#69: Dusty Springfield – Dusty In Memphis

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Throughout the next however many months I’ll be counting down my 100 favorite albums, because why not. I’m up to number sixty-nine.

The song “(You’re) Having My Baby” ruined my life.

I know. Yours, too.

It happened in 1974. Ol’ Betsy, my family’s blue station wagon with the imitation-wood paneling stickers, was still in the driveway when I asked my father to turn on “Musicradio 77 – WABC.” A song came on that I particularly liked. Maybe it was “Billy Don’t Be A Hero” or “Band on the Run” or “Rock the Boat” or the song that resonated deeply with every boy my age—“(You’re) Having My Baby.” What a lovely way for my spirits to be lifted. It’s as if that song’s writer/singer, Paul Anka, had been reading my diary. Whichever song it was, I did what any joyful ten-year-old would do: I started to sing along.

My brother, one year my senior, cut me off instantly, saying something along the lines of, “Shut up and stop torturing us.” My father chimed in with something equally dismissive, and my mom echoed the sentiment. They all had a good chuckle.

Some context: music was everything to me. My grandpa had gifted me a transistor radio a few months earlier, and I’d become obsessed. I lived for the Top 40. I listened to Casey Kasem run the countdown every Sunday, loving each and every song he played without judgment, until that dark day in November when “Cats in the Cradle” made its debut. As a kid, I couldn’t relate to this song about parental absence and regret. Five-plus decades later, I completely understand the song’s sentiments, and have a host of other reasons to still hate it.

In 1974 I bought every issue of Song Hits magazine so I could get the lyrics right. (Wait, it’s not “Waterloo / I had my feet there upon the wall?” The opening lines of Three Dog Night’s “The Show Must Go On” aren’t “Beat it! Oh, Lou, I chose this blue life a seena strang mahna mahna?”) It was super important that I knew all the words. I was, in my own head, a burgeoning musical sensation. And why not? Michael Jackson and Donny Osmond were around the same age I was then when they started their recording careers. Between them they had all bases covered. MJ, with his emotive singing, electrifying dancing, boundless charisma, and otherworldly talent. Donny, with his nice teeth. Don’t think that I’m underselling Donny. He had SPECTACULAR teeth.

Maybe I didn’t sing as well as Michael Jackson or Paul Anka, but I thought I sang as well as any other kid in Mrs. Mazze’s music class, and it was an activity that made me happy. Or used to.

I shut up.

For good.

At least in the car. At least around them.

The lessons I learned that day in 1974:

  • Don’t poke the bear.
  • Don’t make waves.
  • Don’t stick your neck out.
  • Better safe than sorry.
  • Don’t put yourself out there, and no one can tell you you’re not good enough.
  • By not trying, you avoid the sting of failure.
  • Be quiet. Be small.
  • Invisible is safe.

Dinner time at the O’Brien home in 1940s London could be dangerous. It wasn’t unknown for Mrs. O’Brien—an alcoholic former dancer—to throw food, often while still in its serving dish. Mr. O’Brien, a frustrated would-be pianist with a violent temper, was said to call his daughter Mary names and sometimes hit her. She stayed quiet, lest she poked the bear.

In that house, music was an escape for Mary and her brother, Dionysius. Both enjoyed singing. Mary was, in her own head, a burgeoning musical sensation.

At her Catholic all-girls’ school, the nuns looked at the shy, awkward girl and predicted she’d likely make a living as a librarian. Mary had convinced herself they were right; she was boring, unattractive, and meant for a plain, quiet life. She was a girl waiting for permission to exist.

I didn’t stop singing entirely. I performed in my arts & music summer camp’s talent shows, guitar in hand. I auditioned for school and camp musicals, peaking in twelfth grade when I played Motel in Fiddler on the Roof to the genuine applause of my classmates, many of whom had never heard me open my mouth. After I got my driver’s license I sang in the car— alone, windows up, and never at stoplights where someone might glance over and catch me belting out the theme from The Greatest American Hero, thus opening me up to ridicule. Believe it or not, I still harbored a fear of being judged. I had elaborate fantasies of road trips with dates—not that I went on dates in high school—where we’d duet on “You’re the One That I Want” or “Stumblin’ In” or “Mockingbird,” singing loud enough for the back row at Carnegie Hall to hear us. Once, with an actual human present—my friend Ed, senior year of high school—I held the crazy long note at the two-thirds of the way in mark of Barbra Streisand’s “Woman in Love”—girl, you know the one:

I stumble and fall

but I give you it aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaalllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll

—just to prove I could.

Through my childhood and teen years, music remained my passion. Performing in school shows and summer camp was fun, but making a career out of performing? That felt too exposed, too risky. What if my family was right? What if the applause was just people being nice? What if nobody actually wanted to hear me? Better to choose safety over the chance of hearing “shut up and stop torturing us” on a larger scale. I decided to pursue the business side of music instead. After college, I landed a job at CBS Records in the Accounts Receivable department. I was over the moon. I relayed the exciting news to my mom. Her response? “I guess you could do that while you keep looking.” Eighteen years later, when I was named Vice President at Warner Music, I told her that news, proud of how far I’d come. Her response: “I guess this really is your career.”

The nuns wouldn’t have recognized the woman who eventually stepped onto the stage. She wore a blonde beehive and ample mascara inspired by the drag queens she loved. No spectacles sat on her nose. And she no longer called herself Mary. Her new first name came from the nickname kids gave her because she liked playing football in the dirt. Her brother, who performed with Mary in a folk-pop trio, came up with a new last name for the two of them. He wanted a name that would resonate with American audiences, and noticed a lot of towns and cities in the U.S. had the same name. And thus, shy Mary Isobel Catherine Bernadette O’Brien became Dusty Springfield.

