The 80

Contributory to the 80s Minneapolis Music Scene

~ recorded live ~

by Arlo Hennings

What is a movement? Movements are important historical reference points in culture. The beatnik and hippie movements started as scenes and grew into movements. A scene can disappear as mysteriously as it began, but a scene that takes a hold of the times becomes a movement, and history is made.
Social critics tagged the 1980s to be president Reagan's era of "REAGANOMICS"- the decade of greed. Not everyone followed that drumbeat. Counter to the self-interest of the narcissistic me generation, a new underground art-wave called the "new wave" was pushing its way down a rogue stream. Not to be confused with punk rock that started previous to the 80s, the new wave of the 80s softened or increased depending on the band. Unlike the self-mutilation, panic-driven angst of early punk; new wave was more, but not entirely, characterized by fashion, attitude or lack of one, androgyny, mousse wet, black shoe polish hair, vampire pale skin, skinny ties, James Dean revisited leather jackets, girls in tight pants, drum machines, and synthesizers.. In the United States the new wave music branched out into two main tributaries, Minneapolis and Seattle.

A handful of local entrepreneurs and artists in Minneapolis, Minnesota caught the energy of the new wave, and set out to make a splash. Due to low rent, good economy, and a supportive fan base; Minneapolis, like Seattle, made for a good music spawning ground.. Unclassified as a “movement” the music scene became known collectively in the press as the "Minneapolis Sound." Though critics argue that Minneapolis Sound was penned by R&B artists like Prince and Jimmy Jam & Terry Lewis, I believe other styles contributed to the mix; rock, blues, and folk. No one can say for certain who started the Minneapolis Sound; you can't take ownership of a "scene." Dubbed the "third coast" the Minneapolis music scene exploded in a brief few years to an impressive underground economy; consisting of hundreds of clubs, bands, agents, studios, managers, distribution, and record companies.

three of the many contributors to the Minneapolis Sound

a young Prince composes, circa 1977
Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis

Nestled into the corners of 25th & Lyndale Ave. South, the CC TAP was a bar located in an area in Minneapolis known as the Wedge Neighborhood. Home port for the Minneapolis alternative rock music shakers, the Greenwich Village of Minneapolis was named for its shape. Across the street from the CC was the popular underground record shop Oarfolkjokeopus. Two other record companies that helped put Minneapolis on the music map, were Twin Tone and Wide Angle, located just a few blocks away. Next door to Twin Tone, Cookhouse Studios recorded a demo for Paula Abdul including many locals like my own song Me Magazine. Within scent of the CC's hamburger grease, my recording studio, THUMP RECORDS, recorded a part of its own sonic footprint. The Longhorn Music Hall, later renamed Zoogies downtown broke the acts live, and bands like the Suburbs were born in my basement, but the CC and on the northern edge of the Wedge, Lyles Bar & Grill was where many people hung out to talk about the music.

above: Handbill for Suburbs and Replacements show
at Goofy's Upper Deck, August 20-22, 1981
left: Poster for Replacements, Suburbs and Pistons show at
St. Croix Boom Co., December 19, 1981

27 years ago in the middle of the Wedge neighborhood I had an 8-track recording studio. I chose to lend a hand to artists; to provide opportunities for those less gifted in the department of carving a niche for themselves, which helped to preserve fine expressions of the spirit calling unto itself.

I was born in 1953, a Hoosier from Indianapolis, Indiana. My father was a traveling salesman and thus uprooted my two younger sisters, older brother, and I about every two years until settling in the Minneapolis suburb of Burnsville in 1967. My starting point in music began when I was eleven years old. A failed fourth grade clarinet player, I tortured my neighbors by standing in the yard and blowing so hard into the reed that it made a horrible dying duck sound. I was too hyper to sit still long enough and learn to play properly (a problem that would last my life). What I needed to do was jump around while I played. Pete Fountain's Bourbon Street was a clarinet record that demonstrated you could play the instrument and swing back and forth at the same time. It was not enough. I wanted to dance and play with the instrument like a gymnast.

Mom, Dad, I'm going to Harvard!

