The First Shots Fired In The Coming War

Most people don’t realize that when they turn on their favorite radio station the sound they hear isn’t music, it’s the sound of money changing hands. People imagine that the music on the top 40 is there because it’s the best the world has to offer, or because it’s the most popular among music fans. But they are sorely mistaken.

The music played on commercial radios stations is there largely because big corporate record labels pay off the stations to play their artist. The labels spend hundreds of thousands of dollars paying off the stations to play a single song. In the business it is considered that the going price for a top 40 hot is about 200,000 dollars.

This payola system creates a complete lock-out that makes it impossible for unsigned artists to get commercial radio airplay. Radio airplay creates hundreds of millions of dollars in CD sales each year, so there is a lot at stake in this game. The big corporations want to maintain complete control of this cash-cow system and they sure don’t want people like me getting access to it and taking a slice of the pie.

Now that The Imperial Orgy has released our first CD we are trying to get radio airplay. We plan to use a combination of new technologies and grass roots pressure to try to break the system.

For a test run we focused on a small station in State College, PA, one of our hometowns. We thought we were off to a good start when one of the station’s major advertisers, who is also a fan of the Orgy’s, took the CD to the station and asked them to play it. We followed this up by asking Myspace people in the station’s area to request out song.

Despite this I knew something was askew when I tried to call the station’s music director multiple times and he refused to take my calls. What’s odd about this is that I do radio promo for my day job, so I spend all day talking to people like him at stations all across the country, yet this little backwoods-station music director is too arrogant to take my calls.

Then after about a week of people requesting the song I got an email from the music director asking us to “call off out minions.” “We get the picture” he said. He said they will play the song Sunday night at 10PM. While this sounds good, I know that Sunday night is the dumping ground where they play local bands song once then throw it in the garbage. We want to be in regular rotation and receiving 20 to 30 spins a week. Nothing else will do.

In his email he also said that requests will not cause the song to be played more at the station, which is to say that they don’t care what their listening audience wants to hear. You can’t fuck with the system.

While this is a frustrating situation, we have just begun our campaign. We know how to use tactics they will never expect. We know how to get the public going and we know how to manipulate the media to give them bad press. If I can’t beat this little passant station, I will never be able to get anywhere with a big station in New York City or Los Angeles where the big money is at stake.

Please help by either calling in a request to 1105.9 THE BUZZ at 814-272-BUZZ (2899)

Or email a request by clicking here

You might say or copy and paste this into the email:

Could you please play Job & His Brethren by Caeser Pink & The Imperial Orgy?

2/9/06 Grammy Party

Last night I went to the party the Recording Academy holds for its members in New York. It’s kind of a boobie prize when the Grammys are in LA.

I got to the city at 6:30 and found a seven o’clock parking place, so I had to sit in my car for a half hour. (The things we do for parking in NYC)

I tried calling a few friends to chat with during my wait, but to no avail. While I was waiting a man came out of an apartment with a dog. The dog seemed like she couldn’t want to hit the street to urinate. She had the look in her eyes like a little kid who just makes it to the bathroom.

A few minutes later a woman comes walking by with a large dog. She isn’t paying any attention to the dog who stops to lick the puddle of urine the other dog left. The woman keeps walking while her dog has stopped. When she gets to the end of the leash she is surprise to be jerked backwards by the weight of her large dog.

So she scolds the dog and gets him walking. As he walks he is flicking is tongue as if he can’t get a bad taste out of his mouth. It all looks a little comical, until a few steps later a yuppie couple with their babe in arms comes from the other direction. The babe is wrapped up in a heavy snow jacket that makes its arms stick straight out to the sides. On its head is a powder blue knit hat that comes to a point on top with a fuzzy ball on the tip.

When they see the woman they want to show the babe the nice doggie. The yuppies and the dog walker stop and the yuppies stand the babe in front of the dog. The dog cheerfully licks the babe’s face and everyone smiles and laughs. The dog woman either forgot what the dog was doing a few seconds earlier or she is secretly getting her revenge on the yuppies with their happy relationship and their cute babe while she just has this piss licking dog to walk around with. In this case it’s truly enough to make you wanna gag!

