Chapter
1
The Takeover
s a large man threw me against the wall, the words of my father echoed
in my head. “Never let your emotions drive your actions, and never let
your tongue dig a deeper hole.” Now I was in trouble.
My uncle had told me not to leave the building without him, and now I
knew why. I just had to get out; I wanted fresh air. The memory of my
father overwhelmed me. I was trying to come to grips with his death. I
didn’t want my uncle to see me cry; my father never cried. My emotions
clouded my mind as my tears clouded my vision. I ran to escape the
torment and never noticed the smell of marijuana or the woman rounding
the corner. I knocked her down, and we both fell, hard. She
scrambled to collect a number of small plastic packages.
I tried to explain. “It was an accident. I’m sorry. Are you okay, lady?
Here, I’ll help you.” I tried to help her up. Then a monster of a man
grabbed me.
“Boy, what are you doing on my street?” he demanded, as a rough-looking
crowd gathered. He backhanded one of the boys from the crowd, who was
about my age, “You know this boy?” The boy cowered and shook his head.
Holding me tight by my heavy overcoat, he lifted me off the ground and
slammed me into the wall. “I’ll teach you to mess with my business,” he
snarled, as he pulled his fist back. I trembled with fear and braced for
the impact. It never came.
I slid down the wall and opened my eyes to see my uncle and Mr. Cooper.
My uncle held the man’s fist with one hand and his throat with the
other. “You have a problem with my young nephew?”
“No, Mr. Geronimo, I—uh, I didn’t know he was your boy—” the words
graveled out.
Mr. Cooper held his gun on two men from the crowd as they reached toward
their coats.
“You know better than that!” he warned, with steely eyes and a low
rumbling voice.
Three men already on the ground backed away as Geronimo slowly pushed
his captive over some garbage cans. I guess when you own someone’s
Adam’s apple, he has to do whatever you want. My attacker lay there,
gasping for air, not daring to make a move. The others just stood still.
It all happened so fast; no one wanted to test his luck.
“I’ll take point; you guard our rear,” Geronimo ordered as he pulled me
down the street. Mr. Cooper followed, walking backward.
“Mr. Stone.”
“Mr. Stone.”
“Mr. Stone!” Jill raised her voice from the doorway. “You okay? The
president of Behemoth Records is on the phone.”
“What? Who?” I snapped out of my daydream, and found myself staring out
of my uncle’s office window. With all that had happened over the last
month, I must have been having flashbacks from my youth.
Jill, my uncle’s assistant, explained, “John Rader, the president of
Behemoth Records. Behemoth Records—that’s the largest record company in
the world. He wants to talk to you.”
I answered the phone. “Tommy Stone.”
After a split second of small talk, John Rader became aggressive.
“Here’s the deal. It’s already hit the trades, Tommy Boy. Now that your
uncle is gone, Geronimo Stone Records is in play. For the last thirty
years, Geronimo enjoyed a steady stream of hits and huge numbers under
Robert’s direction. He was the man, but now, he’s not—he’s dead.”
John Rader controlled our conversation with a sarcastic edge and a
know-it-all tone.
Rader continued “He was a business genius with golden ears. Nobody could
pick artists or develop Blues records like Geronimo. You know it. He
knew it. I even know it. However, nobody in his company ever made a
single major decision without him. Face it, now that he’s gone, the best
thing you can do for yourself, your family, and your employees is to
sell the label to me while it still has value.
“Think about it, Tommy Boy! Geronimo picked some hits, but even with him
in charge, you guys haven’t had anything real in two years. And there’s
nothing in the pipeline now that will generate the kind of numbers
you’ll need to keep it going. You can’t live on catalog forever. Your
big artists either are over the hill or have plans to move on to a major
label.
“Tommy, your uncle created a legendary company. He built a family with
himself as the patriarch. He rewarded those who followed his direction
and punished those who didn’t. He took care of his own, but all the good
people left as soon as they were trained. You know where they went? They
came to me and other labels. Where do you think we got some of our best
employees? Geronimo never could keep good people.
“I liked and respected Geronimo—who wouldn’t? He got his start in a
warehouse in a rough part of town and dragged his company through
financial struggles until the hits started coming. Everyone thought he
was crazy. He had a good roll! But it’s over. Geronimo,” he scoffed,
“There’s no place in the business for renegades or independents,
anymore. Your day in the sun is over. The ‘Big 5’ owns the market! We
control the charts and the shelf-space.
“With Geronimo Stone gone, I give you six months. All you’ve got left
are some wannabees, some catalog, and a bunch of ‘yes’ people on staff.