On February 9, 1964, sitting lotus-style in my Davy Crocket pajamas, peeling oranges while watching a black and white TV, I witnessed one of the greatest moments in rock n' roll history when Ed Sullivan announced, "It gives me great pleasure to present these exciting young men from England. Ladies and gentleman, the Beatles!" John, Paul, George, and Ringo appeared on the screen and sang All My Loving, Till There Was You, She Loves You, I Saw Her Standing There, and I Want To Hold Your Hand. My excitement grew with each song. My future unfolded. The clarinet was replaced with the closest instrument to a guitar my parents would invest; a $5 ukulele, which came with the warning: "rock n' roll would lead to no good" (my parents were divorced, struggling middle-class right wing types that saw no value in the Arts). The rest was up to me: a black wig from a Halloween costume sufficed for Beatle-like hair, and a carrot tied to a broomstick handle worked for an imaginary microphone. A mirror told me everything I else needed to know: I was a pubescent, misdiagnosed ADD, dreamer with an acute fear of being ordinary

I began my first foray into the rock n' roll biz, as a scrawny, 15-year old Acid Head, who thought hanging out backstage was the coolest thing on Earth. Backstage was the universal music school of business. It was a place where you learned what was really going on behind the scenes of the music business. For example: Who got stage fright? Where was the best place to perform? What was the best guitar? Who paid the most? Who was the best record company? Who was looking for a new lead singer? Who was the best manager?

My first experience working with a band was as a roadie for my brother's rock band, Marvin's Theory. It was like the song by Jackson Browne, The Load Out. As a roadie, I set up and tore down band equipment. One show at a time, I familiarized myself with how to set the microphone and amplifier levels without creating a piercing squeal. I eventually became trusted at the sound mixer, when hands no longer covered their ears as I said, "Testing 1-2-3."

During the summer of 1969, Marvin's Theory played Girl Scout camps. Like watching the Beatles, the girls screamed affectionately at the band. I carried the guitars and the girls screamed at me, too. To me, my geek brother was a rock star. I figured, if it could happen to him then it could happen to me. The following summer in my parents' basement, I crafted my destiny. I taught myself to play bass, guitar, organ, and drums parts to popular songs like Wipeout, Pipeline, Hang On Sloppy, and Gimme Some Lovin' (Beatles' songs were too hard to play). Finally, I thought I could jump around and play at the same time.

Later in 1969, one of Minnesota's first music business entrepreneurs, 19-year-old Patrick Raines (manager of Al Jarreau and Aimee Mann) gave me a job and, until I couldn't count the change back correctly, I sold pop, checked coats, and took door fees. I helped to build a dance hall in Burnsville, Minnesota called the Prison. The Prison was part of the late 60s Minnesota ballroom era. It became a hot spot for local, regional, and national bands. It was a place where bands, such as the Delcounts, the Underbeats, Crow, Castaways, and the Grasshoppers, broke ground for successful national careers. The business looked easy from my vantage point where the venue was magically sold out. When the show was over the band got a percentage of the door money. However, Raines (and sometimes with agent impresario Marsh Edelstein) walked out with big bags of cash for doing nothing more than throwing a party. The Prison also proved to be my first job at (or doing) A&R (being a music talent scout). I considered the job to judge the bands a big responsibility and I spent most of my time listening to records sent to the venue for audition. Right or wrong, I used my own ear to decide who got to perform. I loved the energy and didn't care about being paid.

Raines took his promoter ambitions a step further in the summer of 1970 when he rented the football field-sized Parade Stadium and hired twenty national bands. It was my first rock festival. Frisbees, beer, other substances, and a long line-up of great bands kept the 10,000 concertgoers happy. I was told that the last act of the evening was driving a farm tractor across the field towards the stage. A longhaired, super hippie guy waved to the crowd. "Who's that?" I asked Raines. "That's Shawn Phillips," he replied, "Go over there and make sure he doesn't fall when he steps down from that tractor." My friends considered Phillips to be the Dalai Lama of rock. I was too star-struck to talk to Phillips, so I just pointed to an anvil microphone case for him to step down on to. He laughed, and jumped down to the ground from the tractor, like it was a horse. He nodded to me, with a smile. "Much obliged," he said in a deep Texan drawl. The crowd burst into a cheer as he walked past me onto the stage. Busy running errands for the promoter, I only caught bits and pieces of Phillips's mystical-like songs Spaceman and Woman. Those songs and others got airplay on the local radio station KQRS, and they stuck in my head. An introduction to your Phillips album could be leveraged for romance. During the early morning hours, I remembered hearing Second Contribution coming from a bedroom.