In the early 1960s, The Springfields scored several UK hits and cracked the US top twenty with “Silver Threads and Golden Needles.”

In 1964 Dusty launched a solo career built on her obsession with American pop and soul and Motown. She had a solo smash right out of the gate with “I Only Want to Be with You,” which is going to be my wedding song should I ever get someone to propose to me—still wishin’ and hopin’. Speaking of, that first chartbuster was followed by a run of hits on either or both sides of the Atlantic, including “Wishin’ and Hopin’,” “You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me,” “I Just Don’t Know What To Do With Myself,” and “The Look of Love.” She didn’t just sing these songs; she controlled the sessions, including selecting material, shaping arrangements, and re-recording her vocals dozens of times until every note was exactly right, often refusing production credit even though she’d directed the entire vision.

Her obsession with American soul music went deeper than sound. She was a white British woman who became a “soul evangelist.” In early 1960s Britain, soul music was largely confined to underground clubs and dance halls. In 1965, Dusty hosted The Sound of Motown, a British TV special that gave The Supremes, Stevie Wonder, The Miracles, and The Temptations their first UK television appearances, introducing them to a national audience that had never seen them before. The special helped launch Motown’s success in Britain. In addition, she demanded it be written into her contract that she would only perform for integrated audiences. When she was told she had to play a segregated venue in South Africa, she famously told the New Musical Express she’d be “on the first flight home”—and she was, deported with a police escort.

To those watching her, she was fearless. But internally, she was still that girl dodging food.

I’m making a career pivot. I still love music, but I’m over the “business.” I am done with the egos, the politics, the greed, and the manufactured “next big things” with nothing real to offer. Mostly, I’m tired of answering to “the man.” I’ve decided I’d much rather answer to myself.

I’m pursuing corporate speaking. Yes, really. Me, Mr. “Invisible is safe,” now wants to stand on stages and talk to rooms full of people. Surely there are less terrifying career pivots, like skydiving or defusing bombs. At least with those, if you screw up, you don’t have to face anyone afterward. I want to do work that matters. At the same time, I want to keep my limbs so I can dance at my wedding. Still wishin’ and hopin’. Corporate speaking is the choice lets me do both: work that might actually make the world a little better, and Macarena.

Public speaking is not completely new to me. I’ve spoken at conferences and presented at company-wide meetings for years, putting an emphasis on being entertaining and relatable over PowerPoint slides and dry data. For example, as be a fun way to showcase projects my departments were working on, I wrote a parody video of the television show The Office, starring my staff and me. The majority of the company loved it.

There was one notable exception. The day after the video was shown at a company-wide forum, our head of Human Resources summoned me to her office to discuss some of the more “inappropriate” humor in the script, specifically, jokes connected to diversity. The irony: I managed the most diverse departments in our division (and, not coincidentally, the most successful). The rest of the division was whiter and straighter than Donny Osmond’s teeth. Apparently pointing that out was a problem.

That same day my colleague Lauren stopped me as I was walking down the hall. “Here,” she said, handing me a DVD. “I made a copy of your video to show Dwayne. He loved it. He thinks you’re hilarious.” Dwayne was her boyfriend, now husband. Dwayne Johnson. The Rock.

You’d think a thumbs-up from the biggest movie star on the planet would matter more than Ruth from HR’s disapproval. But The Rock didn’t offer me a job; Ruth could actually cause my career harm.

Being at Warner Music felt safe. When I spoke with artist managers or foreign affiliates or potential clients, I was representing the company, advocating for artists and catalog, delivering business strategies.

This new path is different. I’m not representing a label or a brand. I’m not representing anyone but myself. And for someone who spent forty years trying to ensure everyone liked the “corporate” version of him, standing on a stage with no company behind me is the most terrifying thing I’ve ever done.

My speaking topics, drawn directly from my work experience, are diversity and inclusion. To help market myself as a speaker on these subjects, I’ve written a book that uses stories about artists and songs and draws on examples from my four decades in the music business to show that innovation happens and productivity increases when organizations make space for people who don’t fit a set mold. I strongly believe that diversity isn’t just a moral imperative; it’s a competitive advantage.

The book, Make Diversity A Hit!: What My 30+ Years Of Negotiating 10k+ Deals For Music’s Biggest Artists Can Teach You About How Diversity Can Grow Your Business, took me five years to write. Five years of reading scores of articles and books about diversity and inclusion. Five years of writing and rewriting, proofreading and polishing, telling that voice in my head to be quiet so I could just finish the damn thing. Five years.

And then, hurrah! It was finished. Ready to be published. Ready to change lives. Ready to launch my speaking career.

That was in 2019.

I told myself not to rush into things. It was important I do this right. I had to learn how to self-publish. And as the book is meant to be a calling card for speaking, I had to prepare for that, too. And so, during these last six-plus years, I’ve been preparing. I read books about self-publishing. And books about speaking. And books about marketing books with the goal of speaking. I attended webinars and seminars and symposiums and conferences. I went to forums and panel discussions and roundtables. I listened to podcasts and audiobooks. I watched TED talks and YouTube tutorials and masterclasses. I took courses on personal branding, thought leadership, and teaching through storytelling. I learned about SEO optimization, social media strategy, and the algorithm. I joined LinkedIn groups and never posted or read what was posted because I hate LinkedIn. I joined Facebook groups and never posted or read what was posted because I hate Facebook. I bookmarked articles about overcoming impostor syndrome—141 of them. I traveled to Las Vegas to attend masterminds where I brainstormed with other speakers/writers, many of whom have magically published more than one book in that time and are now considered experts on their chosen subjects. I became an expert in preparing to plan to start getting ready.

