Dick LaPalm: 1927-2013

Reprinted from http://jazzwax.com

Dick LaPalm, one of the music industry's most committed and knowledgeable record promoters who ensured that singles and albums by jazz and pop artists such as Nat King Cole, Ahmad Jamal, Peggy Lee, Woody Herman, Sarah Vaughan, the Modern Jazz Quartet, Sonny Rollins and many others were played on the air, died October 7. He was 86. [Photo above of Dick LaPalm, left, with Nat King Cole in Chicago]

Dick's skills were honed in an age before the Internet, when music appeared on vinyl and the only way to expose the public to recordings was to convince radio stations to play them. Born June 23, 1927 in Chicago, Dick learned the value of a reputation early. In the '50s, when payola was rampant, Dick [above, far right] steered clear of offering disc jockeys hefty gifts, girls and cash—the currency of pay-for-play radio. Instead, he told me, he relied on charm and old fashioned "you help me and I'll help you." What this meant, Dick said, was providing disc jockeys with invitations backstage to meet performers, in-station appearances by artists, photo opportunities and exclusives on new releases. [Photo above: The Chess Records staff in 1963, courtesy of the Chess Family Archives. From left: unknown, Esmond Edwards, Marshall Chess, Leonard Chess (sitting), Phil Chess, Max Cooperstein, Dick Lapalm.]

Back in the 1950s, a record promoter's job was pretty straightforward but required careful strategy and enormous clout. When an artist recorded a single or album, Dick would be called in to plug it at radio stations. But he had to know which stations were ideal to break a record and which "big mouth" disc jockeys would influence others. Then Dick would have to make sure local record stores were well stocked when the recording was played on the radio, which meant strong ties to the label. This is all before cellphones and emails, which meant Dick needed a pocketful of nickels and a great black book. He also had to know when to nudge a little and when to back off, particularly if he wasn't that hot on the record.

As the need for Dick's craft began to wane in the 1990s with the advent of the CD and then downloads, he became a self-proclaimed "jazz lobbyist"—a tongue-in-cheek job description since advocating on behalf of jazz was an almost tireless and fruitless task.

Nevertheless, Dick was a fervent champion of jazz and absolutely loved the music. And not just everyday jazz. He knew his John Coltrane and Ornette Coleman as well as Count Basie and Dakota Staton. To Dick, jazz artists were heroes and improvisational geniuses who deserved his efforts, even if all he could do was wax passionately about them and influence radio hosts. [Pictured above: Tony Bennett and Dick LaPalm]

I first met Dick over the phone in 2010, when Stan Cooper, a long-time music publishing executive, urged me to call him. Once we connected, not a week went by without Dick calling to rave about something I had posted here or written about in the Wall Street Journal. The little game we had going (which I'm sure he instituted with others in the media and radio) was to call and say, "Hey, it's Zoot Sims" or "Hey, it's Harry Carney." Always the name of a saxophonist. But when I'd call and leave a message, I'd always leave the names of obscure reedmen. The farther out the name, the bigger the laugh on the other end when Dick called back. [Photo above: Dick LaPalm and Mediaguide's Frank Johnson at the 2006 JazzWeek Summit]

Before smartphones and email, Dick all but invented social networking. By working the phone and doing a ton of reading, Dick befriended key radio personalities at virtually every major radio station in the country. Even as late as last year, he still knew the right buttons to push, volunteering to line up radio-interview opportunities for me when my book was published.  [Pictured above: jazz record producer Joe Fields and Dick LaPalm]

About a year ago, Dick sent me an envelope out of the blue. When I opened it, there was a rose-red Post-it on a three-page document typed in all caps. The note said, "Marc, found this in a very old file. Thought you'd enjoy reading it. Dick." It was a speech he had given in late May 1959 at the Second Annual Disc Jockey Convention at the Americana Hotel in Miami Beach. I set the pages aside until now. The speech provides a sense of who Dick was as an ardent broker and skilled bridge-builder. 

A bit of background first. When Dick gave this speech, most record promotion men were viewed by disc jockeys either as used car salesmen or cash cows, depending on your ethics. In 1959, Congress was on the verge of a full-blown investigation into the pay-for-play practice and the disc jockeys who were reaping tens of thousands of dollars from promoters to play records. The thinking was that the more a record was played, the greater the odds people would want to buy it. The hearings that would come in 1960 resulted in major changes in radio—including charts that reflected a standardized system of national sales and the rise of radio programmers who decided which records were aired based on sales, not the whims or size of payoffs made to disc jockeys. 

Here's Dick's 1959 speech... 

"With all you disc jockeys present, can you possibly imagine how much I must regret having signed an affidavit promising not to talk about Nat King Cole and some of my other clients? What an opportunity for a promotion man!

"Seriously, I want to express my thanks to all of you for this opportunity to address this group. I consider it a great honor. Because the topic—'How Promotion Men Can Work for You'—is so obviously of great personal interest to me, I am tempted to recite for you a long litany of our virtues, to present a roll-call of the different kinds of things we do that relate in some direct or indirect way to the job of the disc jockey.

"But my time is limited, and I would like instead to share with you some thoughts I have regarding both the role of the disc jockey in American society and of the promotion man, insofar as what he does relates to the disc jockey.

"First, I want to voice here what must be increasingly apparent to all of you: you represent a respected profession—a profession that is likely to be around for many years and will probably continue to play an even greater role in what I would call the creation and dissemination of the public's taste in popular music. You have an impact, and a strong one, and for this reason, every one of you has, in my judgment, a very serious responsibility to the audience you serve. How can this responsibility be described?

"In the first place, you have the responsibility of the critic. Because you cannot play everything, you must, to some degree, be selective in the fare you offer. We promotion men can be of help to you in this function by playing it absolutely straight regarding the caliber of a record and regarding how poorly or well the record may be doing in other places. Some of you will say that promotion men aren't always as candid as they should be on these vital points. I would reply that failure to establish a relationship of trust with the disc jockeys who the promotion man services will (and should) eventually destroy the very thing on which his own survival depends.

"The disc jockey is a vital link in the massive communications network that permits the nationalization of musical tastes and trends in this country. I assume that the promotion man, because he travels or is constantly talking [by phone] via long distance to jockeys around the country, can be of enormous value to you in calling new records and new trends in pop music to your attention. If the promotion man is sufficiently observant, you can count on him to get the necessary information to you on a regular basis.

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Used with permission by Marc Myers