Shawn Phillips - immensely popular in Minneapolis was not part of the local music scene

I did not become an instant fan. Phillips's concert ended an hour and a half later. The crowd applauded and stomped a demand for an encore. Phillips took a long bow and told Minneapolis how much he loved them. 25 years later I became Shawn Phillips's manager. Like a young boy attached to the excitement of a traveling circus, I had run away from a broken home, dropped out of high school, and pursued the calling of my soul to be in rock n' roll. I finished the summer of 1972 working as a stage hand for two outdoor rock festivals; Poynette and Stevens Pointe, Wisconsin. I spent my time fulfilling the personal requirements of the festival contract riders. I served sitar master Ravi Shankar hot tea. He noticed my three-day unwashed body and dilated pupils, and smiling, kindly shook his head. I guided Buffy Sainte-Marie up the steep stage stairs and nearly dropped her and her guitar. I spilled a glass of water on Ted Nugent's guitar amps power box. Ending the three-day music festival, Ted was cool, asking the crowd to build a windmill for a never-ending power source and a never-ending rock festival.

Woodstock was my last outdoor music festival. My destination at Woodstock was the star tent, and it wasn't very difficult to get past the stoned backstage security to hang out there. Most of the crew were either too wrecked, or exhausted to notice a mud-clad 16-year-old stumbling around trying to build his vision of working in the music business. In front of the stage, a sound-mixing riser rose out of the mud above a sea of people. To protect it from rain, the equipment was covered by a makeshift tarp. Beneath the tarp, a person with thick sideburns and glasses, wearing an Australian-like outback hat was desperately trying to control the direction of the music. I didn't know it at the time, but working the controls was not Crocodile Dundee, it was my future South African promoter, David Marks. I was fueled with more inspiration, having come close enough to touch many of my music heroes; like Pete Townshend and Joan Baez; even though they were all too busy being frustrated with the festival organizers to pay attention to the young rocker in the corner of the tent. Woodstock had shown me more than any other music festival of the time the possibilities of bringing together people through music. The idea of raising social awareness and creating personal harmony through music stuck with me and became a lifelong ambition. Three days later the empty fields of Woodstock farm was now mountains of trash. One cultural tsunami had risen and crashed. I made my way back to the interstate and let out the wild thumb. Thumb against the blade of a pocketknife. Thumb as shiny fingernail of reflected camel eye. Thumb as safety-pin-sized out-of-tune fiddle, plucking a cricket’s song.

In 1970, Allen Fingerhut (heir to the Fingerhut catalog company), opened a nightclub in downtown Minneapolis called the Depot (later renamed First Avenue in 1979). The former Greyhound bus depot (thus the name “Depot”) became the first nightclub in the city to serve both alcohol and rock music. I followed my love for the live music vibe throughout the 70s by mostly sneaking into the famous nightclub. Until the drinking age was dropped to 18 years old, I was underage and I didn't have the money for a ticket. I would need to know how to get in without paying. I solved the problem: One guy would get in with a ticket, go upstairs to the bathroom and open the window. Then I would climb up on the marquee sign and slip into the bathroom window. It was by this means that I kept my see-and-be-seen mojo for belonging to music alive. If only those were my acts performing at the club, I anticipated, trying to think like a music businessperson. It seemed like every group on their way up, like Prince, performed at the club, I kept my scene maker skills up to snuff, and I spent most of my early adult years at the venue walking the music biz-walk and talking the music biz-talk.

Disco finally died out by 1977, and a new style of rock music hit the streets called punk. At first, I didn't understand the raw edge, back to the rock basics, of three chords music style. The energy, the new rebelliousness, and the spirit of the sound hooked me. The new sound reminded me of that first time I saw the Beatles. The clarinet had returned.