A therapist may say I have anxiety stemming from perfectionism. But is perfectionism demanding of oneself an extremely high level of performance, in excess of what is required by the situation? I would say no, while the American Psychological Association Dictionary of Psychology says yes. Who are you going to believe—the combined wisdom of every licensed psychologist in America or the guy who still kicks himself because he doesn’t know the lyrics to Three Dog Night’s “The Show Must Go On”?

The truth is, I’m terrified to put it (me) out there.

At Toastmasters I won so many Best Speaker ribbons that one year the club president stopped giving them out. He thought it wasn’t fair to everyone else. I didn’t care about the ribbons. I was competing with myself, trying to convince that ten-year-old in the back of the station wagon that it’s okay to live out loud. To experiment. There was nothing of consequence at stake. It was safe to fail.

But now? Now I’m trying to make this a career. Now there’s something at stake. I look at other speakers—the ones with the PhDs and the massive platforms—and I feel like a fraud with a handful of blue ribbons. Okay, a boatload of blue ribbons. With just the thought of actually booking an engagement, I am instantly ten years old again, terrified that if I step out there, the world will echo my family and tell me to be quiet. What if I deliver a speech that isn’t well-received? And someone posts about my debacle? And that post gets shared? And every hiring manager in America knows I’m the guy who bombed on stage?  What if this one speech ruins any chance I have at this career?  That would prove the lesson I learned in 1974 was correct: By not trying, you avoid the sting of failure. Invisible is safe.

In 1968, Dusty Springfield went to Memphis to record with session musicians behind some of the soul records she revered. She walked into American Sound Studio. The rhythm tracks had already been recorded. Now it was her turn. She stood at the microphone in the same vocal booth where her heroes had stood.

She froze. A therapist may say she had anxiety stemming from perfectionism. She would have called it fear.

 “I hated it,” she later said, “because I couldn’t be Aretha Franklin. If only people like [record producer] Jerry Wexler could realize what a deflating thing it is to say ‘Otis Redding stood there’ or ‘That’s where Aretha sang.’ Whatever you do, it’s not going to be good enough.”

Eventually, she left. Wexler would later claim he “never got a note out of her” in Memphis.

The vocals would have to be recorded somewhere else. Somewhere she could relax. Somewhere peaceful. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere unintimidating. New York City, obviously. Away from the weight of that Memphis studio, she found her voice. Which means Dusty didn’t actually record Dusty In Memphis in Memphis, making it the most blatant case of a fraudulent album title since The Beach Boys’ Pet Sounds.

The songwriters on Dusty in Memphis were a “Who’s Who” of pop music greatness—Carole King and Gerry Goffin, Barry Mann and Cynthia Weil, Burt Bacharach and Hal David, Marilyn and Alan Bergman with Michel Legrand, and a rising star named Randy Newman.

But the song that became the album’s hit single was written by the lesser known team of John Hurley and Ronnie Wilkins. They intended it for Aretha Franklin to sing, but the Queen of Soul, famously the daughter of a preacher man, passed on singing how the only man who could ever love her was the son of a preacher man.

Dusty took “Son of a Preacher Man” and made it a global Top 10 smash. (Seeing its success, Ms. Franklin did end up recording her own version.)

Despite the popularity of the single, the album Dusty In Memphis was a commercial “meh,” missing the British and American top 40. It would be just shy of 20 years before she again achieved the commercial height of “Son of a Preacher Man,” when Pet Shop Boys, over the objections of their record label, who preferred they record with Tina Turner or Barbra Streisand, recruited Dusty for their song “What Have I Done To Deserve This?”

That single went to #2 on both sides of the Atlantic. She was back. Critics dusted off their copies of Dusty in Memphis and realized they were holding a masterpiece. Soon it was included in many Best Albums Of All Time lists. Elvis Costello called it a record “that will chill and thrill, always and forever,” adding “Dusty Springfield’s singing on this album is among the very best ever put on record by anyone.”  Then came 1994 and Quentin Tarantino. The writer/director put “Son of a Preacher Man” in Pulp Fiction. The soundtrack sold over three million copies in the U.S. alone; more people owned that album than had ever owned a Dusty Springfield record.

On March 2, 1999, the day she was scheduled to receive an award at Buckingham Palace as an Officer of the Order of the British Empire for “services to popular music,” breast cancer took Dusty Springfield’s life. Two weeks later, she was inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, where Elton John called her “the greatest white singer there has ever been.”

Where Mary O’Brien was terrified of saying the wrong thing, Dusty made herself heard. She’d fought for integrated audiences and came out publicly as bisexual in 1970, a time when the number of openly LGBTQ pop stars could be counted on one fist.

Mary O’Brien spent her childhood being quiet to stay safe. But with a beehive and a little mascara (okay, a lot of mascara), she transformed herself into Dusty Springfield and made herself heard.

I don’t sport a beehive, nor do I wear mascara (that one night in college notwithstanding). I never found my superhero uniform, the one that would make me invincible. Instead, I spent years being invisible, thinking silence was safety. It wasn’t safety; it was erasure. I succeeded in the corporate music world because I was confident I could. I won ribbons at Toastmasters because the stakes were low enough for me to feel comfortable to experiment. The truth is I only tried things where I already believed I could succeed. I avoided anything that might give the world a reason to criticize me. Fear of failure didn’t stop me from achieving; it stopped me from risking. And spending my life avoiding the risk of failure is still a kind of failure—the failure to find out who I might have been without the fear.

I recently came across an interview with Fiona Apple, an artist I adore, worship, admire and worship, not in a creepy way. In 2020, another Apple admirer, Bob Dylan, invited her to the studio to play piano on a song he was recording. Even with all her acclaim and years of experience, she was terrified, convinced she’d mess up the work of a legend. She told Dylan of her trepidation. His response: “You’re not here to be perfect, you’re here to be you.”