Geronimo did all the thinking and forced his will through every aspect
of the company. I guess, being a battle-hardened soldier, he was always
able to get his way. But he’s gone—
“So, I’ll cut to the chase. You have no expertise in this business, and
you have my proposal. Give it up, before you get hurt. Take your
inheritance, before it’s gone. Sell, and salvage the nest egg your uncle
built for you. Retire, and you, your family, and his widow can live off
the interest. Heck, we’ll even throw in a healthy early retirement
package for your executives.
“Trust me—you’ll never get a better deal! You and Brenda are the only
beneficiaries, and you’re out of your element. You don’t even like the
record business. If you did, you would have stuck around when you were a
kid and had the chance. You had a once in a lifetime opportunity to
mature in the business, but you gave that up fifteen years ago. You
became a generalist, a consultant, instead. You’re nothing but a
disgusting seagull. You fly into a company, eat all the food, and crap
all over everything before you fly away to live off some other company’s
hard work.”
With those comments, the hairs on the back of
my neck stood on end. I wanted to strike back, but what I blurted out
was, “Hey, wait a minute—” The voice on the other end ignored my
snappy comeback and continued.
“Now, here you are; Geronimo’s numbers have already started the
nosedive. You were at 215 in gross against 175 net last year and this
year, it’s already down by 40. That tell you something? You’re going to
be known as the CEO who killed Geronimo Stone
Records. At least we’ll keep the brand alive—as an imprint, of
course. Fight me on this, Tommy Boy, and you’ll end up losing
everything. I’ve given you two weeks to grieve; I’ll give you two more
weeks to make up your mind.”
The last thing John Rader said was, “Don’t mess this one up, Tommy. I
was a friend of Geronimo’s. Your family needs the security, and you’re
no Geronimo. Two weeks!” Rader punctuated that statement with a loud
click.
I thought, “The nerve of that guy! Who does he think he is? But then,
maybe he’s right. I don’t even know the players here.”
I even had to ask Jill to explain who this Rader guy was. I was so
surprised by his directness; I wasn’t able to say anything. I read the
proposal, and the consultant in me thought he
was making a reasonable offer.
I’m an industrial engineer and a business consultant—a generalist. I
knew a lot about business, but I didn’t know anything, anymore, about
the music business. I was so far out of touch, I couldn’t see the fire,
even though I was starting to feel the heat. Sure, I grew up doing
everything around here, coached by my uncle, but that was a long time
ago. How did Rader know it had been fifteen years? How did he know so
much about our business? He had obviously been tracking our activity,
but how did he know our numbers? But then I knew it was a close-knit
industry, everybody talked, and everybody knew each other—except me. I
dropped in from Neptune. If I were to quit my real job, move here to run
the family business, and fail, I’d be out of work, my reputation shot,
and my aunt would lose her inheritance. I’d lose my inheritance. He was
right. If we took his offer, we could all retire—right now.
Geronimo Stone. Whom was I kidding? I
was no Geronimo Stone. Of all the medals and awards he received in
Vietnam, my uncle liked the badge of comparison to the great Indian,
Chief Geronimo, the best. He got it because he fearlessly jumped into
the action, any action. Jumping into trouble was what he did! Geronimo!
He liked the nickname and admired the strong Apache leader who fought to
keep his people free.
Robert “Geronimo” Stone had a passion
for great music too. When he got out of the army, he founded a Blues
label and called it Geronimo Stone Records. When I was growing up, Uncle
Robert was my hero—bigger than life. I was still a boy when Uncle Robert
came back from Southeast Asia. And even though my dad complained about
why we were there, I could always get him to tell me amazing stories of
battles that Uncle Robert wrote about in his letters home. Sometimes we
heard stories from other people, as well. I loved to hear them talk
about how he had a nose for ambushes and booby traps. My uncle always
praised his men and focused on their valor, but I heard from those men
how often he saved them. According to them, he kept them alive, and they
always accomplished their mission. It was his way, always to lead and
take responsibility. Like so many real heroes, he was humble and modest.
There was no boasting. He spoke with reverence about the boys on both
sides. He said the toughest part was the waiting. The twenty percent of
men who charged into battle had it easy compared to the eighty percent
who supported them. He told me how most of the men had to wait behind a
fence like caged animals—targets waiting for the enemy to strike. For
too many, it was like being in jail, and he reasoned that this was why
so many returned home with deep-seated psychological problems. Not
Geronimo; he wanted action.
He was a fierce competitor, too. He could take command of any situation
and make it a winner, through his own sheer will and courage. He was a
man with a wiry body, iron will, and steadfast determination. Not my
style of management, at all. With Geronimo in charge, the company’s
employees never had to fight for anything.