During the late 70s; long before there were music business recording schools, internet, and people still used turntables to play records; I lacked the resources to make the transition from hippie to yuppie. A few state-funded educational programs were available to a financially challenged person (read dreamer) like me. The climate said, 'starve, or reinvent yourself into the shape of what capitalists consider a contributing member of society.' By 1979, I was a confused American experiment.
In 1980, I met a talented guitar player named Bruce Allen. The short, self-effacing, MCAD art student was starting a post-punk band called the Teet Zee Flies. Bruce asked me to audition for the rhythm guitarist. On a borrowed guitar, (I never owned a professional guitar until I was 24 years old) I passed the initial audition and joined the band. The line up at that time consisted of Bruce Allen, lead guitar/vocals; Michael Halliday, the hopelessly shy, amateur bass player, with the rock star look that chicks dug; and Hugo, the effervescent down to earth pal we all need, (Huck) Klaers, on drums. We practiced in the basement of a house I rented with Steve Knaeble at: 3545 Minnehaha Ave. We rehearsed there for about six months. A humble and gregarious guitarist named Chris Osgood who encouraged us often visited. His band was called the Suicide Commandos. The Commandos played their own songs and other odd rock gems. We admired Chris and looked up to his group as a role model. Meanwhile, we all worked odd jobs. I worked selling office supplies with an unknown and future major label singer named J.D. Steele. Later, Bruce and I argued over a song called Jazz Don't Make it With Me. I liked the new rock the Commandos played like the Clash, Ramones, Roxy Music, Lou Reed, Elvis Costello, Brian Eno, Talking Heads, Devo, and Blondie. (Costello later dated roommate Steve's sister, Kathy). I didn't get where Bruce was going with Huck's monotonous drumbeat and Mike's mixed up bass lines. I was pop music oriented and wanted more hooks in the music. Finally, Bruce asked Steve to tell me to leave. Beej Chaney and Chan Poling filled my spot and brought the sound Bruce was looking for. Looking for a guitar gig, I asked my wife's cousin Paul Peterson (St. Paul) who was performing with one of Prince’s groups The Time. At age 24, he told me I was too old to gig with Prince. Therefore, I started another band called Vitamin Q. (The Teet Zee Flies changed their name to The Suburbs ("Burbs," for short), and became A&M recording artists. The Burbs became one of the most popular rock groups in the history of Minneapolis.

During Vitamin Q's five-year run (1979-1985), the Q rehearsed the same 8 songs for three years. Followed by two personnel changes, the band rose to be one of the top cover song acts; despite Yanni’s, the new age music composer ominous warning, "If you want to make it in rock, you need a hairy chest." Vitamin Q's claim to original fame came from my song about the 80s me generation, Me Magazine. In 1981, the song appeared on the KQRS radio "Best of the Twin Cities Beat" album and TV show. Vitamin Q was better known for their rehearsal space. Pulling on experience from my Prison Dance Hall days, I helped to transform the group's warehouse rehearsal space into a concert hall that provided free access to original groups. The space became known as "On Broadway" and was the recipient of feature stories that acclaimed the venue as a critical spawning ground for developing talent.

I wanted to be a writer, too. My first self-published chapbook of poetry hit the streets in 1983, entitled, Tomorrow Never Answers. The book was hand distributed to area book and record stores, but it was mostly offered from the stage. My poetry book received a feature write-up in the Reader magazine, and finally was sold by poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti at his New City Lights bookstore in San Francisco. After Vitamin Q disbanded in 1985, and with the help of producer and future music business partner, Marty Weintraub, I recorded a double album, and accompanying 40-page story entitled, Burden of the Beat -The Eyelid Movie; a libretto, which parodied the idea of wanting to be rock star. The Plains Art Museum in Moorhead, Minnesota offered me a grant to exhibit the multimedia piece. The Forum newspaper in Fargo, North Dakota said the project was "worth seeing and hearing." In addition, the Minneapolis Star and Tribune and the Saint Paul Pioneer Press, nominated the work for their top-10-picks of the year. The Minnesota Historical Society documented the work (AV collection disc #175-A).

Throughout the 1980s, I had collected enough press clippings about my writing and music to prove that a lot of people had misjudged my abilities. My income, unfortunately, didn't match the buzz. Though I thought I had accepted my financial fate as an "artist," after my band broke up, I thought maybe it was time to try something else. At 31 years old, the business side of the music business became my next calling. In 1983, I joined folkie, Poppa John Kolstad's Mill City record distributors at minimum wage with no benefits sales manager. As a record distributor, I promoted and distributed over 100 independent labels. Including, a fledgling new label owned by school teacher turned label entrepreneur Bob Feldman. He named the label Red House after his house. Looking for reassurance on his first Greg Brown release he called me daily for guidance and reminded me that the local bookstore was sold out of their six copies. I worked at that post for two years until launching my own business: Hennings Multimedia. Working part time as a short order cook at Lyles Bar & Grill, I financed a music company that consisted of an 8-track recording studio, a telephone, and business card.