After spending many hours thinking about that, I realized that I had been auditioning for a role that doesn’t exist. “Perfect Glenn.” He never messes up, because he never actually participates.

Dusty Springfield managed to finish making Dusty In Memphis, and it became a masterpiece—not because she stopped being afraid, but because she sang through the fear. I’m done waiting for proof that outweighs my doubt. My book has been gestating for twelve years, and now I’m having my baby. I’m putting the book out. I’m seeking the gigs.

Maybe my work will be as great as Dusty in Memphis. Maybe it won’t. Either way, I’m turning the radio up. My voice deserves to be heard.

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Tunes Du Jour Presents 1996

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Looking back at the music of 1996, what stands out isn’t just the diversity of sounds, but how confidently artists were breaking free from the constraints that had defined their predecessors. This was the year Oasis gave us “Wonderwall,” a song that somehow managed to be both anthemic and intimate, while across the Atlantic, The Smashing Pumpkins stripped away the grunge aggression for the wistful nostalgia of “1979.” The rock landscape was splintering in fascinating ways—Radiohead’s “High and Dry” hinted at the experimental evolution to come, Garbage fused electronic production with alternative rock attitude on “Stupid Girl,” and Marilyn Manson pushed industrial metal into the mainstream with “The Beautiful People.” These weren’t artists following a template; they were actively rewriting what their genres could be.

Hip-hop in 1996 was experiencing one of its most creative and commercially successful periods. 2Pac’s “California Love” brought West Coast rap to peak visibility, while Busta Rhymes announced himself as a force with the frenetic energy of “Woo Hah!! Got You All in Check.” Fugees demonstrated how hip-hop could incorporate soul, reggae, and pop sensibilities on “Ready Or Not,” and Blackstreet’s “No Diggity” created a template for R&B-rap fusion that would influence the genre for years to come. Even Coolio, riding high from previous success, was experimenting with different flows and production approaches. The genre wasn’t monolithic—it was a conversation between different regional scenes, production styles, and lyrical approaches.

The year also belonged to artists who defied easy categorization. Björk’s “Hyper-Ballad” merged electronic experimentation with raw emotional vulnerability in ways few pop artists would dare attempt. Beck’s “Where It’s At” was a postmodern collage that treated genre itself as raw material to be sampled and reassembled. Underworld’s “Born Slippy [Nuxx]” became an unlikely anthem, a nine-minute electronic track that captured something essential about late-night urban experience. These weren’t novelties—they were artists working at the boundaries of what popular music could accomplish, proving that experimental ambition and accessibility weren’t mutually exclusive.

Meanwhile, more traditional songcraft was producing some of its finest work. No Doubt’s “Don’t Speak” turned heartbreak into a massive pop-rock moment, while Mary J. Blige brought gospel-inflected power to “Not Gon’ Cry.” George Michael’s “Jesus To a Child” showed a mature artist at the height of his powers, and Tracy Chapman’s “Give Me One Reason” proved that blues-based simplicity could still cut through the noise. Even as production techniques grew more sophisticated and genre experimentation accelerated, these songs reminded listeners that a strong melody and honest emotion would never go out of style.

What makes 1996 particularly interesting is that it captured music in transition without feeling unstable. You had Britpop (Pulp’s class-conscious “Common People,” Manic Street Preachers’ working-class anthem “A Design For Life”), the evolution of alternative rock into more diverse forms, hip-hop’s golden age in full swing, and electronic music beginning to infiltrate the mainstream. The playlist of 1996 didn’t cohere into a single statement about where music was headed—and that was precisely the point. It was a year when artists had permission to explore, when audiences were willing to follow them into unexpected territory, and when the charts reflected genuine creative restlessness rather than calculated trends.

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Tunes Du Jour Presents Hispanic Heritage Month

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As Hispanic Heritage Month continues, I’m excited to share a curated playlist that showcases the rich tapestry of Hispanic and Latinx music. This collection of 30 songs is not meant to be an exhaustive representation of all contributions from those of Hispanic descent—such a task would be impossible given the vast and diverse musical landscape. Instead, it serves as a vibrant sampler, offering a glimpse into the variety and brilliance of Hispanic and Latinx artistry across genres and generations.

From the infectious rhythms of salsa and reggaeton to the soulful strains of bolero and mariachi, this playlist traverses a wide musical terrain. It features iconic tracks that have become global phenomena, such as Los Del Rio’s “Macarena” and Luis Fonsi and Daddy Yankee’s “Despacito,” alongside lesser-known gems that deserve wider recognition. The selection spans decades, honoring both the pioneers who paved the way and the contemporary artists who continue to innovate and push boundaries.

As you listen, you’ll encounter the legendary Carlos Santana’s fusion of rock and Latin rhythms in “Oye Como Va,” the timeless “La Bamba” by Ritchie Valens, and the groundbreaking jazz of Mongo Santamaría’s “Watermelon Man.” The playlist also celebrates more recent contributions, including Bad Bunny’s “MONACO” and ROSALÍA’s “SAOKO,” demonstrating the ongoing evolution and global impact of Hispanic and Latinx music.

It’s important to note that this playlist merely scratches the surface of the immense contributions Hispanic and Latinx artists have made to the world of music. Each song represents a gateway to exploring entire genres, regional styles, and artistic movements. I encourage listeners to use this playlist as a starting point for further discovery, delving deeper into the rich musical heritage it represents.

