Read Online Common Ground by J. Anthony Lukas - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: J. Anthony Lukas
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appeal for kids to stay home and watch it on TV.
Neither the Mayor nor Barney Frank had ever heard of James Brown—Barney thought he was a football player, the Mayor kept referring to him as “James Washington”—but they immediately agreed that Boston needed him that night. So began a frantic seven hours of negotiation.
The urbane David Ives, president of WGBH, Boston’s public television station, agreed to televise the concert, but when Atkins called Byrd to tell him, the disk jockey exploded. “You can’t do that,” he said. “James is in New York to tape a show. They’re giving him a pile of money, but on the condition he doesn’t do any other television on the East Coast until after it airs. You put this thing on TV here and you’ll violate James’s contract. He isn’t going to like that.”
When Atkins persisted, Byrd suggested he call Greg Moses, Brown’s manager. Moses was dubious: “Look, even if we can work out the contract thing, we got another problem. It’s going to kill our gate. We’re going to take a bath on this thing. Who’s going to take care of James?”
Atkins called White and said, “We gotta tell these people we’ll guarantee the gate.” At first, the Mayor flatly refused; ultimately, under Atkins’ pleading, he agreed. “But for Christ’s sake,” he said, “don’t tell anybody. If word evergets out we underwrote a goddamn rock star with city money, we’ll both be dead politically.”
Atkins called Moses back and assured him the city would guarantee the difference between what Brown would have made from a full house and what he actually took in that night. Moses gave a tentative, very uneasy assent, for he had been unable to clear it with Brown, already on his way to Boston in his private Lear jet. Atkins promised to meet the singer at the airport and explain the whole thing.
In the Mayor’s limousine, led by a wedge of police motorcycles, Atkins rushed to the airport, picked up Brown, then sped back through the Callahan Tunnel while hurriedly outlining the situation to the outraged star.
“No way,” Brown shouted. “They’ll sue me in New York.”
“James, James,” pleaded Atkins. “We’ll work this out! But right now you have an opportunity to help save this city.”
“I’ll have to think about it,” Brown grumbled.
When they screeched up to the Garden, Brown was met by Eddie Powers, the Garden’s manager, who reported that people had been coming in all day getting refunds.
“This concert has been killed!” Brown roared.
At that moment the Mayor pulled up and he, Brown, and Atkins huddled in the manager’s office. By then, Brown had figured out what the whole thing was going to cost him and demanded a city guarantee of $60,000.
“Sixty thousand!” the Mayor exclaimed. Martin Luther King had just been killed and here were two black guys putting the squeeze on him for $60,000. One of them, he’d been told, was the highest-paid black performer in America who made $2 million a year, had a Victorian mansion, a Rolls-Royce, two Cadillacs, two radio stations, a record company, a production staff of forty-two. Now he was worrying about the gate from one measly concert!
But White was running out of options. “Okay, Mr. Brown,” he said. “You’ve got your commitment. Now get up on that stage!”
Barely 2,000 young people, most of them black, were scattered around the 14,000-seat arena when Tom Atkins advanced to center stage.
“I’m not going to sing, but I do want to say this,” he began. “James Brown has donated his money and his time to help people. He donated one of his biggest-selling records to the young people of our country. And tonight he’s making a twenty-five-hundred-dollar contribution to the Martin Luther King Trust Fund. For those of you who are not with us here tonight, but are watching, I think it would be sort of great if you were to make out a check to the Martin Luther King Trust Fund and send it to City Hall care of
Neither the Mayor nor Barney Frank had ever heard of James Brown—Barney thought he was a football player, the Mayor kept referring to him as “James Washington”—but they immediately agreed that Boston needed him that night. So began a frantic seven hours of negotiation.
The urbane David Ives, president of WGBH, Boston’s public television station, agreed to televise the concert, but when Atkins called Byrd to tell him, the disk jockey exploded. “You can’t do that,” he said. “James is in New York to tape a show. They’re giving him a pile of money, but on the condition he doesn’t do any other television on the East Coast until after it airs. You put this thing on TV here and you’ll violate James’s contract. He isn’t going to like that.”
When Atkins persisted, Byrd suggested he call Greg Moses, Brown’s manager. Moses was dubious: “Look, even if we can work out the contract thing, we got another problem. It’s going to kill our gate. We’re going to take a bath on this thing. Who’s going to take care of James?”
Atkins called White and said, “We gotta tell these people we’ll guarantee the gate.” At first, the Mayor flatly refused; ultimately, under Atkins’ pleading, he agreed. “But for Christ’s sake,” he said, “don’t tell anybody. If word evergets out we underwrote a goddamn rock star with city money, we’ll both be dead politically.”
Atkins called Moses back and assured him the city would guarantee the difference between what Brown would have made from a full house and what he actually took in that night. Moses gave a tentative, very uneasy assent, for he had been unable to clear it with Brown, already on his way to Boston in his private Lear jet. Atkins promised to meet the singer at the airport and explain the whole thing.
In the Mayor’s limousine, led by a wedge of police motorcycles, Atkins rushed to the airport, picked up Brown, then sped back through the Callahan Tunnel while hurriedly outlining the situation to the outraged star.
“No way,” Brown shouted. “They’ll sue me in New York.”
“James, James,” pleaded Atkins. “We’ll work this out! But right now you have an opportunity to help save this city.”
“I’ll have to think about it,” Brown grumbled.
When they screeched up to the Garden, Brown was met by Eddie Powers, the Garden’s manager, who reported that people had been coming in all day getting refunds.
“This concert has been killed!” Brown roared.
At that moment the Mayor pulled up and he, Brown, and Atkins huddled in the manager’s office. By then, Brown had figured out what the whole thing was going to cost him and demanded a city guarantee of $60,000.
“Sixty thousand!” the Mayor exclaimed. Martin Luther King had just been killed and here were two black guys putting the squeeze on him for $60,000. One of them, he’d been told, was the highest-paid black performer in America who made $2 million a year, had a Victorian mansion, a Rolls-Royce, two Cadillacs, two radio stations, a record company, a production staff of forty-two. Now he was worrying about the gate from one measly concert!
But White was running out of options. “Okay, Mr. Brown,” he said. “You’ve got your commitment. Now get up on that stage!”
Barely 2,000 young people, most of them black, were scattered around the 14,000-seat arena when Tom Atkins advanced to center stage.
“I’m not going to sing, but I do want to say this,” he began. “James Brown has donated his money and his time to help people. He donated one of his biggest-selling records to the young people of our country. And tonight he’s making a twenty-five-hundred-dollar contribution to the Martin Luther King Trust Fund. For those of you who are not with us here tonight, but are watching, I think it would be sort of great if you were to make out a check to the Martin Luther King Trust Fund and send it to City Hall care of
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