High on vision, low on guitar ability, I performed for over 5 years in various venues

The owner of Knut Koupee claimed I owed him $250 for this ad

Out of a one-bedroom apartment I taught myself, with Berklee School of Music dropout Marty Weintraub's help to make audio recordings for artists, advertisers, and companies. Believing in the commercial potential of six Minneapolis songwriters, Marty and I shopped their material to Los Angeles record companies. With no connections, a $500 limit VISA card, months behind on my $350 per month rent, and a car borrowed from my dad, I banged on the doors of Hollywood for months. Then in 1989, the president of PolyGram International Music Publishing liked what he heard and signed my company to a production deal. It was my first major success story in the music business. I was catapulted from the backing of a hamburger grill to a music industry giant. The St. Paul Pioneer press ran a feature on our accomplishment and called it one of the most significant boons to happen to the Minneapolis music scene. My contract stipulated that I was to find and develop talent who could produce tomorrow's hits. In other words an A&R man (talent scout).

My office was located at Owen Husney's (formerly Prince's manager) American Artists complex, 312 Washington Ave. During my time as co-publisher and A&R man, I placed several artists on major labels, and saved the independent label Twin Tone Records, and groups like the Jayhawks, Replacements, Suburbs, Soul Asylum, and Ween, from bankruptcy by finding them a new national distribution deal on Restless. In addition, I filled local attorney offices and recording studios with my business. In 1990, the Minnesota Music Academy asked me to present the Artist of the Year Award, Ann Reed, Red House Records winner.

In 1991, after two years with them, my contract with PolyGram was not renewed (it felt like two minutes), due to a merger between PolyGram, Island, and A&M records. The beginning of the 90s was significant in the music business because that's when the conglomeration of the labels began. The new PolyGram was eventually eaten up along with several other labels, like Motown. What followed was Universal Music; the largest monopoly on creativity ever created in the popular music record business. Also, during this time Prince had to become the formerly known as, Twin Tone records went under, The Suburbs broke up, First Avenue fought to stay open, and others involved in the "biz" simply burned out or faded away.

I tried to make a go of it with several local music business start-ups like Entercorp and Matthew Benjamin Productions. Most of the artists and businesses I worked with failed to pay me; consequently I ended the 80s like I started, an experiment; the wave receded, and I walked below the lamplight versus the limelight. It was time to rebuild and re-evaluate the next step on the long and winding road of show biz. I was in my 40s and starting over again. In an effort to give my music business experience academic credibility, I achieved a 4-year music business-based Baccalaureate of Arts degree. In addition, to further share my experience on paper, I also earned a Masters degree in Creative Writing. As part of my second post wave transition I moved from my ratty, but historic, one-bedroom recording studio apartment to a house in the suburbs. In the meantime, I had my first child, which further put the brakes on the idea of moving to the coast for a job in the media. During this time I held my life together by working various dead end jobs again. I'll never forget the one night, as a limousine driver, I drove a carload of senior high school girls around town. One girl asked me in a derogatory tone, "So what else have you done besides drive a limo?" I answered, "I signed artists to record contracts." She laughed hysterically and commented how funny I was. My humor apparently was worth an extra $10 tip. I understood what Louie Perez, drummer of Los Losbos meant when he said "I went from being a Grammy-award winning artist to fifteen minutes later pushing a cart in Ralph's Market and buying some Pampers."

By the early 90s, the music that lit the charts on fire and carried a lasting affect on today's songwriting ended in one long sustained power chord. Like the trash piles that followed Woodstock; the countless parties; the deals; the dreams; the music; the groundbreaking films by Chuck Statler; were all on the cutting floor of an existential rockumentary. After the acoustic tsunami had swept over the city, the dream that Minneapolis could become the "Nashville of the North" was washed away in the sand; the strident wave that engulfed the zeitgeist of the Minneapolis 80s music scene seemed to disappear into the smoldering CC Tap hamburger cloud from which it came.

Can we call the 80s Minneapolis music scene a movement? I believe it was, in some respect. Critics have only gone as far as highlighting the popularity of the new wave music. Maybe my story will help to push the question. Perhaps historians in the future will look back at what happened in a different light and reclassify the narrative.