When I get to the party, as I come near the door I am a little leery. As soon as I walk inside I can see the venue is kind of a dud. Last year’s party was in a great room with big screens everywhere, lots of booze, lots of beautiful people, filled with energy.

This new place is a long hallway, small TV screens, and everyone looks a little uncomfortable. I walk to the end and start looking for other floors that I hope will be a little more exciting. On the stairs I see Carlos Alamar who was David Bowie’s guitar player for many years.

The 2nd floor is the VIP section, the likes of me are not welcomes, and the third floor is another party room. The screens here are even smaller. I grab one of the few remaining seats and decide to wait it out for my friend Heather who is due to arrive an hour later.

As the screens shows the red carpet walk the room begins to fill with people. Fiona Apple is standing trying to pose while flashbulbs go off in her face. Each second she looks more distressed by the attention.

A pretty blonde girls sits down beside me who turns out to be a harpist who plays for Kanye West when he plays the East Coast.

As the room fills the place looks a little sad. It definitely looks like the B-List crowd. Everyone’s looking to be noticed. Sometimes wearing faded clothes that must have been shiny new stage costumes 5 years ago. Few have the look and walk of confidence that success brings.

I get a free Henieken and sit back down. The Grammy start and Kelly Clarkson is sweeping the awards. When she wins for best female pop song she makes a big scene about trying not to cry, after all she’s just the country girl who won the talent contest. It all seemed a little put on.

When a bit later she wins for best artist in the history of the universe she goes on a fast talking tirade of thank yous while still doing the trying not to cry bit. After her performance the camera cuts to Nichole Kidman in the audience who has a look of cynical disbelief on her face, her expression echoes my own feelings perfectly.

As the show goes on Heather is very late. I grow increasingly bored with the whole affair. The only thing keeping me here is the possibility that Sly Stone will come out of retirement and perform at a planned tribute.

I go back to the bar to get a vodka and seven and it is a mad house. They only have one bartender for the whole room. A great way to avoid giving out too much free booze. The harpist girl is holding my seat while I wait at the bar. A woman comes up beside me who has dark hair and a perfect face. Her breasts are stuck out like a desert tray and her fingernails are long and curled. The fingernails aren’t very nice looking but they say, “I don’t do work, the only thing I am good for is to look at.”

And she was good to look at, almost amazing. As she squeezes into the bar her face is just a few inches from mine. I try to ignore her at first, but it’s too much and I finally give in and just take her in with a leisurely gaze. She looks up at me briefly, obviously pleased that her appearance has had the intended effect on me.

Back at my seat I am growing more and more bored. You can tell the alcohol is kicking in all around the room. People seem to be closing down from each other. Everyone’s a little bored. To my right the girl from the bar sits beside another young woman who is sitting beside an elderly man. Soon the young women begin to wander away from their elderly escort and flirt with younger men at the bar. The elderly man sits alone looking dejected. Occasionally the young women come back and check on him briefly as a matter of duty.

As the night goes on the whole room is starting to wilt. Heather is hours late and I am growing really sick of the whole affair. As 10 O’clock nears the room is thinning out. Heather finally shows smelling of stale garlic from the Pizza she and he girlfriends were eating in Staten Island.

When the Sly Stone tribute finally comes on there is a swell of applause in the room. A bunch of pop stars whose names I don’t know are singing his hits. It’s all a bore, I just want to see Sly. As Marroon five sings Everyday people I began to lose hope. Finally during Dance To The Music Sly comes out dressed in a large silver jacket and wearing a gold Mohawk. He looks amazing, but he can’t seem to hold his head up. It faces down like his neck is unhinged. When he sings a few lines his voice sounds amazing, but after a few moments he turns and leaves the stage. It’s all very mysterious.

Sly and the Family Stone created the template for The Imperial Orgy. I’d love to see his make a comeback.

As soon as he leaves the stage, heather and I exit the party. Next year I’m going to the real Grammys. Fuck this depressing B-List shit.

