A couple of weeks ago, a friend of mine invited me out to an author reading for a book by a guy named Dan Kennedy called Rock On: An Office Power Ballad.

What appealed to me about this — aside from an excuse to quaff a few cold ones with a buddy I hadn't hung out with in awhile — was that the book dealt with the true-life experiences of a guy who stumbled into a "dream-job" in the record industry.

Like my own experiences in the nineties (which we'll get to in a minute), Kennedy arrived just in time to see the "big show" he'd grown up dreaming of being a part of, reduced to a revolving door of corporate buyouts, downsizing, and layoffs. The party of the sixties, seventies, and eighties was just about over, and the hippies had long since left the building.

I haven't read the entire book yet, but what I've glossed over so far rings true in the most hilarious, yet bittersweet sort of way.

Like Kennedy, I too experienced those unbearable corporate boardroom meetings. I didn't ever mistake the manager of Duran Duran for a band member like he did. But I do remember many afternoons spent hiding in a corner of that ominously dark room wishing I was anywhere else, but having to justify why I sent more promo copies of the latest Barkmarket CD to retail, than the band actually sold that week.

Just to be clear on this, if I'd sent just ten promos out, they'd be asking the same questions.

I may or may not review Kennedy's book at some point here. But I will say that I found it pretty damn hilarious, even if my recommendation does come from a unique sort of "been there, done that" perspective.

Anyway, reading Rock On got me to thinking about my own experiences working for a big time record label in the nineties. I haven't talked about my time working at Def American Recordings a whole lot here. But the two and a half years I spent working there in L.A. have yielded a lifetime's worth of memories, and some great stories to match.

A lot of it was really good stuff too.

For example, I met Johnny Cash face to face in my tiny office. After Rick Rubin introduced me to his newest signing, I nearly pissed myself when he extended his hand and said "Hello, I'm Johnny Cash". Later that night, I saw him play accompanied by nothing but his acoustic guitar at the Viper Room.

I also went to the Grammys with Sir Mix-A-Lot when he got nominated for "Baby Got Back." I even attended a celebrity studded party for Mick Jagger at the home of Heidi Fleiss, the infamous Hollywood Madam. So, if I ever should happen to meet that special someone willing to bear my children, at least I've got some great stories to tell.

Aw hell, who am I kidding right?

More often though, I spent my days trying my best to fly under the radar, and dodging the corporate ax that was sure to fall once the folks at Def American realized that the kid from Seattle was pretty much in over his head. One particular boss I had there (who shall remain nameless here), sat directly across from me in the office and would spend entire mornings staring a hole right through me.

Every once in a while though, I would come up with a great marketing idea that would save my ass for that particular week.

Like the time I thought of doing a "concert kit" for the seventies styled "boogie-rock" band Raging Slab, and their album Dynamite Monster Boogie Concert. We had to nix a few items — like the bong, the bottle of Ripple Wine, and the tube of glue. If we shipped these things together, it would have been prosecutable by law as a bomb. We finally did ship a "concert kit" to retail though. It included the CD, a T-shirt, some rolling papers, and a dime to call a cab. It even made promo item of the week in Radio & Records magazine.

Cool, huh?

So like Dan Kennedy in his book, I arrived for my own dream-shot in the big-time music business of nineties L.A., just in time for the whole corporate shenanigans that had everybody ducking for cover. The firings and layoffs that came in the wake of a downturn in business that hadn't quite yet become the tidal wave it is now still had everybody in full-on "cover your ass" mode. The fact that even at thirty-something years old, I was still a wide-eyed, somewhat green, starstruck kid in the biggest candystore on Earth didn't help matters much either.