The Tanning of America Read online

  The translation was that hip-hop proved that it was as akin to rock as it was to soul and funk. For those ready to push boundaries, it could be as full of protest and social relevance, and also as capable of creating a culture, a mind-set, a voice for the voiceless. The first record on which I heard a semblance of those properties was Melle Mel’s “White Lines,” released in 1983 on Sylvia Robinson’s Sugar Hill Records. The production, to me, was memorable, laying Melle’s rock-laced voice over an addictive track. Once again, Sylvia Robinson was paying attention to the competition, and keeping one step ahead.

  Well, not quite. Apparently, Sylvia Robinson made the mistake of turning down a video of “White Lines” starring a young Laurence Fishburne that was made on spec by an up-and-coming filmmaker. You might have heard of him: Spike Lee.

  The Color of Confidence

  Hip-hop came of age in the mid-1980s, in the same era that members of the generation who couldn’t remember a time without it were coming of age. We weren’t in the record business and weren’t watching from the sidelines taking notes about how many units of this or that release had shipped or what the demographics were that turned “Christmas Rappin’” into a huge hit or that allowed “Rapture” to be shown on MTV or that pushed “White Lines” up to number seven on the UK pop charts—yes, pop. For us, in our lives and concerns, we would have been like, Where the f**k is the UK?

  No exaggeration. Fab Five Freddy once told me a story about the early days when rap artists first started making money and then began touring overseas. Fab happened to run into a DJ he knew who was bragging about all the foreign places their crew had visited—“France, Italy, and London . . .” As if that wasn’t the really big news, the guy quickly added, “And next year, we go to Europe!”

  Encompassed in these anecdotes is one of the most important rewritten rules of the new economy that can be traced to hip-hop’s formative years. For far too long the classic rags-to-riches stories had been told about dead guys with names like Ford, Rockefeller, and du Pont—all far removed from most people’s reality. Now, suddenly, acts of wonder had come to pass and kids you knew personally or had heard about in your own neighborhood—who had come out of the projects or been born without wealth and stature—had become famous and were making money to go with that too. You could do that? Even if you couldn’t shoot hoops or win the lottery? Suddenly, you could wipe away the stigma of poverty and lower-class status pinned on you by other forces because of color or immigrant background or all the other reasons for not making the grade. Now you could claim your unlikely beginnings as a badge of honor, of authenticity, as a way of saying, “I come from nothing and look where I am now.” Actually, as the culture congregated further with the force of tanning, you had to have a badge to make you credible, to prove that you had come up through hard times that were real—possibly that you had even held your own with killers and gangsters and drug dealers. But wait. Better yet, you could wear a badge of authenticity with trend-setting style, and at the same time be a poet and speak about experiences that the rest of the world seemed to be ignoring.

  That was Run-DMC. With cuts like “Hard Times” actually talking about real-world problems and “Sucker MC’s,” a record that compared the aspirational success of rappers authentically working on their skills to that of the wannabe “sad-faced clown” imitators and posers, the rhymes and stories echoed the feel of Sunday morning sermons. Those songs were transformational for me, especially “Sucker MC’s.” They came from where I did and were calling themselves rap royalty. Who did that? Who had that kind of nerve? But that was the point—that if hip-hop didn’t shout itself out, nobody else would. The idea was planted then and there that would take root and would later drive me as an entrepreneur to dare to take on the Goliaths of the competition—and would convince me that I could win.

  And to top all that, Run-DMC had the bold confidence not just to borrow elements from rock but also to cast themselves as the rightful purveyors of it, that they together were the “King of Rock” as the title of a 1985 single and album (their second) put it. The video of that single was their second that MTV agreed to air and its success suggested there was a niche for a hybrid rock-rap genre ready for prime time.

  Then the game changed with “Walk This Way”—the tipping point for tanning. Everything that had happened going back to DJ Kool Herc and 1520 Sedgwick Avenue had helped put hip-hop over the top, even if it had been an uphill climb over unknown terrain. “Walk This Way” was going to send the next moves into fast downhill skiing. Released as a single on the same album as “My Adidas,” it would also set the stage for history to unfold in August 1986 at Madison Square Garden.