(click here to read how Arlo Hennings became Shawn Phillips manager)

Thump Studios - top right apartment (Sue Mclean, promoter lived two house to the left)

Lyles Bar and Grill

During the mid 80s, working part time as a short order cook at Lyles Bar & Grill, I financed a music company that consisted of an 8-track recording studio, a telephone, and business card. My wife was the waitress (along with blues keyboard maestro Bruce McCabe's wife, Cathy) . Lyles was another popular hangout for the rock underground and Guthrie theater crowd.

"It's closing time, front door out!" Howie, bartender.

Quote upon becoming a division of PolyGram Music International

"All we had was the music," Hennings said. "We believed the music would speak for itself. This could be a catalyst for Minnesota. Who knows? This is how Nashville got started." - (1989 St. Paul Pioneer Press)

Arlo Hennings and Marty Weintraub

A list of 1980s shakers and doers

What is a movement? Movements are important historical reference points in culture. The beatnik and hippie movements started as scenes and grew into movements. A scene can disappear as mysteriously as it began, but a scene that takes a hold of the times becomes a movement, and history is made. Social critics tagged the 1980s to be president Reagan's era of "REAGANOMICS"- the decade of greed. Not everyone followed that drumbeat. Counter to the self-interest of the narcissistic me generation, a new underground art-wave called the "new wave" was pushing its way down a rogue stream. Not to be confused with punk rock that started previous to the 80s, the new wave of the 80s softened or increased depending on the band. Unlike the self-mutilation, panic-driven angst of early punk; new wave was more, but not entirely, characterized by fashion, attitude or lack of one, androgyny, mousse wet, black shoe polish hair, vampire pale skin, skinny ties, James Dean revisited leather jackets, girls in tight pants, drum machines, and synthesizers.. In the United States the new wave music branched out into two main tributaries, Minneapolis and Seattle. A handful of local entrepreneurs and artists in Minneapolis, Minnesota caught the energy of the new wave, and set out to make a splash. Due to low rent, good economy, and a supportive fan base; Minneapolis, like Seattle, made for a good music spawning ground.. Unclassified as a “movement” the music scene became known collectively in the press as the "Minneapolis Sound." Though critics argue that Minneapolis Sound was penned by R&B artists like Prince and Jimmy Jam & Terry Lewis, I believe other styles contributed to the mix; rock, blues, and folk. No one can say for certain who started the Minneapolis Sound; you can't take ownership of a "scene." Dubbed the "third coast" the Minneapolis music scene exploded in a brief few years to an impressive underground economy; consisting of hundreds of clubs, bands, agents, studios, managers, distribution, and record companies.
three of the many contributors to the Minneapolis Sound	a young Prince composes, circa 1977		Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis
Nestled into the corners of 25th & Lyndale Ave. South, the CC TAP was a bar located in an area in Minneapolis known as the Wedge Neighborhood. Home port for the Minneapolis alternative rock music shakers, the Greenwich Village of Minneapolis was named for its shape. Across the street from the CC was the popular underground record shop Oarfolkjokeopus. Two other record companies that helped put Minneapolis on the music map, were Twin Tone and Wide Angle, located just a few blocks away. Next door to Twin Tone, Cookhouse Studios recorded a demo for Paula Abdul including many locals like my own song Me Magazine. Within scent of the CC's hamburger grease, my recording studio, THUMP RECORDS, recorded a part of its own sonic footprint. The Longhorn Music Hall, later renamed Zoogies downtown broke the acts live, and bands like the Suburbs were born in my basement, but the CC and on the northern edge of the Wedge, Lyles Bar & Grill was where many people hung out to talk about the music.			above: Handbill for Suburbs and Replacements show at Goofy's Upper Deck, August 20-22, 1981 left: Poster for Replacements, Suburbs and Pistons show at St. Croix Boom Co., December 19, 1981


27 years ago in the middle of the Wedge neighborhood I had an 8-track recording studio. I chose to lend a hand to artists; to provide opportunities for those less gifted in the department of carving a niche for themselves, which helped to preserve fine expressions of the spirit calling unto itself.


I was born in 1953, a Hoosier from Indianapolis, Indiana. My father was a traveling salesman and thus uprooted my two younger sisters, older brother, and I about every two years until settling in the Minneapolis suburb of Burnsville in 1967. My starting point in music began when I was eleven years old. A failed fourth grade clarinet player, I tortured my neighbors by standing in the yard and blowing so hard into the reed that it made a horrible dying duck sound. I was too hyper to sit still long enough and learn to play properly (a problem that would last my life). What I needed to do was jump around while I played. Pete Fountain's Bourbon Street was a clarinet record that demonstrated you could play the instrument and swing back and forth at the same time. It was not enough. I wanted to dance and play with the instrument like a gymnast.			Mom, Dad, I'm going to Harvard!