As we celebrate Hispanic Heritage Month, let this playlist serve as a reminder of the incredible diversity, creativity, and influence of Hispanic and Latinx musicians. It’s a testament to the power of music to transcend borders, unite cultures, and enrich our global artistic tapestry. We hope you enjoy this musical journey and that it inspires you to continue exploring the vast world of Hispanic and Latinx music long after the playlist ends.

Forty Years Of Glenn’s Ten

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In 1980, my friend Lydia, who preferred I call her Candice, gave me a diary for Hanukkah, which I prefer to spell Chanukah. Adorning the cover of the diary was a drawing of Paddington Bear, about whom I knew nothing except he appeared to go out wearing only a coat and a hat with the price tag still on it, an ursine Minnie Pearl who reminded me of that guy I saw in Times Square five years earlier. My parents had taken me to see Broadway’s The Magic Show starring Doug Henning for my eleventh birthday. On our walk from the restaurant to the theater we passed a man with no pants sitting on a mailbox shouting about “the system.” I sensed that man made a wrong turn at some point in his life.

I’d never kept a diary, but not being one to throw away a gift, I gave it a try. “January 1. I woke up at noon. Had bacon for lunch. New England clam chowder for dinner.” I cherish that memory of my most festive New Year’s Day ever.

On January 10 I listed my ten favorite current songs:

That constituted the beginning of a habit I’ve upheld every Saturday since. This week Glenn’s Ten begins its 41st year.

Despite the initial Glenn’s Ten consisting solely of national top 40 hits that one could hear on Casey Kasem’s countdown way too early on Sunday mornings, the other kids in school never talked about them. My fellow seniors at New Jersey’s Saddle River Country Day School talked about the greatness of The Doors, Led Zeppelin and The Grateful Dead, but never discussed the brilliance of Eddie Rabbitt employing alternating finger snaps and hand claps to mimic raindrops hitting the ground in “I Love a Rainy Night.” Led Zeppelin didn’t do that in “Fool in the Rain.” The Dead didn’t do that in “Box of Rain.” The Doors’ “Riders on the Storm?” Nope. It was Eddie Flippin’ Rabbitt, and there’s more precipitation from whence that came. My favorite rock and roll singer during my high school days, Barry Manilow, connected with me on “I Made It Through The Rain.” Whereas Mr. Rabbitt sang about his passion for actual rain, Barry “The Man” Manilow’s rain was a metaphor for adversity and everyday struggles. High school’s social scene was a struggle for me. Already shy and introverted, my fondness for the most popular music of the day exacerbated my feeling of not belonging, which is ironic, don’t you think?

From the late summer 1981 to spring 1985 I attended Brandeis University in Waltham, Massachusetts. Shy me made a few friends there, such as Kathy, who was my platonic date for the school dances. I so enjoyed dancing, and our college years were a furtive time for dance music, with the release of Michael Jackson’s Thriller and the rise of Madonna and Prince, plus all those new wave bands hailing from the UK. Kathy was especially taken with them. She studied in London one semester, and when she returned to the States she gifted me a mixtape of the music she discovered abroad. I was particularly taken with The Smiths, whose singer, Morrissey, recognized what I was feeling. (We didn’t yet know about his racist leanings.) The Smiths weren’t well-known in the United States. I recall Interview magazine’s Glenn O’Brien writing that the only people in the US who heard of The Smiths were some “pretentious yuppies at Brandeis.” I’m famous!

In the spring of 1985, The Smiths released their single “How Soon Is Now?,” with its lyrics:

There’s a club if you’d like to go
You could meet somebody who really loves you
So you go and you stand on your own
And you leave on your own
And you go home and you cry
And you want to die

It was like he read my diary, if my diary was more than song lists. I desired a girlfriend so badly, but my shyness prevented me from asking girls out, and on the one or two occasions where I mustered the courage, I was rejected.

When you say it’s gonna happen now
When exactly do you mean?
See I’ve already waited too long
And all my hope is gone.

A few months after graduation I landed a job in the Accounting department of CBS Records. Me at a record company! The record company that distributed Michael Jackson and Cyndi Lauper and Bruce Springsteen and Barbra Streisand and flippin’ Deniece Williams! I got the job through my skills and know how – I’m a math geek and great with numbers. Let’s hear it for this boy!

By the way, as you’re looking at my top ten lists, the column on the right is the position that song held the previous week. Under “Average” I list the songs that dropped out of Glenn’s Ten that week. The parenthetical lists that song’s peak Glenn’s Ten position, the number of weeks at that position, and the total number of weeks in Glenn’s Ten. The number to the right of that is the sum of every position held by the song, plus 11 for every week of the year the song was not in Glenn’s Ten, which number I then use in December each year to compute my tally of my favorite songs of the year. That’s the skills and know how that got me my job. Math geek!

I’m gay. My first clue was that I had been attracted to men with muscular physiques for several years, though I attributed that to envy, as I was so skinny. It turns out it was more than envy. I admitted that to myself in 1988, and from then on I was open about it. Interestingly, none of the artists in the Glenn’s Ten of January 9, 1988 were openly gay publicly. Nope, not him. Nor him. Nor him. I’m still not sure about him; do you know?

In other big news, in 1988 I moved from the suburbs of New Jersey into Manhattan. Just two years earlier I couldn’t envisage me living in the big city, with all its noise and activity and men donning only a coat and a hat. Now I loved this concrete jungle where dreams are made of. Let’s hear it for New York New York New York.

In even bigger news, I changed the verbiage denoting the scores of songs that fell from Glenn’s Ten from “Average” to the more accurate “Total.” What a year! Break out the bacon and chowder and make way for 1989!

