAP: George Gershwin, Burt Bacharach and Hal David, Billy Joel, and Stevie Wonder. What an amazing pedigree ASCAP boasted, and what a tremendous job this organization did in safeguarding the rights of songwriters and music publishers, making it possible for its songwriters to make a living writing music. That was my impression when I joined ASCAP, and in the years that have followed, that impression has been reinforced many times over.

I consider myself fortunate to have had the opportunity to interact with ASCAP and its people on many levels. The ASCAP office in Nashville was a point of entry for me and for so many others. It was a place we aspiring songwriters could go when we needed encouragement, inspiration, and even a few dollars to keep going. I, and many songwriters like me, were allowed space there to practice and were given advice that went a long way in making progress in our careers. ASCAP’s doors were always open.

As I started to make recordings, ASCAP was a constant partner in ensuring that I received proper compensation for the songs I wrote and also made sure I received recognition at ASCAP awards events. I felt as though I was part of a close-knit family. I made friends in both ASCAP management and leadership. I’ve had the great privilege of spending time with several ASCAP presidents: Hal David, Morton Gould, Marilyn Bergman, and Paul Williams. They deserve our heartfelt thanks for being advocates for all songwriters.

I’ll always remember the time I was asked to testify for ASCAP in Washington, DC. I addressed the House Subcommittee on Courts, the Internet, and Intellectual Property in May 2001 on the Internet uses of music. It was my job to give the songwriter’s perspective. I remember asking, Have you ever seen in the classified section of any newspaper an ad that reads: ‘Songwriter wanted. Good salary. Paid vacation. Health benefits and many other perks’? I went on to point out that most songwriters are independent entrepreneurs, trying again and again to write the hit that will help them take care of their families and keep them writing in the hopes of another hit down the road, so that songwriting can be a career, not a part-time unpaid struggle. It was a heady experience, going toe to toe with those who make the laws.

That’s why I’ve never hesitated to appear at musical events ASCAP produces in Washington, DC, that highlight the value of music before our legislators. At ASCAP’s concert celebrating the bicentennial of American copyright at the National Building Museum in 1990, the bill of performers I was astounded to share the stage with included Henry Mancini, Leiber & Stoller, Sammy Cahn, Cy Coleman, Ashford & Simpson, and Johnny Mandel. I was also invited to sing for President and Mrs. Clinton at the White House for an international evening ASCAP helped put together, and more recently, I performed at the Library of Congress as part of ASCAP’s We Write the Songs. Each event was a once-in-a-lifetime evening to remember and was a chance to underscore to lawmakers the importance of songwriters.

In 2014, ASCAP celebrates its 100th birthday. Although A Friend in the Music Business: The ASCAP Story certainly outlines the evolution of the many and various vehicles for delivery of music, what remains remarkably constant is the struggle to convince music users and our lawmakers that songs still need to be safeguarded and songwriters still need to get paid fairly for what they do. It is our goal that songwriters not have to fight quite so hard in years to come; it would be an accomplishment if, on the occasion of our next centennial, songwriters didn’t have to fight at all.

Lyle Lovett

December 2013

Acknowledgments

As usual with a project of this magnitude, many hands took part in bringing my book to fruition. Special thanks go to the team at Hal Leonard Corporation, who worked wonders with the manuscript, including Keith Mardak, Jessica Burr, John Cerullo, and Zahra Brown.

I would also like to acknowledge Karen Sherry and Jim Steinblatt at ASCAP for their wealth of editorial and historical expertise and perspective. Thanks again to Jim for all the research he did putting together the various appendices at the back of the book and finding the many classic photographs that adorn these pages.

I would like to thank the following people, who graciously took part in interviews for this book:

Paul Adler, Marty Bandier, Mary Ellin Barrett, Chad Beguelin, Richard Bellis, Marilyn Bergman, Caroline Bienstock, Jenn Bostic, Peter Boyle, Todd Brabec, Connie Bradley, Michael Brettler, Kenny Burrell, Bob Candela, Vince Candilora, Ted Chapin, Jerome Charyn, Barry Coburn, John Corigliano, Phil Crosland, Hal David, Bob Doyle, Roger Faxon, Nicholas Firth, Dan Foliart, Alec French, Roger Greenaway, Randy Grimmett, Dorothy Gullish, Arthur Hamilton, Wayland Holyfield, Lauren Iossa, David Israelite, John A. Jackson, Jimmy Jam, Dean Kay, Josh Kear, Jim Kendrick, Michael Kerker, Nancy Knutsen, Fred Koenigsberg, Leeds Levy, John LoFrumento, Keith Mardak, John Mayer, Jonathan McHugh, Harriet Melvin, Gloria Messinger, Jay Morgenstern, Jason Mraz, Brendan Okrent, Robert Ellis Orrall, Ben Palumbo, Stephen Paulus, Rufus Reid, Richard Reimer, Fran Richard, Irwin Z. Robinson, Debbie Rose, Earl Rose, Seth Saltzman, Dave Sanjek, Don Schlitz, Hans Schuman, Stephen Schwartz, Karen Sherry, Valerie Simpson, Ricky Skaggs, Matt Sklar, Billy Steinberg, Cameron Strang, Charles Strouse, Michael Todd, Jimmy Webb, Paul Williams, and Toni Winter.

