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(return
to part 2)
In 1971, did you even dare
to dream that the label would become what it is today?
My vision when I started was, "If I sell
enough of this, I'll do an album by another artist. And then
I'll do an album by another artist." What I didn't envision
was multiple records by the same artist. There were 40 bands
in Chicago alone that I thought were worthy of an album. But
I was very fortunate and did a good job of selling Hound Dog
Taylor - I sold 9,000 albums [in the first year], which was unheard
of. And then I did Big Walter Horton and sold half as many. Then
I did Son Seals and sold half as many as that. So the first big
commercial decision I had to make was, "I guess I've got
to do a second Hound Dog Taylor record or I'll go bankrupt."
That was when I realized I had to work building on artists' careers.
I was Hound Dog Taylor's booking agent and personal manager as
well as the label and the publicist and the guy who carried the
records and the guy who drove when everybody else was too drunk.
And I began to realize that the more he worked, the more money
I made - not only on booking commissions but on selling records,
because the street was how we were building his reputation. The
next artist I was able to build successfully was Son Seals, who
really launched after his second album because of all the great
press it got, in particular from Robert Palmer in the New York
Times and Rolling Stone.
On the other hand, we worked for ages to get Fenton Robinson
out there and failed to get a national audience. He never got
the recognition he deserved, and it was because he was more a
sit-and-listen band than a bar band, but almost all the gigs
we were able to get for him were in bars. He would get up there
and say, "We're gonna party!" but what he really wanted
was to have people shut up and pay attention. He was very serious,
very soulful, but one of those guys where the more you listen,
the more you get out of it.
So we've been a success story, but not a consistent one.
What sets Alligator apart
from other blues labels, philosophy-wise?
Well, even when artists leave the label, we
remain friends. Here's an example: Michael Hill is an artist
I like very much and a person I'm just crazy about - and he has
a record out on another label. And the reason is that I wasn't
happy with some of his latest batch of songs. I was a little
disappointed with his choices. And Michael, to his credit, felt
absolutely firmly that this was where he was going and that this
was what he wanted to do, and he was going to make this record.
Then he got another offer, and I told him to take it. Michael
called me the other day, we had a lovely chat, we're very good
friends, and we're hoping we can get together again artistically.
Kenny Neal, who hasn't done a record for me for quite a while,
stopped by the office a few weeks ago. Not to talk business,
just to see a friend. I often say to artists, "You can leave
the label, but you can't leave the family." These artists
are our friends.
Now, not everyone likes me all the time. I can be a tough businessman,
especially when I'm negotiating: I will put on the hard hat and
battle for every dollar. But once the deal is done, that's the
end of the conflict. I'll give you another example: When Dave
Hole comes to the U.S. from Australia to tour, he doesn't stay
in a hotel. He stays at my house. That means that every day when
he's not touring, he sleeps down the hall from where I'm sleeping.
And it isn't a big house. The members of Saffire have crashed
with me, as have Tinsley Ellis and Shemekia Copeland.
What strategies have you
used to keep artists interested in being signed to Alligator?
We've tried to develop individual musicians
and bring an audience to them, sticking with them as long as
we could. We've stayed with artists through three, four, or five
albums that weren't making money, because we believed in the
musicians. We believe in artist development, and we believe
in square dealing.
I'm very proud of the fact that about one dollar of every five
that comes in our door - before any other money whatsoever is
spent - goes out in the form of a royalty. I'm always surprised
at the number of musicians who continue to record for a label
that doesn't pay them. Sometimes we owe them very little; I sent
out a royalty check today for $3.23. But that's what I owed the
musician, and he's going to get his money. As brilliant as those
records were that the old-time record men made, most of them
were perceived by their artists, rightly or wrongly, as ripping
them off. I don't want anybody to say, "Bruce Iglauer ripped
us off."
All my artists know my home phone number, know where I live,
see that if I expect them to be out there driving up and down
the highways, they can expect me to be putting in 10- and 12-
and 14-hour days for them. The first time I ever gave Hound Dog
Taylor a royalty check was the most important thing I did in
my career. Ten seconds after I handed him that check, every blues
artist in Chicago knew that Alligator Records paid royalties.
Since then, my reputation for straight dealing has run ahead
of me - along with a reputation for being tough about the music,
for getting in artists' faces when I feel they're not giving
their best.
(continue
to part 4)
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