I met Tommy in 1989 at a dance at NYC’s Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender Community Center. I went with my friend Frank, who knew the friend with whom Tommy went, so while those two were catching up on the dance floor, I was dancing with Tommy. We became a couple. We’d go out dancing every other weekend. I can still picture him throwing his hands in the air during the chorus of Black Box’s “Everybody Everybody,” when they sang “everybody” for the fourth and eighth times. Or perhaps that was me with my hands in the air. I get us confused. Like Tommy’s mother said to him after meeting me, “He’s like a Jewish version of you.” (Does that make me a self-hating narcissist?)

I broke up with the gentile version of me. Tommy was and is a good guy, though I was missing the massive amount of support I required to counter my insecurity. It was that insecurity that kept me with him for three-plus years, as I thought I’d never encounter another guy as cute or who possesses all of Tommy’s positive qualities who felt the same about me. Eventually I realized I was cheating myself and broke it off to discover where life takes me.

Career-wise, I moved from CBS Records’ (now Sony Music’s) Accounting department into the division of the company that licenses their music. Brought in to manage their accounting functions, I asked my boss if he could teach me about licensing (negotiating deals for music to be used pretty much anywhere music is used – on albums, in movies, playing above your head at the Piggly Wiggly, etc. That greeting card your mother sent you that plays “We Are Family” when you open it? You’re welcome.).

I learned a lot, and when a position opened up in the International Licensing department, I applied for and got it. The job included several trips to Europe to meet with and do presentations for Sony’s affiliates.

I was still shy. I was still introverted. I also was a perfectionist who needed to master his job. I had to conquer my shyness. I had tried therapy in the past, but it didn’t work for me. My therapist would assign me homework – “Go to a bar or a club and say hello to someone. Just hello.” “Hello, therapist! I’m here because the thought of saying hello to a stranger is mortifying.” He may as well have told me to wrestle an alligator. Afraid of needles, I’d let the dentist drill cavities without first injecting me with Novocaine. That I could handle. Talking to a stranger was too painful. This demanded radical action.

When people got to know me they’d tell me I’m funny. That’s it! I’ll become a stand-up comedian. I’ll be on stage in front of strangers, expressing my thoughts, and they’ll have to listen to me, because I have a spotlight and a mic. I took courses at The New School and the American Comedy Institute. I studied improvisation at HB Studios. I made my stand-up debut at a meeting for singles at the Jewish Community Center on Manhattan’s Upper West Side. I think the only one who scored that night was me. I got laughs. I got more bookings. Over time I won comedy contests. I was favorably reviewed in several publications, with Backstage newspaper featuring me in a front page story. Within a few years I performed for a sold-out crowd at NYC’s famed Caroline’s on Broadway. During my years of performing stand-up comedy only one audience heckled me – a group of senior citizens during a fundraiser for a Catholic hospital. The only ones there who appreciated my “Glenn’s Tips For Meeting Guys” routine was a table of nuns and priests, one of whom was taking notes, I swear to whomever he believes in. That gig aside, stand-up boosted my self-confidence.

I met with Sony’s affiliates. I did presentations. I made them educational and fun. I enjoyed doing them. At a conference in Athens, my fellow employees awarded no-longer-as-shy me a bottle of ouzo for my mastery of Greek dancing, which I think had less to do with my dancing than it did with the consumption of ouzo by the judges. Still, I welcomed the recognition. To this day I have that bottle. I don’t drink yet I’m not one to throw away a gift.

In the fall of 1996, I was dating Dr. Leonid, a nice-looking Russian dentist I met through a personal ad he placed. I liked him, though I knew he wasn’t “the one.” And he knew that I knew that he wasn’t “the one,” though I was “the one” to him, a sentiment he drove into me by singing along to Madonna’s “You Must Love Me” from the Evita soundtrack while we were baking the potato.

My #1 song was BLACKstreet’s “No Diggity.” When the CD single was released, I went to buy it at Nobody Beats the Wiz in Union Square. On my walk over I thought “I wonder if that cute salesguy who was there on Father’s Day still works there.” As I approached the top floor, where the CDs were sold, my eyes locked with that salesguy. No-longer-as-shy-yet-still-very-shy me immediately looked away and headed to the section for CD singles. “May I help you?” I heard from behind me. That’s how I met Michael. We chatted for several minutes about the music we liked, a conversation I found far more pleasant than having a cavity filled. Nobody Beats The Wiz didn’t have “No Diggity” in stock, so I left with “Macarena Christmas” and Michael’s phone number.

Michael and I went on our first date the following Friday, when he revealed that he kept a weekly list of his favorite songs. What kind of wackadoo does that? I liked him. Dr. Leonid, who was away on vacation when Michael and I went out, called me the moment he was back (This was in the pre-cell phone days), and I broke the news to him. He didn’t take it well. “Who is he?” “His name is Michael.” “How old is he?” “He’s 23.” “Where does he work?” “At a store.” “What store?” “I’m not going to tell you where he works.” “I feel like someone stabbed me in the heart!” A popular song on the radio at that time was Toni Braxton’s “Un-break My Heart.” If Dr. Leonid maintained a top ten, that record would have then jumped to #1 with a bullet. Needing a copy of this song that so adequately expressed what he was feeling, he went to Nobody Beats The Wiz in Union Square. While looking for it, a voice from behind him asked “May I help you?” Dr. Leonid turned and saw the salesguy’s name tag. Michael. “How old are you?” Dr. Leonid asked. “23,” the salesguy replied. They made plans to go on a date.

They never did go on that date. Dr. Leonid relayed the story to me a week later when we met up for dinner, revealing that he asked out Michael merely to hurt me and make me upset. I wasn’t upset. I thought it was hilarious. That made Dr. Leonid upset. As far as I was concerned, Michael could see who he wants. He doesn’t belong to me. I was happy that someone as attractive as him would even date me. I recognize that sounds like low self-esteem talking, but that’s only because it’s low self-esteem talking.