As always, thanks to my family for being there to keep me from disappearing under the various books, articles, public documents, transcripts, and assorted scattered notes that made up the research for this book. And to Walter Wager; I owed you another one. Too bad you didn’t live to see it.

Chapter 1

Herbert’s Victory

When pinpointing some of the most transformative moments in the evolution of American popular music, February 13, 1914, rarely if ever comes up. That was the day a group of the nation’s most distinguished and popular songwriters, among them Irving Berlin, Jerome Kern, Victor Herbert, and Raymond Hubbell, arrived en masse at the Hotel Claridge in New York City to support the mission of a new organization for songwriters and publishers called ASCAP. Unless you are or once were a songwriter, chances are those initials are meaningless. But the American Society of Composers, Authors and Publishers has surely been, over the course of its 100-year history, the most prominent collective force for the advancement and nurture and financial well-being of songwriters and composers.

That they were convening that day (several months after nine of their number had braved a winter storm only to table the meeting) to implement a notion, already gaining favor abroad, that songwriters deserved a royalty whenever one of their tunes was played in public for profit—a performance royalty—was alone enough to mark their mission as both improbably noble and impossibly foolhardy. A notion that would slap the very hands that fed, albeit poorly, these songwriters—bandleaders, restaurant and club owners, music publishers, movie theater operators. A tax on music, the attack ads of the day read, while the boos thundered down on the proud head of no less accomplished a figure than Victor Herbert as he tried to explain this position to the members of the American Federation of Musicians (AFM) at their ­annual meeting in Bridgeport, Connecticut, at the end of 1914.

It was quite a radical agenda in a world where aspiring Stephen Fosters routinely sold all their rights to publishers just to get their songs in print—whereupon publishers slipped those songs to touring troubadours, along with other informal gifts, just to get them heard. It was such a breach of protocol that in order for it to come into effect, it would literally take a ten-year pitched battle with Congress; a presidential memo signed by Theodore Roosevelt on his last day in office; many lawsuits, both lost and won; and finally a decision handed down from the Supreme Court itself, eloquently written by Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr., just to put it in motion. After which not a year would go by without further lawsuits to test the validity of what constituted a public performance, what constituted for profit, and why one particular constituency or another should be exempt from it—lawsuits that continue to this day, and will undoubtedly continue for the next hundred years.

Seven years after its existence was applauded and ratified in 1914, and four years after it was given the judicial seal of approval in 1917, ASCAP distributed its first royalty payments of approximately $82,000 to its hungry membership, which had dwindled by then to only a handful of dues-paying diehards. It is to these diehards the current roster of close to 500,000 songwriters, composers, and publishers must nod and give thanks when analyzing the complexities of their current royalty statements, which in total in 2012 amounted to just shy of $830 million. For thus creating a system where several generations of songwriters could at least aspire to make a living, ASCAP has performed an invaluable service to the history of popular music.

Having owed its existence for so many years to a legal premise, and starting out as a licensing and collection organization, ASCAP has ultimately found its greatest strength in its ability to recognize the changing times and adapt to them. In so doing, it expanded its mission for its members to include an enticing menu of songwriting awards, professional workshops, hands-on tutorials, and networking events that pay homage to the past while celebrating the future. By offering a willing ear to the newcomer; a stipend for the coffeehouse performer; and unlimited access to contacts and legal, business, and technical advice, ASCAP has truly become, for every type of songwriter and composer, a friend in the music business.

As the Society faces its second hundred years, poised atop a music business in turmoil, with fractured audiences and diminishing prospects for success, ruled by business models and new delivery systems determined to reduce the compensation of those who provide them with their content or to outright steal it, ASCAP’s mission is more important than ever. In the face of unprecedented challenges, as recent events in the courts have shown, no one will miss the irony of a nation’s songwriters cast adrift in the same boat they were in over a hundred years ago. . . .