On February 9, 1964, sitting lotus-style in my Davy Crocket pajamas, peeling oranges while watching a black and white TV, I witnessed one of the greatest moments in rock n' roll history when Ed Sullivan announced, "It gives me great pleasure to present these exciting young men from England. Ladies and gentleman, the Beatles!" John, Paul, George, and Ringo appeared on the screen and sang All My Loving, Till There Was You, She Loves You, I Saw Her Standing There, and I Want To Hold Your Hand. My excitement grew with each song. My future unfolded. The clarinet was replaced with the closest instrument to a guitar my parents would invest; a $5 ukulele, which came with the warning: "rock n' roll would lead to no good" (my parents were divorced, struggling middle-class right wing types that saw no value in the Arts). The rest was up to me: a black wig from a Halloween costume sufficed for Beatle-like hair, and a carrot tied to a broomstick handle worked for an imaginary microphone. A mirror told me everything I else needed to know: I was a pubescent, misdiagnosed ADD, dreamer with an acute fear of being ordinary
I began my first foray into the rock n' roll biz, as a scrawny, 15-year old Acid Head, who thought hanging out backstage was the coolest thing on Earth. Backstage was the universal music school of business. It was a place where you learned what was really going on behind the scenes of the music business. For example: Who got stage fright? Where was the best place to perform? What was the best guitar? Who paid the most? Who was the best record company? Who was looking for a new lead singer? Who was the best manager?

My first experience working with a band was as a roadie for my brother's rock band, Marvin's Theory. It was like the song by Jackson Browne, The Load Out. As a roadie, I set up and tore down band equipment. One show at a time, I familiarized myself with how to set the microphone and amplifier levels without creating a piercing squeal. I eventually became trusted at the sound mixer, when hands no longer covered their ears as I said, "Testing 1-2-3."

During the summer of 1969, Marvin's Theory played Girl Scout camps. Like watching the Beatles, the girls screamed affectionately at the band. I carried the guitars and the girls screamed at me, too. To me, my geek brother was a rock star. I figured, if it could happen to him then it could happen to me. The following summer in my parents' basement, I crafted my destiny. I taught myself to play bass, guitar, organ, and drums parts to popular songs like Wipeout, Pipeline, Hang On Sloppy, and Gimme Some Lovin' (Beatles' songs were too hard to play). Finally, I thought I could jump around and play at the same time.


		Later in 1969, one of Minnesota's first music business entrepreneurs, 19-year-old Patrick Raines (manager of Al Jarreau and Aimee Mann) gave me a job and, until I couldn't count the change back correctly, I sold pop, checked coats, and took door fees. I helped to build a dance hall in Burnsville, Minnesota called the Prison. The Prison was part of the late 60s Minnesota ballroom era. It became a hot spot for local, regional, and national bands. It was a place where bands, such as the Delcounts, the Underbeats, Crow, Castaways, and the Grasshoppers, broke ground for successful national careers. The business looked easy from my vantage point where the venue was magically sold out. When the show was over the band got a percentage of the door money. However, Raines (and sometimes with agent impresario Marsh Edelstein) walked out with big bags of cash for doing nothing more than throwing a party. The Prison also proved to be my first job at (or doing) A&R (being a music talent scout). I considered the job to judge the bands a big responsibility and I spent most of my time listening to records sent to the venue for audition. Right or wrong, I used my own ear to decide who got to perform. I loved the energy and didn't care about being paid.