I only saw Dr. Leonid once more after that, a few years later at a cabaret show. The friend who invited me also invited another friend of his, who it turns out was Dr. Leonid’s then boyfriend. Dr. Leonid lit up when he saw me and we caught up for a few minutes. His boyfriend did not care for the obvious affection Dr. Leonid still felt for me. They departed before the performance started and broke up the next day.

Michael and I have long since stopped seeing each other, though we still discuss music and share our lists.

Speaking of …

My four years working in Sony Music’s International division were the longest I’d gone without a promotion in my 14 years at the company. I reckoned this was the end of the line of my career. I could remain there and suck it up or end up in Times Square wearing only a coat and a hat with the price tag still on it. Neither was optimal. Enter Macy Gray.

Don’t let the days of your life pass you by
You got to get up, get out and do somethin’
How will you make it if you never even try?

A woman with whom I was working on a license deal invited me to a dinner party. I did as Macy Gray suggested and pressured myself to go. While there I asked folks if they knew of any record company that is hiring. “I think Zomba is.” Zomba was the home of Backstreet Boys, A Tribe Called Quest, and a young performer who at that moment was enjoying her first hit – Britney Spears. I sent my resume to a former Sony employee who was now at Zomba. She passed it on to her boss. Her boss called me. “We just created a new head of licensing position and you’re exactly who we’re looking for.” And so, off I went. My optimism returned. And to think, all I had to do was put myself out there and talk to people. I learned a valuable life lesson: always listen to Macy Gray.

My four years at Zomba were great. I got promoted two years into it, and under my leadership, the company’s licensing revenue increased 400%. A few other companies reached out to me to get me to jump ship over to them. One was Warner Music Group. An executive from Warner asked me “how much would it take for you to relocate to LA and be our Vice President of Domestic and International Licensing and Contract Administration in our Rhino Records division?” LA, with their traffic and smog and healthy dining? Yuck! I proposed a salary 60% more than I was presently making. The executive called back two days later. “Your salary was approved.” At the same time, my boss at Zomba told me “You are now in charge of film and TV licensing for every BMG label – Jive, RCA, Arista, etc.” BMG had purchased Zomba some months earlier. BMG was unable to match the Warner salary, and thus, I said goodbye to New York and Bobi, the handsome Dutch soccer player I was dating, and off I went to breathe in smog while sitting in traffic and munching on a carrot stick. I made it. The week I started at Warner, Zomba recording artist Justin Timberlake fell out of Glenn’s Ten, and Warner recording artist The Streets was #1. Could this be a sign? Don‘t be stupid.

Most of my years at Rhino/Warner were good. Under my leadership the licensing team had several record-breaking fiscal quarters. Rhino’s General Manager/later President told me on several occasions “I don’t know how you do it. Sales continue to decline, yet licensing revenue keeps going up.” I’ll tell you how I did it. I know how to negotiate lucrative deals and I hired and developed good teams. The rise in licensing revenue year over year wasn’t enough to compensate for Rhino’s declining sales, and every year we had layoffs. In September of 2013, one month shy of my fiftieth birthday, I found myself an out of work bitch. (See what I did there!) Rhino’s former GM/now President told me “Licensing receipts are declining.” No shock, Charlotte! That’s what happens when you prune a staff of 27 down to a staff of four. I’m outstanding at my job but I ain’t Doug Henning!

While being laid off is rude and insulting, the reality is I was ready to leave. In my last year at Rhino they had me reporting into a different senior vice present. This SVP would yell at me (and other employees), cuss at me, and blame me for some poor licensing deals made by an outside party he hired, deals he failed to review and that had no oversight by me or anyone on my team. I now recognize that his conduct likely stemmed from his own insecurities. People deal with their insecurities in different ways. I turned mine inwards. My boss lashed at people and didn’t accept responsibility for his mistakes. I understand. I have sympathy. Still, what an asshole!

My friend Martin urged me to quit. I was stressed. I was unhappy. At this point in my career, I had proven my abilities and had 27 years of stellar employee reviews to back me up. As soon as I exited that meeting with the company’s president and Human Resources I went to my office and immediately texted my friend Martin: “My birthday present came early this year.”

This was the first time since I started at CBS Records in 1985 that I found myself without a job.

Not only was I unemployed; I also was single. I went on a fair amount of dates when I got to LA. Early on I met a great guy named Carlo. We went out a few times and seemed to click. We decided to be a couple. I haven’t seen him since we made that decision. I hope he wasn’t kidnapped or killed wrestling an alligator or in a home invasion. None of those possibilities occurred to me until today. Hopefully he’s alive and well and merely decided he doesn’t like me and chose to ghost me. What an assh—no. He’s a good person. I don’t know where he went, though I sincerely hope he’s happy and doing well wherever he is. I wish that for everyone I’ve ever dated.

Only three of the song’s in this week’s Glenn’s Ten are in the national top 40. One is my #1, Megan Thee Stallion’s “Body.” I discovered a group of friends who share my love of it, and we fan boy over the cleverness of Ms. Stallion’s lyrics, to wit, “saucy like a barbecue but you won’t get your baby back.” If that doesn’t win M.T. Stallion the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry then their voting process is shoddy oddy oddy oddy oddy oddy oddy oddy oddy oddy oddy oddy oddy oddy oddy.

