Phil Cohen War Stories: Paranoia Strikes Deep
Editor’s Note: This is Part II of Phil’s bittersweet story of the Local 1077 Whiteville Choir. Read Part I here.
A few weeks later I drove to AMI Recording in Burlington with the master and graphics in hand, making sure the owners understood I was going to be a significant, ongoing customer if they met my demands. I placed a rush order for five-hundred copies to be picked up in time for the choir’s new album to make its debut at the union’s Southern Regional convention in Atlanta on June 7. The cost came to $675 and including studio time and various miscellaneous charges, the project was only $300 over budget.
I arrived in Atlanta a day early to set up the rented sound system and arrange microphones at the back of the stage for easy access. The choir met me in the conference hall at 8 a.m. for sound checks. With great satisfaction, I handed everyone a copy of their new album. Most of them turned it around in their hands gazing in utter amazement but Kenny remarked, “Where’s my picture on the cover? All these pictures are so small it’s hard to recognize anyone. Why didn’t you hire a professional photographer?”
“I wasn’t aware you were going to volunteer to pay for one. We did the best with what we had. Save your opinions until you’ve had a listen.”
Melvin lined up everyone on stage, strategically making use of our few mics. We ran through a couple of songs while I adjusted volume and EQ, adding reverb where necessary. Once my settings seemed correct, they did another piece while I stood in the back, listening from the audience’s perspective. I took them to the breakfast buffet and we returned at 9 a.m. just before Bruce began his opening remarks. Boxes of cassettes were stacked on and beneath a table in the lobby where Lovonne also sold union t-shirts, hats and other memorabilia to raise PAC money. Funds from album sales would be held separately.
Two hours into the convention, Bruce returned to the podium and announced, “We’ve got a real treat for you now,” passionately extolling the choir’s talent and complementing me for producing their album…as if our previous conversation had never occurred. He fully understood the wisdom of if you can’t beat them, join them and sensing this was going to be a glorious moment, preferred to be out front shining.
Halfway through the first verse, five hundred delegates were dancing in front of their chairs, shouting approval, and begging for one more song when the choir’s time on stage expired. The polish they’d integrated for the studio remained and their performance was truly inspiring. During the lunch break, Lovonne’s table was so overwhelmed with customers that I offered to help her. When the conference ended at noon on Sunday, we had sold 138 copies. Without authorization, I allowed the choir to return home with ninety cassettes for their own use when they performed locally. The next week I sent the union a down payment of $1,380.
A broad audience can’t be established without aggressive promotion, which in turn required sending dozens of free tapes to the right people, including the communication director of every major union and radio DJ’s already playing my music. I called UNITE’s communication director and arranged to write the copy for a full page, back cover advertisement in the upcoming edition of the union’s national magazine.
When the new issue of UNITE Magazine was released two weeks later, the response was so overwhelming that it cleaned out our inventory. We received orders from union activists as far away as Japan. I was negotiating contracts across North Carolina and fighting decertification attempts at two locations, so there wasn’t time left to become a retailer. Fortunately the union’s state director was a passionate fan. The orders came to the Greensboro office, were packaged by his secretary and then shipped via the union’s account.
I bought three hundred more tapes, reimbursed the union in full, and contributed $1,800 to the PAC fund, which at best was accustomed to receiving occasional three-digit donations. Federal law makes it illegal for unions to use dues money to support political candidates. All such funding must therefore come from selling something, and clothing bearing union insignia doesn’t generate meaningful profits during the course of one conference.
As word spread throughout the union, the Whiteville Choir began sacrificing weekends to lift the hearts of picketing workers during labor disputes and at demonstrations against anti-worker policies proposed by Congress, while remaining the featured attraction at union conferences in Greensboro and Atlanta. I started conducting a recognition program at union locals when I directed membership drives, awarding an album to every worker who signed at least five cards. Organizers requested copies to play at the plant gate during campaigns and for use as incentives at their discretion. I spent $250 of my own money to have my website designer build a page for the choir.