2/8/06 Journal entry - Dirty Lenin

It seems that for weeks I’ve done nothing but sit at the computer and do business work from mornign till night. Last night at 7PM I got an email that one of my clients, a band called ISM, was doing a showcase in Manhattan, a hour later at 8PM. I decided to just get up and go check it out.

It was at a club called Crash Mansion on the Bowery, right down the street from CBGB’s. First I had to talk my way through the door because I didn’t feel like paying the 8-dollar cover charge when I expected the bands to suck,

When I got there the bands were doing sound-check. I met their label exec, (who owes me a $1500 check) and soon the thing became a schmooze fest as he and his people drilled me for info about the music business and such.

I had a drink or two and the first band came on called Dirty Lenin. Click here for website They had two chick singers and some older guys on bass and drums. Usually when I go see bands at clubs they are all so boring that I can’t stand it, but this band was really fun. They had interesting song structures, good energy onstage, and I kind of zest that makes you feel excited.

By the time their set was over I was a bit buzzed from the Vodka. The lead singer chick, her name is Renee, came over to talk to me. She was attractive and nice, but with the loud music I just couldn’t hear a damn thing she was saying. She’s talking away and I’m nodding my head, but I got no idea what it’s all about.

I’m not sure why sometimes I push people away that I’m attracted to, I should have asked her to join me at a table away from the noise, but instead I cut her off and said, “It’s really nice to meet you, I’ll try to contact you through your website.’

Afterwards I went upstairs and out to the street to use the cellphone. I called my friend Marnie. On the streets the air was cold and I felt drunk and desperate and very alive. I left Marnie a hungry, incoherent message and went back down.

When ISM came on, I was quite surprised that I liked them as well. Usually I hate modern alternative stuff, but they had really good songwriting and great stage presence. I was really impressed.

Today it’s back to the computer, but tonight I am going to a Grammy party thrown by the recording academy. Lots of free booze and a room full of Wanna-Bees.Should be a good time all around.

July 18, 1994 Excerpt From "Apology"

It's hard to continue sleeping once the sun begins to spill through the car windshield. I have been living in my beat-up Mercury Topaz while working as a scab worker at a factory in York, PA, to try to raise money to get to New York City.

Last night I parked in Jai's driveway. At least there I have less chance of being arrested for vagrancy or having the police find out that I am driving without a license.

Jai's parents are on vacation for a week leaving their luxurious house at her disposal. I don't feel comfortable spending time with her or accepting her assistance because she is constantly tormenting me with the deceptively cutting comments that roll off of her angry tongue. She is a master at floating remarks that sound innocent enough at first, but lay in unconscious wait, with razor sharp fangs and saber claws, to prey on moments of doubt and devour confidence with stealth precision.

Her half Thai lineage is seen on her face, which sits unexpectedly on a tall thin frame. It is morning and I sit on the opposite end of the kitchen table watching as she eats bagels and drinks orange juice. I went to sleep hungry and the aroma of the bagel re-awakens that hunger. My eyes are hypnotized by the richly inviting color of the juice. She drinks it out of a crystal wine glass as she chatters with a gay, childlike air. Underneath she is a woman scorned, and every bite of that sustaining bagel, and every generous draught of that juice is a calculated act of vengeance.

Usually her attacks are hidden beneath a veil of civility. On occasion the veil is lifted and she simply taunts me with names like 'asshole' and 'loser', or she chides Sasha-'why does she dance like her wrists are broken?', 'how can you love someone with a honker like that?'.

I always try to feel compassion for her situation even while she pummels my self-esteem. I tell myself 'I'm strong I can take it'. So I smile through the pain in my guts as she smears blue jam over the bottom half of the bagel, thankful to be sitting here out of the hot sun for awhile.

It was through Jai that I got the factory job. Her father is the head of the janitorial staff and she is also scab working. Being the only person I know in this town, I am forced to depend on her at times for matters of survival. The price I pay for this is placing myself within the domain of her manipulations.