Would they fight to keep this company alive?
Like my uncle, I loved John Wayne movies.
When the Duke died, the archetype hero like leader my uncle based
his life on also died. Oh, I could fight with the best of them, Uncle
Robert made sure of that; but if a company was to survive long in
today’s world, everyone had to be in the battle, making decisions and
taking action. I was no Geronimo Stone, and frankly, the whole idea was
a little scary to me. I had too many responsibilities as it was.
The senior executives had been here as long as Uncle Robert had, but all
they wanted to do was retire. They were more interested in vacations and
golf than turning a profit. Best I could tell they only stayed because
of my uncle, and maybe because management is easier if someone else
makes the hard decisions. Only those who did not want to make serious
decisions stayed. I doubted whether the senior management would be much
help putting the company back on its feet. Those guys were basically
retired in place.
My uncle and the junior-level people made this label thrive. However, as
the new hires matured in understanding, the good ones wanted more
responsibility and could only go so far before
they had to leave to find better opportunities. Those who stayed
just followed orders well. That was one of the reasons I left. I could
have never worked for my uncle long term, even after he asked me
to—several times.
Well, maybe selling was the best option, but
what would I tell my wife? She thought this was our opportunity
to make a difference, and my way to ensure Uncle Robert’s legacy. What
would I tell Aunt Brenda? They were counting on me to make decisions and
look out for their best interests, since I was Geronimo’s handpicked
successor. I only had a short leave from my real job as it was, so I
couldn’t goof around with this thing indefinitely. I could be fired. If
we took the offer, I could retire, or just work when I want. Either way,
I had to make a decision today.
I leaned heavily on the desk, fisted hand propping up my chin. It was a
moment of real doubt. I looked out the large picture windows of my
uncle’s corner office, which was warm and welcoming, its heavy
furnishings made of cherry and mahogany woods. The confident, masculine
furniture was a proud extension of my uncle’s personality.
I was almost too comfortable here. I had to be careful; it gave
me a false sense of power and importance.
It reminded me of the way I felt in college, when Uncle Robert would
confide in me. He told me things he never told anyone else, except maybe
Aunt Brenda. When Uncle Robert included me, I felt a grand sense of
purpose, like my ideas mattered to him. It was as if my feedback might
have meant the difference between Geronimo Stone Records’ launch of a
legendary new artist, or another “good try,” soon forgotten. Of course,
he made all the decisions, but back then, I never expected anything
else.
The sun shining through the windows,
its warmth on my face—the world moved along, without noticing my
distress. Birds flew, cars came and went, people walked with friends and
laughed. Life moved on.
One funny thing about real estate—people and businesses come and go, but
the building would be here for a while. It was a comforting, yet somehow
disturbing, thought. I felt so insignificant. Uncle Robert had come and
gone. The business people who owned this land before Geronimo had gone;
the farmer, and his family, who owned this land before them had come and
gone; all the men and women who had fought to live here through the ages
had come and gone. My time was short.
I looked out at Nashville. That reminded me.
On the wall was the painting I had always liked—the Nashville skyline at
night. He painted it, his first serious try at painting; maybe that’s
why I liked it so much. Painting seemed out of character for the great
Geronimo Stone. But like everything he put effort into, he was good at
it. Impressionism was his style of choice. But being the man’s man that
he was, he felt embarrassed by his talent.
If anyone asked Geronimo about his paintings,
he always said, “I always liked using knives.” Then he would wait for a
reaction, laugh, and add, “Pallet knives.”
Painting was a hobby my aunt and uncle shared.
They even used the same signature—“B. Stone.” I think he did that to
hide the fact that he enjoyed painting. Most people would assume it was
Aunt Brenda’s work.
Light danced across the painting, and I
followed it to the desk, where a beam of sunlight reflected off
an unusual paperweight. It was a miniature mobile, which created dancing
reflections of light. The device hung, precariously balanced, from a
curved piece of metal mounted on a brass base. An arm ending in the
shape of a hand with the pointed index finger. The other fingers held a
string, a small cable made of finely twisted wires. The string poked
through a curved rod. At one end of the rod was a sculpture
of little metal people that
counter-balanced three other oddly shaped objects on the other side. The
slightest breeze set the mobile in motion. As I tapped it, the objects
rose and fell, swung and turned, and sometimes made the faintest of
chiming tones. Engraved on or attached to each piece of the mobile was
an acronym. I found myself staring at the mobile, when from the intercom
on the desk...
“Mr. Stone!”
“Yes, Jill!”
“Your wife and Aunt Brenda just pulled into the parking lot.”