The Whiteville Choir headlined a concert in Durham, organized by the Labor Heritage Foundation. The album was being played on numerous college and community radio stations across the country and abroad, but the packet of playlists I handed out at every rehearsal never seemed quite real to folks who’d spent their entire lives in a small backwater town. What mattered to them was constantly being on the air in Whiteville and becoming local celebrities.
Melvin Chambers and the Whiteville Choir in concert.
I wasn’t ready to abandon the idea of a record contract and called Steve Gronbeck to ask if he had any connections. He provided a referral to Barry Poss, founder of Sugar Hill records; second only to Rounder as the premier independent label. A number of legendary country stars had made their first album with him. I called to introduce myself and the project, telling him to expect an album in the mail.
Ten days later, I hadn’t heard back and placed a follow-up call. “First, let me tell you how much I love this recording,” he told me. “I keep it in my car and listen to it almost every day. The problem is, I sold the company to a large corporation several years ago. I still work here but don’t make the final decisions. The new owners don’t think they can find a large enough market for this music to justify their investment.”
“But they’re the hottest act in the American Labor Movement,” I responded.
“Look, please don’t take offence at this, but the label considers unions to be an insignificant demographic within context of the entire population. If you could get them an appearance on the Tonight Show, maybe they’d see things differently. Look, if I still owned Sugar Hill, I’d manufacture and distribute the Whiteville Choir album without thinking twice, despite the risk of losing money. That’s how much I love and believe in their music. But unfortunately, I’m no longer calling the shots.”
The People’s Music Network was founded by Pete Seeger as a venue for alternative music and their annual conference was fortuitously scheduled for September in nearby Raleigh. I sent a cassette to the directors who agreed to feature the choir on stage. A few weeks later, they took the gathering by storm. Pete Seeger was in attendance and immediately fell in love, inviting the group to perform at his Clearwater Music Festival in June.
An October rehearsal began with Kenny launching into a tirade demanding, “Where’s all our royalties? Our records are selling, so who’s lining their pockets with our royalties?” He clearly saw the music world through a myopic lens: Michael Jackson made records, had millions of dollars and a giraffe, so how come the choir didn’t have the same?
He received a clamor of support from a number of choir members he’d obviously been influencing, but I was relieved that both Melvin and Anna remained silent while awaiting my response.
“First off, we made a deal with Bruce that this would be a nonprofit project to raise PAC money. Every penny we receive belongs to the union. But tell me “Mr. Music Business,” where do you think royalties come from?”
“That’s simple. You make a record and get paid royalties.”
“It’s not that simple,” I told him, speaking loud enough for everyone to hear. “Royalties are earned each time a record is sold and normally amount to ten percent. So far we’ve sold around 500 copies. That would come to a whopping $21 each. Be grateful that someone else paid for you to go into an expensive recording studio to make an album, and then worked their ass off promoting it. No one ever did that for me.”
“Well, that’s all a bunch of blah-blah and bullshit. You’re a damn crook and getting rich off our music while we get nothing. I’m putting in a call to Bruce!”
“Knock yourself out,” I told him.
The year ended on a high note. The Independent, a popular North Carolina magazine, gave the album a five star rating, declaring it one of the best picks of the year. Their review stated, “They’re just too earnest, too happy and too dedicated to their cause.”
While driving home from contract negotiations in December, I received a call on my car phone from Mark D. Moss, editor of Sing Out, a nationally distributed music magazine with a large readership.
“I’d like to interview you about the Whiteville Choir. Are you available now?”
“If you don’t mind dropping in and out a couple of times when I drive through dead zones. Sure, why not?” When we finished two hours later, Moss requested the phone numbers of choir members. I gave him, Melvin, Anna and Robert, making a point not to mention Kenny, who would have sullied the interview and embarrassed the union by ranting on about how I was getting rich by stealing their royalties.
Momentum immediately continued to build once the holiday season ended. Sing Out gave us a high profile feature, beginning with a large photo of the choir singing at a picket line, accompanied by my remarks, “The measure of any movement is its ability to inspire. What remains once the dust has settled is the degree to which folks have been awakened, empowered, and driven to remember who they really are. No vehicle does this more profoundly than music.”