After her breakfast we sit on the deck overlooking the community of small mansions from our position on top of a hill. The neighborhood is sterile. No signs of life. No trees. No children. On the next ridge seven tiny golf carts move to and fro, saving their passengers the burden of walking from tee to tee.

From the portable CD player the soundtrack to the film 'The Commitments' plays. Jai is a background singer and dancer in The Imperial Orgy. As such she idealizes the romanticized vision of her role that the film portrayed. Considering it was only a year ago that I convinced her to have confidence in herself and attempt the role of musician and performer, I suppose such naiveté is acceptable.

The music plays and she dances around the deck singing. As I gaze outward over the ridge I try not to notice the way her ass sticks out of her bikini-bottom, which she has pulled up between her cheeks like a G-string. She turns away from me and wiggles her bottom a few feet from the left of my vision.

"Do you think anyone would notice my boobies from the next house?" She asks as she pulls off her top and plops down on a lawn-chair. The once familiar sight of her small breasts leaves me disinterested. Since I struck out on breakfast I escape the situation by moving on to my second basic need.

"Could I get a shower?" I ask blandly.

"Can you make it quick?" she examines the tan line on her abdomen with a sensual stroke of her forefinger.

The shower is in the basement. After I undress she opens the door without knocking.

Handing me a bar of soap she says sarcastically, "Don't wash your dick with my washcloth. I don't want to get any Indian germs".

The shower doesn't have much pressure. The water is warm and washes away the dirt in noticeable streams of brown on the tub's bottom. Two days since my last shower. My body is showing the signs of ware from my unsanitary habits. My face has broken out and my legs have begun to rash behind the joints where I sweat.

It is the dirtiness that makes me feel sub-human. I would like to find a quiet stream where I could bathe daily. The area is a sprawl of concrete and geometric forms. Order; the hallmark of civilization. There are too many people to expect to find a private spot in nature. Nature has been reduced to the green patches between the shopping malls. And even if I could find a stream it would never be private enough to avoid the social shock of the nudity required for bathing.

Only a half hour left before it's time to go to the factory. The streams of water heading towards the drain are no longer brown. The water bounces off my face like a massage of warm needles. Sasha comes to my mind as she does every other moment. I wish I could call her, but I can't afford the call. Plus I don't want to annoy her by my lack of frugality. Our relationship has evolved into an almost childlike position for me. This may be a natural role for her based on what I see with her parents. She often scolds me quietly for the irresponsible way I handle my botched affairs. After years of hopelessness I am having a hard time returning to long term planning.

Somehow our positions have changed and I have become her suitor. It is I who holds ridiculous demands for future commitments, and she who remains logical. In order to prove my devotion I have prostrated myself before her and what is more boring then love handed over so easily.

On top of this the degradation of my financial mess and the humiliation of my living conditions has broken my pride, which makes it impossible for me to relate to her with my usual confidence. My mind is a pendulum swinging between turmoil and resolve. The insanity of my dark moments must surely apparent in these writings.

It was not always this way with us. In the beginning I was at my height of surety. The Imperial Orgy was showing the first small bloom of success. I was finally beginning to achieve what I had planned for so long. The thrill of working the emotions of the crowds gave me an immediate sensation of fulfillment and the attention began to heal the lacerations of my long battered ego.

At this time she came to me unheeded. Writing me poetry, sometimes nervous below my gaze. When I cried she called me a king. When I was weak she saw my openness as strength. She urged me to let go when I hesitated to feel deep emotions.

But it's been five months of chaos and struggle. In her writing she called me her 'Scorpion knight who laid down his armor'. To exist in this world one needs protection. When I placed my armor back on it was tarnished in her eyes. We are both fraught by our personal situations and are lrelationship shows signs of ware. Before I can hope to re-balance the situation I must first achieve some success in my own life.

With this thought I am brought back to reality by a piercing buzzer on the factory floor. The screech warns me that a conveyor belt is clogged and I scurry to climb the yellow ladder to clear it. I have no sense of what our labors here lead to nor do I care. Just give me my paltry paycheck and the meager hope that comes with it. This hope is the hope of a man clutching at straw.