in my commitment to industrial chimneys.
I was on a song-selling mission the day I ran into Neil Sedaka on Broadway. When I told him Gerry and I were pushing our own songs, Neil suggested I meet with Don Kirshner and Al Nevins, with whose publishing company he and Howie Greenfield were signed. When I called to request an appointment, the secretary said her bosses could see me the next day. Gerry couldn’t take time off from work, so I would attend the meeting alone. The next day I took the BMT to 49th Street. As I walked up Broadway, I was filled with so much anticipatory energy that I barely noticed the teeming street scene around me. Riding up in the elevator I reminded myself of my two objectives: getting us a publishing deal sufficient to get out of debt, and signing with a publisher with a track record of hits with top artists. Having already attained a #1 hit by Connie Francis with “Stupid Cupid,” written by Neil and Howie, Aldon Music met the second requirement.
Aldon combined the first names of Al Nevins and Don Kirshner. Al had been one of the Three Suns, best known for their 1944 hit “Twilight Time.” Al had financed the partnership, while Don had brought his close friendship with Bobby Darin and Connie Francis and an unerring ear for a hit. Arriving in Aldon’s reception area I could hear a cacophony of male and female voices singing, several pianos playing different songs in different rooms,and two or three current hit records blaring, all at the same time. When I gave the secretary my name she escorted me into Al’s office to meet her bosses. After introducing me, she left and shut the door behind her. My first impression of Al’s office was that it must have been decorated by someone who designed brothels. It had red drapes, a red carpet, and a red piano that dominated the room. The piano had red-and-black stools and a lacquered black shelf around it with red coasters on which people could set their drinks. One could almost imagine the piano being announced in a basso profundo voice: The Red Pianohhhhh.
After I had answered a few preliminary questions such as “How do you know Neil and Howie?” Al invited me to sit at the piano and play some songs. Donnie was constantly in motion, alternately pacing, tapping his feet, and nodding his head slightly off rhythm. After each song, Al applauded enthusiastically, Donnie winked at me, then Donnie and Al looked conspiratorially at each other. After the fourth song, Al praised the music and the lyrics and Donnie complimented me on my “piano feel,” by which I gathered he meant my pound-out-the-rhythm-as-hard-as-I-could style of accompaniment. Al was just saying he’d like to meet Gerry when Donnie looked at his watch, stood up, and said, “Gotta run, babe.”
Moving toward the door, he added, “I gotta go meet Connie”—I assumed he meant Connie Francis—“but can ya come back tomorrow? Bring Gerry.”
“Sure, no problem.”
Donnie paused at the door long enough to say, “I like what you’re doin’. Lemme hear some more songs,” and then he was gone.
Al recapped more elegantly what Donnie had just said, then walked me out to have his secretary set up an appointment for Gerry and me for the next day.
I floated home. (Full disclosure: a Brooklyn-bound BMT train was involved.) When Gerry got home from work I told him howit went. He was skeptical but willing to take a day off to hear what they had to say.
At the conclusion of our meeting the following day, Donnie and Al offered Gerry and me a three-year publishing contract that would give us, as a team, an advance of $1,000 the first year, $2,000 the second year, and $3,000 the third year. In exchange for $6,000, to be deducted from our future royalties, Gerry and I would assign ownership of the copyrights of all the songs we would write under the term of the agreement to Aldon Music, Inc., “and/or their heirs and assigns.” Any advances would be recouped from the writers’ share of the
I was on a song-selling mission the day I ran into Neil Sedaka on Broadway. When I told him Gerry and I were pushing our own songs, Neil suggested I meet with Don Kirshner and Al Nevins, with whose publishing company he and Howie Greenfield were signed. When I called to request an appointment, the secretary said her bosses could see me the next day. Gerry couldn’t take time off from work, so I would attend the meeting alone. The next day I took the BMT to 49th Street. As I walked up Broadway, I was filled with so much anticipatory energy that I barely noticed the teeming street scene around me. Riding up in the elevator I reminded myself of my two objectives: getting us a publishing deal sufficient to get out of debt, and signing with a publisher with a track record of hits with top artists. Having already attained a #1 hit by Connie Francis with “Stupid Cupid,” written by Neil and Howie, Aldon Music met the second requirement.
Aldon combined the first names of Al Nevins and Don Kirshner. Al had been one of the Three Suns, best known for their 1944 hit “Twilight Time.” Al had financed the partnership, while Don had brought his close friendship with Bobby Darin and Connie Francis and an unerring ear for a hit. Arriving in Aldon’s reception area I could hear a cacophony of male and female voices singing, several pianos playing different songs in different rooms,and two or three current hit records blaring, all at the same time. When I gave the secretary my name she escorted me into Al’s office to meet her bosses. After introducing me, she left and shut the door behind her. My first impression of Al’s office was that it must have been decorated by someone who designed brothels. It had red drapes, a red carpet, and a red piano that dominated the room. The piano had red-and-black stools and a lacquered black shelf around it with red coasters on which people could set their drinks. One could almost imagine the piano being announced in a basso profundo voice: The Red Pianohhhhh.
After I had answered a few preliminary questions such as “How do you know Neil and Howie?” Al invited me to sit at the piano and play some songs. Donnie was constantly in motion, alternately pacing, tapping his feet, and nodding his head slightly off rhythm. After each song, Al applauded enthusiastically, Donnie winked at me, then Donnie and Al looked conspiratorially at each other. After the fourth song, Al praised the music and the lyrics and Donnie complimented me on my “piano feel,” by which I gathered he meant my pound-out-the-rhythm-as-hard-as-I-could style of accompaniment. Al was just saying he’d like to meet Gerry when Donnie looked at his watch, stood up, and said, “Gotta run, babe.”
Moving toward the door, he added, “I gotta go meet Connie”—I assumed he meant Connie Francis—“but can ya come back tomorrow? Bring Gerry.”
“Sure, no problem.”
Donnie paused at the door long enough to say, “I like what you’re doin’. Lemme hear some more songs,” and then he was gone.
Al recapped more elegantly what Donnie had just said, then walked me out to have his secretary set up an appointment for Gerry and me for the next day.
I floated home. (Full disclosure: a Brooklyn-bound BMT train was involved.) When Gerry got home from work I told him howit went. He was skeptical but willing to take a day off to hear what they had to say.
At the conclusion of our meeting the following day, Donnie and Al offered Gerry and me a three-year publishing contract that would give us, as a team, an advance of $1,000 the first year, $2,000 the second year, and $3,000 the third year. In exchange for $6,000, to be deducted from our future royalties, Gerry and I would assign ownership of the copyrights of all the songs we would write under the term of the agreement to Aldon Music, Inc., “and/or their heirs and assigns.” Any advances would be recouped from the writers’ share of the
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