I was surprised that the article was followed by a two-page spread of the words and music for my song “Angel of Freedom.” Farther back in the magazine, the record itself was reviewed with the opening declaration, “I’m pleased to report that the Holy Grail has been found in the inspired singing of the Whiteville Choir.”
On January 20, the choir performed at a Martin Luther King Day celebration in Durham. I arrived with several boxes of cassettes which were nearly empty when the event ended at 10 p.m.
Two weeks later, Bruce once again ambushed me on the phone late at night. “Look, I’ve got to admit you did a great job with the album. But that said, where the hell is all the money from this going?”
“Read your own bank statements,” I replied. “The union has been paid back as promised and we’ve contributed $1,800 to PAC. When’s the last time you got a contribution that large?”
“I have read those statements. What I’m concerned about is the royalties.”
So there it was. To my astonishment, Bruce was actually taking Kenny seriously and I had to wake myself up to play defense. People tend to project their own shortcomings onto others, meaning thieves see dishonesty in everyone else. It would be two decades before the light of day shone on Bruce’s financial indiscretions and forced him into retirement. At present it was only the subject of rumor and gossip. But he signed my paychecks and his inquiries had to be satisfied.
“First off there are no royalties because the union, as their record label, didn’t pay any. I gave you my word that no one would make any money off this. When have you ever known me to break my word?”
“I can’t think of any such time right now,” he admitted. “But you need to prepare a report documenting all sales, income and expenses. While we’re at it, I’m fine with the ad in UNITE Magazine because it’s in-house and makes the Southern Region look good. But I’ve been hearing all these stories about magazine reviews and radio play. I thought I made it explicitly clear: No outside promotion! We keep this within the union so they remain our resource to control and use. I don’t like where you’re going with this and want you to stop immediately!”
“Okay,” I said, hoping the monosyllabic answer would suffice. I don’t consider lying under duress to be breaking my word.
“Very good then,” the director responded. “I’ll be looking for that report.” He hung up without even saying goodnight, but that was his style.
My “Whiteville Choir Statement - 2/25/97,” noted that 675 tapes had thus far been sold. I realized the choir had potential to be more than a one record wonder, opened a bank account in their name and began depositing all proceeds to cover expenses and provide funding for their next album without having to beg or request permission. It seemed like a better use of the money than giving it to politicians who appeared at conventions with a big mouth and nothing to back it up. We’d raised more for PAC the previous year than the entire Southern staff combined and received little thanks.
To my surprise, Bruce supported the decision. He was the ultimate pragmatist who preferred results over being right. He went from trembling with rage at my efforts to assuming the role of executive producer, as if he’d assigned me to make the record. He began requesting boxes of tapes, proudly distributing them at General Executive Board (GEB) meetings in New York, and handing them out to presidents of other unions and politicians. But this all worked in my favor.
The Whiteville Choir performed at an outdoor concert organized by Duke University which paid an honorarium of $200. I had the check made out to Melvin for division among choir members for their personal use. This hadn’t been a union event and in my judgment was therefore outside the boundaries of the nonprofit agreement.
On June 21, the choir boarded a bus to the Clearwater Music Festival in upstate New York, paid for by the event planners. I was too busy fighting union busters to exhaust time and energy on long bus rides and so took a plane to LaGuardia, putting it on my expenses. I bought a second ticket for my artist girlfriend, Patricia, who’d produced the album graphics along with the inside booklet. She’d become close with choir members, usually accompanying me to concerts and on occasion, rehearsals.
A member of the festival staff met us at the airport. She was confident about knowing the route as we embarked on the three hour drive, but instead of heading directly for an interstate, her shortcut left us driving aimlessly through side streets in the South Bronx, one of the country’s most notorious neighborhoods. “Do you know where you’re going?” I asked.
“Actually, I think I may have gotten a bit turned around.”