  When I talk about Run-DMC as being groundbreaking—for all kinds of reasons and especially for knowing that their art form was much bigger than two turntables and a mic—I am including the team that made their impact possible. Russell Simmons was the individual who proved to one and all (and has continued to do so since) that the ceiling for rap and hip-hop that everyone else believed was there really wasn’t. Three others in the Rush/Def Jam circle who should have special mention are Bill Adler, Lyor Cohen, and Rick Rubin. Besides the fact that I know them and have a kinship to them personally and professionally, the three all happen to be white—yet have soul in their veins and urban sensibilities from Jewish and/or immigrant backgrounds. As a publicist, Bill Adler was way ahead of the curve in recognizing the mainstream marketing potential for rap artists. Lyor Cohen—now a top record-industry executive and a former Rush partner who started as a promoter and road manager for Run-DMC—believed early on in the cultural melting pot that was being brewed for and by the younger generation. The genius producer Rick Rubin, who launched Def Jam before joining forces with Russell, was a key contributor to the DNA of hip-hop. What’s more, Rick was the audio architect and sound engineer of tanning—a bridge between rock and rap that worked because he sonically knew what was authentic to the mix and what appealed to young audiences, regardless of background.

  From the start through his present-day post at the helm of a major record label—after working with everyone from LL Cool J and the Beastie Boys in the early years to the Red Hot Chili Peppers, Metallica, U2, and the Dixie Chicks (to name a few)—Rick never had any use for the color/demographic boxes used in creating and marketing music. Someone who has always understood the beats and rhythms of culture because he observes it authentically rather than packaging it, Rick Rubin is to me the Norman Rockwell of popular music—an artist portraying Americana at its heart and providing insights into the culture in the process.

  As reports have it, the irony of “Walk This Way” was that when the team at Rush Management first proposed the idea for Run-DMC to use Aerosmith’s 1977 hit single and merge rock and hip-hop elements on the record, there was hesitation. The main pushback was that just rapping over the tracks would be inauthentic and not original enough. So Rick proposed that Run-DMC do a cover of the single, a reinvention, and then the rockers could come in and add flavor from their rock roots. It was a true mash-up. Anyone betting the odds would say that doing a musical clash is risky, resulting in neither fish nor fowl. Yet when it works, it’s not a musical clash at all but actually a cultural clash. In fact, the word “clash” is wrong. When it works, it’s tanning, a synergy of music and attitude that swirls everyone into the same vortex and connects them.

  “Walk This Way” did that musically, culturally, rhythmically, and lyrically. And, oh yeah, visually. Even though it was assumed that Aerosmith would benefit somehow from having one of the group’s biggest hits back in circulation in a new form, nobody could have predicted to what extent. Lo and behold, when Steven Tyler and Joe Perry agreed to be on the record and in the video, all of a sudden the new “Walk This Way” reinvigorated their career and launched them to unprecedented heights, giving them a street pass with a whole new following in communities of color. And there was more. After being lured out of the 1970s rock ’n’ roll mausoleum, their collaboration with Run-DMC r
eturned them so much to the game that Aerosmith soon entered their most prolific decades. To date, they are considered the all-time top-selling American rock band, with more gold and platinum records than any other group—over 150 million albums sold around the world.

  And as for Run-DMC, when they appeared in their own video with rock legends as their guests, they made history in being instantaneously embraced by an audience that had never heard of hip-hop—let alone bought their records.

  There was nothing earth-shattering in the song’s story—about a loser who gets schooled in how to improve his odds with the opposite sex by changing his attitude and learning to “Walk this way-ay-ay! ” and “Talk this way-ay-ay! ” But in describing a situation that is universal in every neighborhood on the planet, it had a perfect message for bringing different audiences onto common ground. After all, beyond the things like having fame and money and being cool that were sought through aspiration, the super-objective was getting girls. Or appealing to guys if you were a girl. Maybe not for everyone. However, speaking for teenage males, as I was back then, and for young men too, in my experience, it was not just why you wanted to be successful but why you woke up every morning and why you even breathed in the first place. The translation was that everybody, regardless of color or background, wants to get some and to have the sexual confidence to get it. Who couldn’t relate to that?