“Thank you, Jill.”
From the third floor, I saw Jan and Aunt Brenda get out of the car. They
walked toward the building, arms around each other’s waists. It was good
to see the happiness they derived from each other’s company. Maybe,
after we sold the business, we could all live closer to each other.
I heard them before I saw them. It was as if everyone in the building
escorted them, Olympic-torch fashion. The office was full of excitement.
Chatter, warm wishes, and laughter followed Aunt Brenda as she made
lighthearted small talk. When she and Jan walked into the room, they
were still smiling optimistically, as if they knew something I didn’t.
“You two are definitely up to no good.”
“We just agreed that it would be good to get to work and take our minds
off the funeral and all we’ve been through during the last few months,”
responded Aunt Brenda.
I hugged my aunt. “Losing Uncle Robert has been hard on all of us. It’s
nice to see you in good spirits again. Thanks for getting here on time.
If you’re ready to get down to business, our nine o’clock is about to
begin. But I don’t think we should announce the sale until we’ve had
more time to think it through, run forecasts, consider alternatives.”
“Sell?” Aunt Brenda asked, agitated. “What do you mean, ‘sell’? I
thought you were here to turn this boat around! And I told you I’d
help.”
“Aunt Brenda, everyone likes you, but you have always been behind the
scenes. You have little experience with the music business. As I recall,
you wanted it that way. You’re like a mom to everyone here. They all
call you Aunt Brenda. All through college, I wondered why you guys never
told me I had so many cousins. When we sell the business, you’ll be able
to travel and take time for yourself—be with family and friends. Jan and
I even considered moving to Nashville. We don’t need the hassle of
salvaging this business. Besides, most of the executives are more
interested in driving golf balls than driving records up the charts.”
Brenda looked at me with fiery eyes,
and said, “You may be right, but let’s not wimp out just yet. I know
your position at Westbrook Stevens is secure; you make a decent living,
and this is a big risk for you. The safe route may be to sell, but as
Robert used to say, ‘Life is either a great adventure, or nothing at
all.’[i]
I’m not ready to stop living just yet.”
“Helen Keller said that,” I corrected.
“Well, so did Robert. So, let’s start the adventure.”
Before our conversation continued, there
was an interruption.
“Mr. Stone.”
“Yes, Jill.”
“The department heads are here for your nine o’clock.”
“Thank you.”
Brenda jumped in. “Tell them we’ll be there in a second.”
Jill answered, “Will do, sweetie.”
“‘Will do, sweetie?’ That’s what I mean. How can you lead people, much
less stage a turnaround, if your people think of you as ‘sweetie’?”
“How can you manage anything if they don’t? Anyway, that’s ‘Aunt
Sweetie’ to you, Tommy.”
“Great. My first day here, and we switch from Geronimo Stone Records to
Sweetie Records.”
“You’re not Robert; you’re his nephew. If you try to play the role of
Geronimo Stone, you will certainly fail. But then again, if Robert were
more like you, maybe we wouldn’t be in this mess. That’s why he wanted
you here; he knew that to move this company forward, an evolution would
have to take place. Your uncle had a revelation when he found out he
only had six months to live. You might say he ‘came to Jesus’ about a
lot of things!
“He realized no one was ready to take over where he left off. He
respected the way you held your ground with him. He wouldn’t admit it,
but he valued your opinion. He wondered why soft issues were important
to you. He watched you at your consulting firm. You had the people
skills he lacked. You helped lots of companies go through changes. You
have an impressive track record. Plus, you grew up here, and you know
the business. You’re not Geronimo Stone, but you are like him in many
ways that count.”
“But that was a long time ago,” I reminded her.
Brenda ignored my objections. “Near the end, he started delegating
responsibilities—planning, measuring results, doing all the things
you’ve talked about. He saw the wisdom in your advice and wanted you
here very badly. He knew you wouldn’t make the same mistakes he did.
This is your opportunity to continue what he started and make a name for
yourself at the same time! I’ll only be here a
short time myself, so let’s have an adventure. I want to see you
make your own mistakes before I’m gone.”
What could I say to that? Was this a vote of confidence, or was I being
railroaded? I did the only thing I could do—I opened the door and led my
new partners into the conference room. We passed the red-faced,
eavesdropping Jill Wong, Geronimo’s executive assistant, who tried not
to show her delight in my aunt’s remarks.
Turning the corner, I thought to myself, “Did I hear a high-five behind
me? No, that was two high-fives.”
I turned my head, expecting to catch a
smirk on my aunt’s face. To my surprise, Jan, my own wife, was the one
smirking.
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