My instincts as a former New York City cab driver were instantly awakened. “Everyone lock their doors, NOW!” I ordered.
My grip tightened around the case of an expensive Martin D18 guitar I always traveled with while glancing at Patricia who was mine to protect. I was at an extreme disadvantage, having flown and therefore being unarmed. “Make a right turn HERE,” I shouted.
“Why?” asked our somewhat ditsy chauffer who appeared oblivious to the danger.
“Just do it! I’m familiar with this area and if you follow my instructions, we may all get out of here in one piece.” It had actually been nearly two decades since I’d been in the Bronx, so I was giving directions based on pure impulse, the way wild animals travel. But my inner compass remained true. We finally hit Bruckner Boulevard and from there the Henry Hudson Parkway.
The festival was filled with famous and talented performers, but no one rocked the crowds more than the Whiteville Choir. The standing ovations they received lasted for several minutes, as small town factory workers stood before their audience with tears streaming down their face, making them appear even more adorable. Pete Seeger himself was in a state of wonder and invited them to return.
My phone began ringing with requests for performances paying between $600 and $1,200 (equivalent to twice that in today’s economy). Following a long day in the field, I’d always show up to make sure the choir was well-treated and run the sound system. At the end of each gig I was handed a check, which is customary when a producer is present. This was on our own time and beyond the union’s jurisdiction. By conventional music business standards, I was entitled to a minimum of 30 percent. But I gave it all to choir members because they needed it more than me.
The Triangle Folk Music Society arranged for a Whiteville Choir concert at the Unitarian Church in Chapel Hill on the night of September 20. The church didn’t have a sound system, so I lugged my own, including four quality microphones. Once the spellbound audience had departed and the $650 check was signed over to the choir, I began the cumbersome task of disassembling my equipment for transport, and realized with a start that I couldn’t locate my microphones. As I scanned the auditorium I suddenly noticed Kenny up on the stage, about to put two mics into his tote bag.
“Hey!” I shouted. “Those are my mics. What are you doing?”
“I thought you gave them to us,” was the only lame response Kenny could come up with.
“Those four mics cost me $800 and I sure as hell ain’t feeling that generous. Bring them over here now, along with the stands!”
I couldn’t resist whispering to Anna who was standing beside me. “I know he’s your brother…but he accuses me of being a crook and here he is, trying to steal my equipment.” She just shook her head and sighed.
During August, I was phoned by the executive producer at a London movie studio, wanting to know if the choir had recorded a version of Solidarity Forever that he could use in a soundtrack. This was too tempting an offer to ignore. “No, I’m afraid we don’t, but I could record one for you.”
“Now there’s a good man,” he responded with a heavy accent. “When do you think you could have it ready?”
“Give me two months,” I told him, having no idea how we’d manage this. The following week I drove to Whiteville and met with the choir, who were star-struck at the notion of being in a movie.
“Is Bruce gonna agree to this?” asked Melvin.
“He’d not even gonna know about it. Work out an arrangement, and I’ll bring my home recording equipment down here next month. If the session turns out good, I’ll lay out my own money to mix and master at TGS.”
I met the choir at a deserted church auditorium on a Saturday afternoon and they helped me unload. “Where’s Kenny,” I asked. “He should have been here half-an-hour ago.”
“I’ll drive to a gas station and call him,” suggested Anna.
“Better yet, let me show you how to work my car phone.” We tried several numbers but our keyboard player couldn’t be found, so we returned inside. Maintaining a cool head was part of keeping the project together and I struggled to suppress my frustration.
“What do we do now?” asked Ruby, one of the more talented back-up singers. “Pack up and go home?”
“Wait a minute,” said Melvin. “The arrangement we came up with could work with voices only. Why don’t we at least give it a try?”
“Kenny’s not gonna like it,” said Anna, “us recording without him.”
“That’s on him, missing the session,” I immediately responded. “Let’s do a practice run and then roll tape.”
I was stunned by the emotional impact of Melvin’s arrangement, offering a full, rich sound with some of the background singers assuming the role of instruments, giving the impression this had been intended as an acapella performance. It was almost as if she’d had a premonition. Our second recording produced a track good enough for the studio.