Raines took his promoter ambitions a step further in the summer of 1970 when he rented the football field-sized Parade Stadium and hired twenty national bands. It was my first rock festival. Frisbees, beer, other substances, and a long line-up of great bands kept the 10,000 concertgoers happy. I was told that the last act of the evening was driving a farm tractor across the field towards the stage. A longhaired, super hippie guy waved to the crowd. "Who's that?" I asked Raines. "That's Shawn Phillips," he replied, "Go over there and make sure he doesn't fall when he steps down from that tractor." My friends considered Phillips to be the Dalai Lama of rock. I was too star-struck to talk to Phillips, so I just pointed to an anvil microphone case for him to step down on to. He laughed, and jumped down to the ground from the tractor, like it was a horse. He nodded to me, with a smile. "Much obliged," he said in a deep Texan drawl. The crowd burst into a cheer as he walked past me onto the stage. Busy running errands for the promoter, I only caught bits and pieces of Phillips's mystical-like songs Spaceman and Woman. Those songs and others got airplay on the local radio station KQRS, and they stuck in my head. An introduction to your Phillips album could be leveraged for romance. During the early morning hours, I remembered hearing Second Contribution coming from a bedroom.			Shawn Phillips - immensely popular in Minneapolis was not part of the local music scene

I did not become an instant fan. Phillips's concert ended an hour and a half later. The crowd applauded and stomped a demand for an encore. Phillips took a long bow and told Minneapolis how much he loved them. 25 years later I became Shawn Phillips's manager. Like a young boy attached to the excitement of a traveling circus, I had run away from a broken home, dropped out of high school, and pursued the calling of my soul to be in rock n' roll. I finished the summer of 1972 working as a stage hand for two outdoor rock festivals; Poynette and Stevens Pointe, Wisconsin. I spent my time fulfilling the personal requirements of the festival contract riders. I served sitar master Ravi Shankar hot tea. He noticed my three-day unwashed body and dilated pupils, and smiling, kindly shook his head. I guided Buffy Sainte-Marie up the steep stage stairs and nearly dropped her and her guitar. I spilled a glass of water on Ted Nugent's guitar amps power box. Ending the three-day music festival, Ted was cool, asking the crowd to build a windmill for a never-ending power source and a never-ending rock festival.

Woodstock was my last outdoor music festival. My destination at Woodstock was the star tent, and it wasn't very difficult to get past the stoned backstage security to hang out there. Most of the crew were either too wrecked, or exhausted to notice a mud-clad 16-year-old stumbling around trying to build his vision of working in the music business. In front of the stage, a sound-mixing riser rose out of the mud above a sea of people. To protect it from rain, the equipment was covered by a makeshift tarp. Beneath the tarp, a person with thick sideburns and glasses, wearing an Australian-like outback hat was desperately trying to control the direction of the music. I didn't know it at the time, but working the controls was not Crocodile Dundee, it was my future South African promoter, David Marks. I was fueled with more inspiration, having come close enough to touch many of my music heroes; like Pete Townshend and Joan Baez; even though they were all too busy being frustrated with the festival organizers to pay attention to the young rocker in the corner of the tent. Woodstock had shown me more than any other music festival of the time the possibilities of bringing together people through music. The idea of raising social awareness and creating personal harmony through music stuck with me and became a lifelong ambition. Three days later the empty fields of Woodstock farm was now mountains of trash. One cultural tsunami had risen and crashed. I made my way back to the interstate and let out the wild thumb. Thumb against the blade of a pocketknife. Thumb as shiny fingernail of reflected camel eye. Thumb as safety-pin-sized out-of-tune fiddle, plucking a cricket’s song.


In 1970, Allen Fingerhut (heir to the Fingerhut catalog company), opened a nightclub in downtown Minneapolis called the Depot (later renamed First Avenue in 1979). The former Greyhound bus depot (thus the name “Depot”) became the first nightclub in the city to serve both alcohol and rock music. I followed my love for the live music vibe throughout the 70s by mostly sneaking into the famous nightclub. Until the drinking age was dropped to 18 years old, I was underage and I didn't have the money for a ticket. I would need to know how to get in without paying. I solved the problem: One guy would get in with a ticket, go upstairs to the bathroom and open the window. Then I would climb up on the marquee sign and slip into the bathroom window. It was by this means that I kept my see-and-be-seen mojo for belonging to music alive. If only those were my acts performing at the club, I anticipated, trying to think like a music businessperson. It seemed like every group on their way up, like Prince, performed at the club, I kept my scene maker skills up to snuff, and I spent most of my early adult years at the venue walking the music biz-walk and talking the music biz-talk.


Disco finally died out by 1977, and a new style of rock music hit the streets called punk. At first, I didn't understand the raw edge, back to the rock basics, of three chords music style. The energy, the new rebelliousness, and the spirit of the sound hooked me. The new sound reminded me of that first time I saw the Beatles. The clarinet had returned.