  So “Walk This Way” was tanning at work at a primal level. On another deep, equally powerful level, the video spoke to cultural differences and similarities with a story that came down to a rock/rap battle. At the start, it had the two groups in two separate recording studios divided by a wall, each first annoyed at having their music co-opted by the other, and then in the end bashing through the wall to jam and dance together. Speaking now in one collective voice, even with different accents, Aerosmith and Run-DMC doubled down on the message to be who you are and not to be afraid to define yourself by your own style, authentically. It was all about having confidence in yourself and in how you walked and carried yourself, with individuality, pride, purpose, and insistence. The word popularized to describe this commodity and attitude, as we now know, is “swagger.”

  The first strand of code in the cultural translation could now be identified. It combined within it the elements of aspiration, authenticity, relevance, cool, and confidence that were obtainable by association with the music. Oh yeah, and it came with a sexy, irresistible beat. For any smart marketing person, this concoction was made to order no matter what the product. Right?

  Well, yes, if you cut to the future. Over the next two decades or so, as rap stars aligned themselves with status goods and services, they would indeed be a gold mine for marketing all manner of high-end consumer brands—as they voluntarily sang the praises of everything from Courvoisier cognac and Cristal champagne to Louis Vuitton and Versace to Range Rovers and Cadillac Escalades. Even the Robb Report, the magazine of conspicuous consumption for only the über-rich, would get a shout-out. And just like “My Adidas” back in 1986, because none of these endorsements were solicited or purchased, the marketing value was all the more meaningful. Expressions of brand loyalty, in short, were manifestly genuine—which, when embraced in culturally fluent ways, would make them incredibly effective.

  Today, all of that is a foregone conclusion. But it would have read like a fairy tale if you had presented such a scenario to marketing people—even back in the go-go 1980s heyday of conspicuous consumption. Why? Frankly, because of two groups of haters who weren’t interested in rap music or hip-hop culture or the demographics they represented.

  Curiosity as Cultural, Economic Yeast

  Haters are reactionary, hate anything new or different, and see danger in venturing off into the unknown. They are certainly not friendly to creative expansion or marketing risk. In the 1980s, a decade of conglomerate takeovers and corporate megamergers, one group of haters who stood in the way of hip-hop’s mainstream success was populated by the marketing power players at leading brands.

  That’s why it was so unprecedented when Adidas marketing executive Angelo Anastasio came to Madison Square Garden and was wowed enough by what he saw to strike the endorsement deal for the trio of rappers. As it was pointed out to me by Lyor Cohen (there that night as Run-DMC’s road manager), the mainstream market appeal wasn’t the main selling point for Anastasio. The crowd that night was still mostly African-American, with a smaller percentage of Hispanic and Asian concertgoers and a sprinkling of white urban kids. But what made Anastasio different from other corporate representatives, according to Lyor, was his curiosity. He was simply open-minded enough to contemplate the possibilities of introducing hip-hop to the marketing machinery behind Adidas sneakers.

  When Lyor described that night and how everything fell into place, it occurred to me how important curiosity is in general for tanning to occur. And as a marketing 101 lesson, one that I had to learn and one I have to remind corporate clients not to forget, advertising dollars don’t mean a thing without genuine curiosity about what consumers want and need. In fact, as Lyor recalled, while the Adidas/Run-DMC alliance did well for all concerned—saving the company from extinction—it could have been much more successful. Unfortunately, instead of gaining consumer insights and bringing Run, DMC, or Jam Master Jay in on designing the footwear and in on how to promote their line of sneakers, the company took over for Angelo and ran a campaign with the old-school “father knows best” approach. They let the designers try to figure out the culture and design into it without a true understanding of the consumer. They marketed via the monologue that dictates cool rather than inviting consumers to partake in the cool.

  That said, the Adidas missteps were going to be lessons learned for certain entrepreneurs who were paying attention and whose business wheels were starting to turn. For them, it was fortunate that there were mainstream corporate haters who even by the late 1980s weren’t curious enough to even consider hip-hop’s musical future. Why do I say that it was fortunate for these entrepreneurs? Because it allowed them and local economies to benefit and prime the pump for everyone else to follow suit.

