“Have you heard among this clan/I am called ‘the forgotten man’?” Cole Porter could have written that lyric for rock promoter Bill Graham if Saturday’s Wall Street Journal was any indication. There, on the front page, accompanying a piece about Irving Azoff (“Can He Save Rock ‘n’ Roll?”) was an old photo with this caption: “Ticketmaster’s Irving Azoff with the Eagles in the 70s; his Live Nation merger is stirring up controversy.” There, between the band and the promoter, was Graham, larger than life (certainly larger than Azoff) but not big enough any more to rate a mention. 

Maybe the omission was a matter of space but even an editorial decision not to include the late impresario says plenty. (First, that he is not here to scream at the whatever hapless fuck happened to pick up the phone on the day he called the Journal.) What’s ironic is that the controversy surrounding the proposed merger — which would make a megacompany that is both artist manager and concert promoter — is one he would have sunk his teeth into. Literally. 

Because in his day, Graham was THE promoter who must be obeyed. Crossing him (or even letting extra money get made on his premises without him dipping his beak) was an invitation to a brawl. Of course, he was much hated by rockers and their management who accused him of (among other things) selling extra tickets to sold-out shows and pocketing the money himself. He was old-school, and could even play the thug, but I think he was fundamentally decent and even had good taste. The only time I ever saw him dancing at one of his own shows was the Talking Heads’ Stop Making Sense tour…

And for all who hated him — bands that couldn’t get booked in his venues, fans who hated his monopoly and pricing, critics who had to grovel before his people for press passes — he hated ten more back. He had an enemies list as long as Nixon’s. One of my favorite anecdotes about Graham came from the 1982 US Festival, a superconcert funded by Apple co-founder Steve Wozniak, who didn’t know the first thing about putting on a show. 

After weeks of mismanagement by former est people the Woz had hired, new agers woefully unprepared to deal with egos as monumental as those behind Van Halen and the Clash, Graham was called in. He couldn’t stand the touchy-feelie way business was being done and at one morning “centering session,” one of the est leaders asked everyone attending to close their eyes, make a mental list of the people they had a problem with — and then visualize ripping it up. When the exercise was over and everyone was blinking and smiling, Graham’s eyes were still shut. 

“Bill?” one of his assistants said. “We’re done here.”

“Shhh,” said Graham. “I’m still writing.”