I spent a night with Steve doing the mix, which was somewhat simpler because my equipment only offered four tracks. We argued continuously as his vision of the finished product was far different from mine. But I always trust my instincts and it was my money, so I left with a master I felt confident about and mailed a copy to England. The studio and shipping charges came to $170, but it seemed like a shot worth taking.
Bruce called during Labor Day weekend to interrogate me for two hours about the choir, demanding a far more intricate report than the previous one, including a detailed accounting of every tape sold and given away, along with the resulting cash flow. I’d made a monthly practice of going over the books with the choir before every rehearsal, but Kenny kept phoning Atlanta with complaints about more tapes being manufactured than sold, and wanting to know where the money was really going, suggesting I was probably selling them myself.
My “Whiteville Choir Statement – 9/18/97” and exhibits documented:
1,595 tapes had been produced.
748 had been sold by the union.
90 were given to the choir upfront and another 200 sold to them at AMI’s per unit cost of $1.35.
191 were either in the inventories of various organizations, or staff members who’d offered to sell them at their locals, but unfortunately weren’t making much of an effort.
186 promotional copies were meticulously itemized.
In addition to being tedious, it was challenging to figure out how to communicate this information to Bruce, who understood as much about the music business as most people do about the National Labor Relations Act.
Six weeks later, I received a polite email from the movie producer, telling me he’d decided to use a vintage recording from Utah Phillips. This really pissed me off because our recording had been commissioned. But not one to accept defeat, I considered other options:
A new music compilation called the Acoustic Rainbow had already released two of my songs to radio. The producers loved the choir but couldn’t include them because of the electric keyboard. They jumped at the opportunity to present an acoustic version of the choir, which was played by several hundred DJs and resulted in numerous requests for the full album.
An international vice president who I considered a friend called from the union’s New York headquarters, requesting forty cassettes to sell at a conference. “How’s things been going with the choir?” he asked.
“Sales are still good, we’re getting national press coverage and radio exposure,” I answered as if casually speaking to a fellow union rep.
“That’s not what Bruce wants,” said the vice president. “He wants this to stay small and remain within the labor movement.”
“It’s too late,” I told him. “Cat’s out of the bag.”
The Whiteville Choir was once again the star attraction at the Southern Regional conference in Atlanta on June 5. As everyone began departing on Sunday afternoon, Bruce asked me, the Local 1077 business agent, and the choir to remain behind for a meeting. Allegations were again spewed at me as if I was on trial for kidnapping. Kenny rose to his feet, attempting to denounce me in the style of a small-town preacher.
I was past the point of losing all patience with this guy. “You’ve got a lot of fuckin’ nerve,” I told him, ignoring the group’s religious sensibilities. “I’ve done more work on this project than all of you put together and pulled you out of small town gigs into the limelight. I’ve given you almost 300 tapes to sell for yourselves. Do you think there’s a record company in the whole world who would have done that? I book you high-paying gigs, show up to work the sound and don’t take the producer’s cut. If I wanted to make money off this, why wouldn’t I just take what I’m legally entitled to?
“I didn’t know you were giving the choir tapes at-cost,” Bruce interjected.
“Why do you care?” I asked. “It wasn’t the union’s money, so what’s the harm?”
“There’s still some unanswered questions about royalties and where the tapes not listed as sold have really gone,” said the business agent. “How do we know your report is accurate?”
I was stunned by the involvement of their union rep with whom I’d worked closely for many years, bolstering Kenny’s credibility in the process. Later I was privately told that she was resentful of how I’d hijacked her choir.
“Well, this is what we’re going to do,” said Bruce, trying to play King Solomon. “Phil, change the address so the bank statements are sent directly to the choir. But only you remain authorized to write checks.”
“Fine,” I responded, grateful the inquisition had ended for now, but considering his idea one of the dumbest administrative decisions I’d ever heard. No good deed goes unpunished, I thought to myself while walking toward the exit.