It was in the Copyright Act of 1897, in fact, that American composers and lyricists first gained the right to receive payment for a public performance of their work, but if any of them were aware of it, no songwriter or music publisher chose to pursue such a hopeless, lonely quest. Even when this right was affirmed in the revised Copyright Act of 1909, this time adding significant monetary penalties for each infringing performance for profit, the customs of doing business went on unchanged. Ever since the songwriting trade had become more visible around the time of the Civil War, most songwriters had customarily assigned all their rights to the publishers. One of America’s greatest songwriters, Stephen Foster (Jeanie with the Light Brown Hair, My Old Kentucky Home), reportedly never made more than $100 for any of his songs and is said to have died penniless in 1864. In the 1880s, when music publishing began to become big business, among the first to aggressively market his catalogue was Chicago’s Will Rossiter, who in buying songs outright from songwriters—common practice at the time—spared himself the expense of paying royalties on tunes like Meet Me Tonight in Dreamland.

By the last decade of the century, however, some enterprising songwriters had begun to take matters into their own hands. One young banjo player from Milwaukee named Charles K. Harris was so enraged by his royalty check of $0.85 from the House of Witmark for his worthy tune When the Sun Has Set that he decided to publish his next song himself. That song turned out to be After the Ball, a multimillion-selling weeper credited with inventing the Tin Pan Alley genre before it was even named. Exhibiting the pluck of a journeyman plugger, with song in hand, Harris wangled his way backstage when the touring musical A Trip to Chinatown, featuring the popular ballad singer J. Aldrich Libby, rolled into Milwaukee. After having been turned down on the song by several performers, Harris happened upon the very tactic that was to prove essential in doing business in the brave new world approaching. Posing as a reporter for a local paper, he promised the singer a rave review should he put the song immediately into the show; even more to the point, he offered him the generous stipend of $500, plus continuing royalties on the sheet music sales of After the Ball. Gladly pocketing the first payment, Libby proceeded to stun the audience into several encores. Over in New York City, the equally stunned Witmarks then offered to buy the song outright from Harris for an unprecedented sum of $10,000, but Harris had learned his lessons well. Before the first million sheet music copies were sold, he had opened a branch office of his publishing company on or near Broadway.

Irving Berlin had made a total of $0.37 in royalties in the four years since penning the lyrics to Marie from Sunny Italy in 1907, when he was a singing waiter at the Chatham on Doyers Street near the Bowery and the Pelham Café on Pell Street in Chinatown. In 1911 he moved out of the service professions for keeps, having come up with Alexander’s Rag Time Band and gone into business with its publisher, the Ted Snyder Company.

Harry Von Tilzer started out as a staff writer for the publishing company Shapiro Bernstein, which in 1900 began as Shapiro Bernstein & Von Tilzer, before branching out on his own with Down Where the Wurzburger Flows a couple of years later. Equally typical of the songwriter’s emerging new career path in those days was that of E. B. Marks, a former button salesman from Chicago. Soon after he wrote the weepy The Little Lost Child, he went into business with Joseph W. Stern, also a salesman. Before the first decade of the new century was through, Joseph W. Stern & Company would publish classics like Ballin’ the Jack, The Glow-Worm, Lazy Moon, and Ida! Sweet as Apple Cider.

Jerome Kern worked for Stern as a shipping clerk. He moved up to the position of sheet music salesman and occasional plugger at another publisher, T. B. Harms, in 1904, in which capacity he might have been seen at Macy’s warbling How’d You Like to Spoon with Me, the tune he’d written for Edward Lasca’s lyrics and placed in the musical The Earl and the Girl. Once it became a hit for Corrine Morgan and the Haydn Quartet on the Victor label in 1906, he was able to gain part ownership of the company, run by the legendary talent spotter Max Dreyfus, ponying up a bit of his inheritance to do so.

The black composer Scott Joplin was a pioneer in more ways than one when he got the publisher John Stillwell Stark in Sedalia, Missouri, to cut him in on the royalties for his groundbreaking Maple Leaf Rag, the first rag to be published in sheet music form, in 1899. By 1908, a year after hit cover versions by the United States Marine Band and banjo virtuoso Vess Ossman, Joplin was living at 252 W. 47th Street in New York City, just off Broadway. Did it bother him that popular journals like the Musical Courier and established unions like the American Federation of Musicians were decrying his pride, ragtime, as the ruination of polite society in general and teenagers in particular? Or that Irving Berlin and a few other white guys were poised to mutate ragtime into a national dance craze whose face and form would be the debonair duo of Vernon and Irene Castle? Probably not; he was too busy running through his royalties writing the operatic masterwork Treemonisha, which would not become a success until long after his death.