  Surprisingly, the second group of haters who slowed rap music’s mainstream success—and who weren’t curious about its potential—actually came from within the African-American community. Typically older, wealthier, assimilated generations who had come out of the era of protest and civil rights, they reacted with discomfort to the bravado of youthful aspiration and the booming bass of rap blasting out of car stereos and trekking down the streets. Their position, it seemed, was that they had worked too hard for too long, following paths into higher education and into positions of influence in politics, business, and media, to support the hip-hop phenomenon that might outshine them or disrupt their means of having stature. Black media, usually the first to back African-American entertainment, was especially resistant to embracing hip-hop. Until rap music proved itself worthy of mainstream consideration, most of the top black radio stations and video programmers just weren’t interested. In fact, there were radio stations that specifically said on air, “We don’t play rap music,” in order to get more listeners. However, because of the mostly generational divide, it forced hip-hop to become bigger than just a genre of popular music with merchandise; it forced it to prove itself in mighty ways and to develop capacities for spreading into the worlds of fashion, beauty, art, dance, sports, gaming, language, lifestyle, and eventually politics.

  And that’s how the culture left behind its house party roots and really took on a life of its own to become bigger than the sum of its parts. It was like any other teenager, determined to grow up and become whoever it chose to be.

  If you are a marketer hoping to attract new customers without losing your core consumers, this early phase of hip-hop still has relevance for how you appeal to aspiration and how you use code to do so. As we will see later on, consumers provide all the needed cues for how to do that—as long as attention is paid to them.

  CHAPTER 2


  HARD KNOCK LIFE

  Not many years ago during a business-related trip to Monaco, at a time when I’d already left the music industry and had recently opened the doors of my own marketing/consulting firm, I had another one of those revelations about how small the world had become. Thanks to overlapping relationships, I found myself at dinner one night with a most distinguished gathering of individuals. We were from different places of origin, of different ethnicities and generations, and each of us worked in a different corner of the entertainment world. At Monte Carlo’s Hôtel de Paris, at the top of this stunning one-hundred-fifty-year-old palace, there in the world-class restaurant with its retractable roof opened up to allow us to dine under the stars, I not only had one of the most delicious meals of my entire life but was in a state of amazement the entire time. The fact was, in spite of our differences, we could all understand great wine, all savor the experience, and all talk the same language.

  It didn’t mar my enjoyment in the least that I’d arrived without proper attire and had to put on a tie and blazer loaned to me by the restaurant management—even if it was a little snug. At the table with me were Jay-Z, Bono of U2, music mogul Jimmy Iovine of Interscope/Geffen/A&M Records, and Sir Roger Moore along with his very beautiful wife, Kristina. As men, our ages spanned the decades—starting with Jay-Z and me, then in our thirties, Bono in his forties, Jimmy almost fifty, and Roger Moore pushing eighty. And yet, much to the amusement of Mrs. Moore, the instant we finished our dinner, we all lit up cigars and started talking the same trash!

  Dressed in white from head to toe, Roger Moore was as meticulous about his appearance as we used to be about our pristine white Adidas sneakers, and had every ounce of cool and finesse that had made him perfect to come in and take over the James Bond franchise from Sean Connery—reinventing the 007 mystique and owning it longer than anyone else. What I never knew until meeting him was that Sir Roger (he was knighted by the queen of England, as was Bono) debuted in the role at age forty-five and was fifty-eight when he made the last of seven 007 films. Absolutely unapologetic about owning his success, he radiated perpetual James Bond confidence. Moore had us on the edge of our seats, telling tales from the old days, describing what it was like to be one of the biggest stars on the international scene and be able to enter any room anywhere—into the finest, most rarefied air—and command total attention. And he still does! Of course, he was saying all this tongue-in-cheek—cigar lit up, eyes full of life. Next thing we knew, he went on to start discussing William Shatner, openly admitting there had been an unspoken battle for years over who was the biggest global superhero, 007 or Captain Kirk.