disapproval, Donnie sat down with Barry, Cynthia, Gerry, and me in the Manns’ living room. He swore he’d be just as active on our behalf as head of Screen Gems–Columbia Music as he’d been at Aldon. He’d get covers just as he always had, and it would be to our advantage that he would be in charge of Colpix Records.
“Nothing’s gonna change,” Donnie said. “It’ll only get better. I’ll be able to place your songs in movies.”
We were not convinced.
“You could win an Oscar!”
We thought that was too far-fetched.
Donnie gave us more examples of how he could get us theme songs for the television shows and movies he would now control. His logic was unassailable, but we were still miserable. Donnie showed singular patience in keeping the discussion going until Barry acknowledged the underlying reason we were so upset: Donnie was selling us as if we were chattel.
The problem was, we
were
chattel. For $6,000 Gerry and I had not only signed over our copyrights, we had given Aldon Music’s owners, heirs, and assigns the right to sell our services. But the worst part wasn’t the sale. It was the feeling that the circumstances around our professional and creative family were about to change, and the head of the family had the power to make that decision no matter how we felt about it. We were about to lose the physical location that had inspired so many songs. We would no longer be writing in the cubicles at 1650 not-really-Broadway. We would be writing at 711 Fifth Avenue in the corporate office building that housed the New York headquarters of Screen Gems–Columbia Pictures—a location in some ways as far from Tin Pan Alley, 1650 Broadway, and the Brill Building as Wall Street was from the Bronx.
Donnie’s gift for persuasion won the day. Before he left he extracted a promise from the four of us to keep an open mind. Then he proceeded to come through with TV and movie themes for his writers, and he put the corporate might of Colpix Records behind artists such as James Darren, Paul Peterson, and Shelley Fabares, all of whom recorded songs by Screen Gems–Columbia Music writers. Donnie also released recordings on Colpix by writers, artists, and musicians from his stable, including Barry Mann,Toni Wine, saxophonist Artie Kaplan, and Earl-Jean. When the Colpix release of Freddie Scott’s “Hey Girl” (produced by Gerry, arranged by me, and written by both of us) made the top 10 in 1963, Gerry and I were so jubilant that we didn’t object to how often Donnie said, “See? Didn’t I tell you? This is great! Sheel, how great is this?” But when the successful British Invasion pushed Colpix artists off the charts in 1965, Gerry and I and the Manns started grousing again. We missed the spirit of the cubicles. We yearned for the old sense of burgeoning possibilities. And at a time when young people across America were becoming increasingly aware of corporate interests’ control over their lives, we didn’t like being owned by a corporation.
Hoping to diminish our discontent, Donnie called us into his office and announced that he would soon be producing a new television show featuring four young men who, he assured us, would soon become America’s Beatles. Unlike most groups who came together on their own, Donnie would assemble this group through auditions.
“I mean, what better way than auditions to put a group together? They’ll be great!”
“Isn’t that kind of artificial?” I asked. “How can you put a group together and expect them to have chemistry when you don’t even know if they’re going to like each other?”
“It doesn’t matter how they come together. They can’t help but be successful because of all the great songs you guys are going to deliver.”
Donnie went on to explain that the Monkees would need several songs for each weekly show and even more songs for their albums, which Colpix would release and cross-market through the TV show.
“The Beatles may not need your
“Nothing’s gonna change,” Donnie said. “It’ll only get better. I’ll be able to place your songs in movies.”
We were not convinced.
“You could win an Oscar!”
We thought that was too far-fetched.
Donnie gave us more examples of how he could get us theme songs for the television shows and movies he would now control. His logic was unassailable, but we were still miserable. Donnie showed singular patience in keeping the discussion going until Barry acknowledged the underlying reason we were so upset: Donnie was selling us as if we were chattel.
The problem was, we
were
chattel. For $6,000 Gerry and I had not only signed over our copyrights, we had given Aldon Music’s owners, heirs, and assigns the right to sell our services. But the worst part wasn’t the sale. It was the feeling that the circumstances around our professional and creative family were about to change, and the head of the family had the power to make that decision no matter how we felt about it. We were about to lose the physical location that had inspired so many songs. We would no longer be writing in the cubicles at 1650 not-really-Broadway. We would be writing at 711 Fifth Avenue in the corporate office building that housed the New York headquarters of Screen Gems–Columbia Pictures—a location in some ways as far from Tin Pan Alley, 1650 Broadway, and the Brill Building as Wall Street was from the Bronx.
Donnie’s gift for persuasion won the day. Before he left he extracted a promise from the four of us to keep an open mind. Then he proceeded to come through with TV and movie themes for his writers, and he put the corporate might of Colpix Records behind artists such as James Darren, Paul Peterson, and Shelley Fabares, all of whom recorded songs by Screen Gems–Columbia Music writers. Donnie also released recordings on Colpix by writers, artists, and musicians from his stable, including Barry Mann,Toni Wine, saxophonist Artie Kaplan, and Earl-Jean. When the Colpix release of Freddie Scott’s “Hey Girl” (produced by Gerry, arranged by me, and written by both of us) made the top 10 in 1963, Gerry and I were so jubilant that we didn’t object to how often Donnie said, “See? Didn’t I tell you? This is great! Sheel, how great is this?” But when the successful British Invasion pushed Colpix artists off the charts in 1965, Gerry and I and the Manns started grousing again. We missed the spirit of the cubicles. We yearned for the old sense of burgeoning possibilities. And at a time when young people across America were becoming increasingly aware of corporate interests’ control over their lives, we didn’t like being owned by a corporation.
Hoping to diminish our discontent, Donnie called us into his office and announced that he would soon be producing a new television show featuring four young men who, he assured us, would soon become America’s Beatles. Unlike most groups who came together on their own, Donnie would assemble this group through auditions.
“I mean, what better way than auditions to put a group together? They’ll be great!”
“Isn’t that kind of artificial?” I asked. “How can you put a group together and expect them to have chemistry when you don’t even know if they’re going to like each other?”
“It doesn’t matter how they come together. They can’t help but be successful because of all the great songs you guys are going to deliver.”
Donnie went on to explain that the Monkees would need several songs for each weekly show and even more songs for their albums, which Colpix would release and cross-market through the TV show.
“The Beatles may not need your
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