In the early part of the 20th century, many of the top freelance songwriters of the day were in the pocket of Florenz Ziegfeld, whose Ziegfeld Follies and Midnight Frolic would come to define not only the musical theater of the era but the American notion of architectural style and feminine beauty. As Jerome Charyn wrote in his book Gangsters and Gold Diggers: Old New York, the Jazz Age, and the Birth of Broadway: "The Follies would accurately mirror the preoccupations of their time, like a slightly surreal never-never land of New York and the nation. Ziggy would provide his own atmosphere. Dubbing the roof of the New York Theater the ‘Jardin de Paris,’ he cobbled together a variety show that was four hours long. . . . The Follies caught on like a house on fire and soon Ziegfeld was as famous as the Follies itself."

To have a song performed in the Follies by an Al Jolson or a Nora Bayes or Ziegfeld’s main squeeze, the sexy Anna Held, could mean a lot of lunches at Lüchow’s or Rector’s. But the real money for the writers who didn’t sell their songs outright was elsewhere. In the parlors of the rich, in the foyers of the middle class, in the crowded bedrooms of the poor, sheet music was the currency of the bustling entertainment economy, where families gathered nightly around the piano player or the player piano to sing the hits of the day. Many a popular tune, if it was well placed and well promoted, resulted in sheet music sales of a million copies or more. (As far as royalties from the piano roll companies, that was another story, soon to be decided in court.)

Losing out on the chance to collect on all these performance rights was thought of by publishers at the time as a necessary cost of doing business. Live performances of a song, after all, were free publicity for future sheet music sales. Even had they the smarts and temerity to attempt to collect on their lawful rights, most songwriters feared upsetting the historic balance and alienating the very places that exposed their music. But even major music publishers would have found keeping track of all legitimate public performances of their current as well as past catalogues that were suddenly cropping up at the turn of the century to be a logistical nightmare. In New York City alone it meant an exhausting itinerary of vaudeville and nightclub, restaurant and saloon hopping that surely would have deadened the soul and flattened the bank account of almost any publisher before producing a dime of profit. The only people in that era physically and morally equipped and recompensed to follow such a schedule were the notorious song pluggers of the day, who not only appeared regularly at most of the growing list of places where their employers’ tunes were apt to be performed, but also often wound up performing one or two of them themselves.

At theaters during intermission, in restaurants between courses, at department stores between mannequins, they could hardly be avoided, these scruffy gents in fedoras holding cold cigars, who would pop up as if pulled by a force greater than destiny, but actually paid by the House of Witmark or J. W. Stern or Leo Feist or T. B. Harms or Shapiro Bernstein, to warble a ballad, run through a ditty, or demonstrate a rag. Sometimes aided by pictures or lyrics previously pressed into the unsuspecting palms of patrons or passersby, the best of them would wind up leading the throngs in wild sing-alongs and then collecting tribute through sales of the sheet music they just happened to have with them.

Often a famous personage from the Broadway stage, the vaudeville circuit, or Europe would be corralled à la J. Aldrich Libby for an under-the-table fee, and encouraged to perform the song—perhaps to take it back to the theater, on tour from coast to coast, or to the old country, thus propelling sheet music sales worldwide for several years. Al Jolson himself went straight from the synagogue choir to singing Ma Blushing Rosie for his supper at McGurk’s on the Bowery. Many of these performers made more money accepting gratuities from publishers than they were being paid to sing on stage, a niggling affair the vaudeville managers would soon themselves convene to discuss, deride, condemn, but ultimately fail in their attempt to stamp out. And who knows how many unauthorized performances by restaurant orchestras, skinny chanteuses, and tank town belters posing as waiters and waitresses were going unchallenged on any given night?

But in 1909, when the new Copyright Act was passed, there was no performing rights organization (PRO) established in the States to collect the fees owed whenever a breach of the law occurred. Two years later, when the French society, SACEM (Société des Auteurs, Compositeurs et Éditeurs de Musique), opened a branch in New York City for American writers and publishers interested in following up on their public performances in Paris and elsewhere in Europe, they failed to generate a spark of interest, even from the songwriting community, no matter how strapped for cash most songwriters may have been. It was a situation that certainly would have appalled a foreign writer, especially someone of the international stature of Giacomo Puccini, composer of Madama Butterfly, who was visiting New York City in December 1910 to promote his latest opera, La Fanciulla del West (The Girl of the Golden West). As he was wined and dined on the arm and the tab of his publisher’s US representative, George Maxwell, he