Another tale of the business almost killing the music

The Hit We Almost Missed
By SHAUN CONSIDINE

Published: NY Times December 3, 2004


It's official, I guess. Forty years after he recorded it, Bob Dylan's "Like a
Rolling Stone" was just named the greatest rock 'n' roll song of all time by
Rolling Stone magazine, a tribute it had previously been given by New Musical
Express, Britain's leading pop-music weekly. Quite an honor, considering that
the single was almost never released.
"Like a Rolling Stone" was recorded on June 15, 1965, in Studio A at 799
Seventh Avenue, then the New York headquarters of Columbia Records, where I worked
as the coordinator of new releases, scheduling every step of a record's
production. (On the top floor of the building, the modest studio had been used by
Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett and Barbra Streisand.) When the edited tape was
played a few days later for Mr. Dylan and his manager, the reaction was
unanimous: it would be a hit and should be released immediately.
But before that could happen, the song had to be presented at Columbia's
weekly singles meeting, and that's where the trouble began. Though just about
everyone from the A & R (artists and repertoire) and promotion departments loved
it, the sales and marketing people had a different opinion. And their opinion
mattered, for sales and marketing was the engine behind the label's success.
Their objection to the song came on two levels. The unstated reason was that
they just didn't like raucous rock 'n' roll. The sales and marketing people
had made Columbia a winner by selling mainstream American music - pop, jazz,
country, gospel, the best of Broadway and Hollywood. But rock? No way. It was
this thinking that had led the label to turn down Elvis Presley in 1955 and the
first American album by the Beatles in 1963.
Of course, none of this was raised at the meeting about "Like a Rolling
Stone." What did come up was the length of the song. In 1965, three minutes was the
average time for singles played on national radio. "Like a Rolling Stone"
clocked in at one second under six minutes. The solution? Cut the baby in half,
the wise Solomon of Sales decreed.
When presented with this edict, Bob Dylan refused, fully prepared to engage
in yet another fight with the giant, wholesome label. (In 1963, Mr. Dylan had
failed to persuade Columbia to release "Talkin' John Birch Society Blues.")
Except there was no one to fight with. The big guys were engaged in a more
important drama.
Columbia Records, which had always remained autonomous from its parent, CBS,
was moving into the corporation's new building on Sixth Avenue (soon to be
known as Black Rock), where our vice president of sales and marketing was taking
over the A & R department, and soon, it was rumored, the second-in-command
position, under our much beloved president, Goddard Lieberson. That vice
president and his staff had never expressed any great fondness or attached any future
importance to Mr. Dylan - who performed at one of their mammoth sales
conventions but never "mingled." With all the distraction over the move to CBS
headquarters and the intrigue of the executive power play, the matter of Mr. Dylan's
epic rock song was quickly taken care of. A memo was sent out saying that the
single was to be moved from an "immediate special" to an "unassigned release."
Translated, it was in limbo, soon to be dropped, no doubt, into the dark
graveyard of canceled releases.
After that, the tumult of the move to Black Rock filled our days. Decades of
memorabilia from 799 had to be discarded because the welcoming notice from CBS
clearly stated that clutter would not be allowed in the new building, a
temple to spare modernism.
During my last trek through what remained of the A & R department, I was
invited to sort through a stack of records and demos that were to be junked. Among
them I discovered a gem: a studio-cut acetate of "Like a Rolling Stone."
Carefully packing it into an empty LP jacket, I carried it home and that weekend
played it more than once in my apartment. The effect was the same as it had
been the first time I had experienced it. Exhilaration. Heart pounding. Body
rolling - followed by neighbors banging on the walls in protest. Then, on Sunday
evening, it came to me. I knew exactly where the song could be fully
appreciated.
At the time, the hottest new disco in Manhattan was a place called Arthur, on
East 54th Street. Sybil Burton, whose husband had run off with Elizabeth
Taylor a few years before, was the creator of the uniquely egalitarian club, which
was on the site of the old El Morocco. Some of Arthur's owners were famous -
Mike Nichols, Stephen Sondheim, Leonard Bernstein - and some weren't (me).
When it opened in May, no one except the fabulous Sybil expected that Arthur
would cause such a sensation, and that everyone would want to go there - including
Bob Dylan. Late in June, dressed in wine-stained, beer-splattered Army-Navy
store couture, he and his rowdy male friends had tried to get in. They were
turned away.

His rejected single had better luck. Perhaps because I was a "club member,"
the D.J. was very polite when asked if he would kindly play the acetate during
a free moment. Deliberately neglecting to mention the name of the singer, I
did say that the song was rather long and that he should feel free to stop it if
the dancers got bored or tired. At around 11 p.m., after a break, he played
the acetate. The effect was seismic. People jumped to their feet and took to
the floor, dancing the entire six minutes. Those who were seated stopped talking
and began to listen. "Who is it?" the D.J. yelled at one point, running
toward me. "Bob Dylan!" I shouted back. The name spread through the room, which
only encouraged the skeptics to insist that it be played again, straight through.
Sometime past midnight, as the grooves on the temporary dub wore out, the
needle began to skip. But not before the song had been heard by two important
guests. One was a D.J. at WABC, then the leading Top 40 radio station in
Manhattan. The other was a music programmer at the equally powerful WMCA. The next
morning both called Columbia Records and demanded to know where their copy of the
new Bob Dylan record was. Staff meetings were hastily called. Goddard
Lieberson, who had recently met with Mr. Dylan during his concert tour in England
(only to be chastised backstage by Mr. Dylan's protective former girlfriend, Joan
Baez, for allowing Columbia to "exploit and commercialize Bobby"), was
brought into the dispute over the length of the song. Standards and rules were
dandy, said "God," but they should never interfere with the evolution of an artist.
The release memo came shortly thereafter. On July 15, a month after it had
been recorded, "Like a Rolling Stone" shipped to stores and D.J.'s. The latter
were put on alert that this was a hot Columbia single, because it was pressed
on red vinyl. On side one of the red promotional disc, the label read: "Like a
Rolling Stone (Part 1). Timing 3:02." Side two said: "Part 2. Timing 3:02."
The song had been cut down the middle. Sales and marketing had struck again. But
they didn't win. Some D.J.'s simply recorded both sides of the disc on tape
and spliced the whole thing together and - voila! - came up with the complete
song (with five seconds added). The following week "Like a Rolling Stone," full
version, entered the Billboard charts. By August it was in the Top Ten,
rising to No. 2. Bob Dylan performed it live at the Newport Folk Festival (they
booed the rock 'n' roll half of the show) and at a concert in Forest Hills,
Queens (loud cheers). The electronic folk-rock revolution spread quickly after
that, and Bob Dylan began to dress accordingly - he was no longer the prince of
folk, but a rock 'n' roll star. Arriving at Arthur with the model Sara Lownds
(whom he would marry that November), the stylishly mod and extremely polite Bob
Dylan was promptly admitted. "Like a Rolling Stone" remained on the charts for
three months, carrying Columbia into what was then called "the New Rock."
(The music, not the building.) Our omnipotent vice president of sales, however,
did not lead that transition. Instead, a lawyer with no A & R training and no
claim to having "ears" was given the job of administrative vice president under
Goddard. His first task was to renew Bob Dylan's contract with Columbia. The
artist's demands exceeded those of the top Columbia stars, Andy Williams and
Barbra Streisand. His requests were met. Shaun Considine is writing a book
about New York and the creative revolutions of the mid-1960's.