Over the 40 years I’ve been writing down my favorite songs of the week, my tastes have evolved, though what gravitates me toward certain songs hasn’t. Over the 40 years I’ve evolved, though I retain many core traits. I’m still an introvert. I still consider saying hello to a stranger terrifying and painful (though I do now let the dentist shoot me up with Novocaine before drilling.) While the past year of living through a pandemic has caused my anxiety to spike, the bright spot I find in it is I no longer have to come up with excuses to avoid social gatherings. As my friend Angel said, “It’s like you’ve been practicing for the stay at home mandate your entire life.”

Speaking of man dates, a love life doesn’t exist for me. I went out with a few good guys my first seven years in LA, including the aforementioned Carlo, as well as the gorgeous bodybuilder attorney and the adorable high end furniture salesperson with the rash, though at some point I gave up. I’ve gone on only one date in the last ten years, though four guys went on dates with me due to miscommunications. It seems a relationship isn’t in the cards for me. I’m too old. I’m not fit enough. If that sounds like low self-esteem talking, that’s because self-esteem is a journey, not a destination. I still have work to do on myself, though there has been progress over the years. I now like myself enough to relish solitary time and not spend it pining for a boyfriend, though who doesn’t like a baked potato?

But hey, anything can happen. Forty years ago, I didn’t conceive I’d have a successful career in the music business. I didn’t think I’d feel comfortable speaking to hundreds of people. There may exist someone out there for a funny, smart, music-obsessed math geek. Until he shows up, I’ll continue doing what I do and await further instructions from Macy Gray.

I still often feel I don’t belong, though I found a group of guys who also feel like they don’t belong, so we “don’t belong” together. I suppose that’s the primary difference between 17-year-old Glenn and 57-year-old Glenn: my shyness and feelings of otherness are not frightening or debilitating. They simply are there, and while I wish I didn’t feel these feelings, I do and life goes on. I’m less insecure. I made it through the rain.

My initial plan after departing Rhino was to decompress for two weeks and then search for a job. That plan was quickly nixed when I realized after two weeks not working that I was the most relaxed I had ever felt. I looked at a job posting for a VP of Licensing position at another major record company and found my stomach turned. I don’t want to run the licensing department at a big company anymore, but what to do? It didn’t make sense to work for 28 years straight and then relax for only two weeks. I extended my break and set to work on myself, exploring what makes me happy, which, aside from listening to music, is being creative. I attended more improv classes and writing classes and joined two public speaking clubs. As evidenced previously by the joy I took in performing stand-up comedy and doing business presentations, I enjoyed public speaking. Maybe there’s a fresh career there. What would I talk about? I don’t think I’ll secure many bookings discussing the brilliance of Eddie Rabbitt (but seriously, those alternating finger snaps and hand claps!). I guided my staff to great success, so perhaps I’ll talk about leadership. My staff was made up of men and women of varying ages, races, nationalities, sexual orientations and religious beliefs. When I exited Rhino, its senior management was all men, all white, all straight, all cisgender, and all in their forties. Well, one guy was in his fifties; he got laid off the week after me. I decided to pursue corporate speaking about the value of diversity to organizations and how it’s not only the right thing to do morally; it’s also the right thing to do fiscally. It’s taken me awhile to get it going – I’m still working on my perfectionist tendencies – but I anticipate my diversity book and online course to launch this year, and I’m confident they’ll perform well. Not over-the-moon confident, but reasonably confident. If they don’t work, I’ll attempt something else. I’m smart. I’m resourceful. I’m still evolving. I’m not ready to head to Times Square and sit on a mailbox wearing nothing but a coat and a hat with the price tag still on it.

Forty years of Glenn’s Tens

Today’s playlist consists of my top song from every year I’ve been doing Glenn’s Ten, courtesy of my math skills:

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The Ultimate Christmas Playlist

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Today is the day after Thanksgiving here in the United States of America. You’re officially allowed to start listening to holiday music now. To get you started, I compiled a playlist of what I consider to be 100 of the best Christmas songs. Okay, 98 songs, a stand-up routine and a skit. It’s a mix of standards, versions of standards with which you may not be familiar, and obscure but delightful tunes.

Enjoy!

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Throwback Thursday – 1996

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Per the site WhoSampled.com, Joe Cocker’s “Woman to Woman” (1972) has been sampled 24 times. Joe Cocker! Twenty-four times! Who knew?

The best-known track to sample “Woman to Woman” is 2Pac’s “California Love,” which utilizes the instrumental riff from the beginning of the Cocker song as one of its hooks. Here is “Woman to Woman:”

“California Love” kicks off this week’s Throwback Thursday playlist, spotlighting the music of 1996.


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Glenn’s Ten – June 29, 2014

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A handful of readers asked me to post Glenn’s Ten, the weekly ranking of my ten favorite current songs. I’m happy to oblige.

Glenn’s Ten for this week is:
1. “Every Time the Sun Comes Up” – Sharon Van Etten
2. “Somethin’ Bad” – Miranda Lambert and Carrie Underwood
3. “Just One Drink” – Jack White
4. “Do It Again” – Röyksopp and Robyn
5. “Control” – Broken Bells
6. “West Coast” – Lana Del Rey
7. “Love Never Felt So Good” – Michael Jackson
8. “Hundreds of Ways” – Conor Oberst
9. “Come Get It Bae” – Pharrell Williams
10. “Ain’t It Fun” – Paramore

Rounding out today’s playlist are ten tunes that were #1 on this date in Glenn’s Ten history, in reverse chronological order.

Ringo + Toni 002

Feliz Cinco De Mayo!

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Ringo + Toni 002
Hoy es Cinco de Mayo, y yo was thinking about Spanish-language songs that crossed over onto the US pop charts. That got me thinking about hit songs that were re-recorded in Spanish by their original hitmakers in an attempt to cross over the other direction. It’s a savvy business move, no? Why limit your audience, especially once the music business became more global?

Here is your Cinco de Mayo playlist: