¡Escandalo! asks: What's Your Worst Matador Experience?

Lyle Hysen
Worst days at Matador:

Naked Day - not the same since Dan left.
Floss Your Office Mate Day
Esperanto Day - tough, especially when Joe took phone messages.
Bring Your Pit Bull to Work Day - not so bad, but oh those medical bills.
Dress as Your Favorite French Person Day - confusing when people started showing up as Chan.
Techno Day - which was really bad since everyday is techno day.

Worst staff experience: the goddamn dogs!

Tara Goss: Aside from some awkward and oh-too-personal confrontations with Mr. Fed Ex and a particular messenger dispatcher, my worst experience remains THE ELEVATOR.

Sue Garner, Run On: The Shams' last Matador meeting.

Chris Lombardi: Probably the time the armed NYC Marshal evicted us from our old office at the indie label getto of 611 Broadway. We had sunk all our money into making shitloads of Pavement's Slanted & Enchanted and had forgone the less important responsibility of rent. While the maintenance guy installed a padlock on our door, I ran to the bank for a certified check. Luckily some of the money from Slanted & Enchanted had started to trickle back into our account.

When I returned with the money, I found Rusty and Johan laughing nervously while Gerard and the Marshal argued away. Apparently the guy was trying to explain to Gerard that if he didn't leave the office immediatly his college record would be seriously fucked (!!). Oh yeah, and Dan Dow from Okra/Used Kids/Gibson Brothers, who had stopped by to say hello, witnessed the whole thing. Needless to say, we knew that our reputation was out the window once Dan spread the word of our financial collapse. Later that day we ironed everything out with the landlord, the Pavement record went on to become a big success, Dan kept his mouth shut, and we eventually moved.

Tim Midgett, Silkworm

(Gerard walks into a guitar store in our hometown of Seattle, is noodling on a guitar . . . music store guy walks up, asks where you from, etc.)

Gerard: From New York, work at a record label.

Guy: I've heard of Matador. Who's on the label?

Gerard: As a matter of fact, Seattle band Silkworm is.

Guy: Oh yeah, I heard of them.

Other guy, behind the counter: Who?

Original guy, speaking confidently: They're college students, one of those ethereal, almost-rock kinda bands. (pause) Isn't that right?

Gerard: That is definitely them.

Jim Eno, Spoon: Spoon was in London touring with Guided by Voices and Silkworm. I went back to the band room to grab another beer when I saw Britt and Chris Lombardi with their lips locked. This was sort of disturbing (bad dreams, etc.) until Spoon's recent show in New York when Chris gave me a good-bye farewell in a similar manner. Chris is a pretty darn good kisser. I don't know about Gerard, though. I should ask Britt.

Kris Gillespie

black on black
85-line screen logo
didn't come from me

what is wrong with him?
hey, do you know how to drum?
cold shower should fix it.

Mike Gallinsky, Half-Cocked: Getting stuck in the elevator with Dick Dahl.

Worst staff experience II: the goddamn dogs!

Carrie McLaren: Getting hired to work here was a real blast. I talked to Chris and Gerard for about fifteen minutes the first time. Gerard didn't ask me anything; he just promised that no one had ever quit or committed suicide, and that on a clear day you could see people dressing in the building across the street. Chris had one question: Was I claustrophobic? They were going to make their decision next week, so then Gerard called the following month and asked if I minded coming up to interview again (I was living in Chapel Hill, NC, at the time). I asked why. Gerard: "Chris doesn't remember you."

So they flew me up again, offered me the job, I accepted, and then as soon as I realized what I had done, I couldn't sleep for, like, five months.

Honorable mention: I once dropped a tampon in the middle of Duke Coffeehouse at a GBV show and a cute young man handed it to me. (Actually, I've tried this a couple of times.)

Russ Waterhouse

1. Being pinned by an intern only two minutes into my match during the 17th Annual Matador Wrestling Tourney.

2. Losing the directions to the infamous Matadorgy, arriving twenty minutes late, and realizing it was already over.

3. Any and all interactions with the U.S. Postal Service (except, of course, for the friendly mail man).

Adam Carroll: Most bands on Matador are really friendly, accepting people. However, like most record labels, there are a select few that believe their musical knowledge to be a divine gift bestowed upon them so that they may preach a gospel to be understood only years after their time. One time I had the misfortune of getting into a discussion with a certain unnamed musician about "playing" music.

I made the mistake of admitting my lack of technical proficiency, upon which he jumped on me like a rabid dog--talking about exotic time signatures, modes, and other subjects that get any Berkeley Music School student sexually aroused.

He dug under my skin and kept taunting me while his like-minded band mates snickered behind him like the smug, self-important bastards they are. My mind raced wildly while I tried to recall something--anything--from music classes in elementary school, but to no avail. I finally stormed off, infuriated that I couldn't talk about subjects I didn't care about.

However, justice came later that night as I found a pile of books in the trash on my way home, including one on music theory, and another by the famed Masters and Johnson duo. I read both cover to cover that night and now, not only do I know many interesting results from various studies on human sexuality, but I can also tackle any advanced musical theory, as evidenced by this limerick (which may only be appreciated after spending considerable time in Matador's shipping department):

There was a young man named McNamiter
With a tool of prodigious diameter.
But it wasn't the size
gave the girls a surprise
'Twas his rhythm--iambic pentameter.

Ira and Georgia, Yo La Tengo
Having Matador rip off our ideas!

Lynnfield Pioneers: Clyde Kane

Esther Oliver: My worst experiences at Matador are the mornings when I come in and we are out of coffee. I always bring my first cup now as I've been emotionally scarred.

Lori Aime: There was an incredible band whose relationship with Matador deteriorated before my eyes. From that day on, I've cursed the name Clyde while considering the ancient custom kill the messenger.

Rusty Clarke

1. The day the gun-toting U.S. Marshal evicted us from the 611 Broadway office for not paying rent during the Slanted & Enchanted shipment.

2. Having the electricity and phones go out 'cos someone forgot to pay the bill. This happened during some massive shipment, Whip-Smart or something. We worked by candlelight to make the street date!

3. Carrying truckloads of records up five flights of stairs whenever the elevator is broken.

4. The Crypt Paperwork.

5. WEA/Specialty "accidentally" destroying our entire 7" inventory.

6. Dealing with mis-ships while transferring stock from WEA to EMD and all those goddamn Hootie and the Blowfish CDs we got instead of Electr-o-Pura.

7. Yesterday.

Worst staff experience III: the goddamn dogs!

Chris Scully: After two weeks of being here I finally got comfortable enough to put one of my own music selections on the stereo. Being that I am almost always the first one in, I thought the morning was the best time to do this as it would most likely be over by the time everyone else arrived. I put on the Grateful Dead, Dick's Picks #3. About fourty minutes into the disc, just when you begin catching a good Jerry groove, I noticed the volume decrease. Well, it was playing pretty loud for the morning so I wasn't too upset. Five minutes later when person #2 arrived, the volume went down again. When #3 arrived, it was reduced once more. Then a fourth person came and turned it down even more, this time to the point where I couldn't hear it at all. No Jerry or Dead fans here . . . tragic! I took off my disc with the knowledge that I would never hear Jerry at work again.

Andrea Goldman: I was coerced into prank-calling Chris Lombardi really late at night. I gave him this whole story about one of the bands on tour getting badly hurt and scared the SHIT out of him!! I thought he would never speak to me again! PLEASE FORGIVE ME, CHRIS!!!!

Paul Sommerstein: Perhaps because I've worked here for such a brief time I can't really recall any worst Matador experience (maybe the closing of the Blimpie across the street) so I'm forced to submit the following banal story that occurred before I was an employee. Prior to joining "the Door," I was hired at American Records by a certain tall, suave, silver/sharped-tongued, record-collecting foreign ex-Matador employee (he's quite the cook, too) who was fired/quit under ugly circumstances. Now, before being hired at American, I was doing some writing for a local mag which meant the occasional scamming of Matador promos and ye olde guest list (though this was probably due to my friendship with some of the staff here as much as it was any of my meager scribblings). Once word reached Matador higher-ups that I'd aligned myself with enemy forces, however, it was decreed that I was to be treated like the Bad Brains in D.C., that is, banned, from any further largess.

Worst staff experience IV: the goddamn dogs!

While this was hardly a harrowing experience, I thought the stated reason for the snub revealed an uncharacteristic lack of backbone. Rather than admitting that I was now a person non grata because of my new boss, the party line was that since I was now a middling A&R douche I could now pay for any records and shows on my new employer's tab (true enough though technically I was still, ahem, a rock journalist plying his trade). Maybe it was explained to me incorrectly by the Mata-minions; I've never broached the subject with my new bosses (I had a few in me at the company Christmas party and was gonna bring it up but thought better of it). Hey, neither party could've been too upset because next thing I know I'm working at Matador rather than sitting around the crib in my boxers watching Sportscenter and listening to Geto Boys four-track bedroom tapes.

Cynthia Carr

1. The hangover from the "Now we're with Capitol" party.

2. The numerous times I've gotten drunk at Max Fish and argued with strangers about Matador bands--like they cared.

3. The blackout from the 1996 Christmas party (thanks for putting me in the cab, Jesper!).

4. The numerous times I've gotten drunk and tried to express my opinion to Jesper.

5. Receiving a naughty book about some dominatrix from Johann (okay, that wasn't a worst experience but boy did I blush!)

6. The constant feeling that I don't know anything about rock, punk, alternative (whatever that means) and basically life in general.

   Hey, that's enough cos I really love these people and I'm starting to see a trend...

Jean Smith, Mecca Normal, 2 Foot Flame

My worst Matador moment was when I realized Spencer [Gates] was right: I'm never going to sell more records unless I take my panties off at shows. In practical terms, do I have them off when I start or do I take them off during a show or does she mean any show I'm at and then what do I do with them?

P.S. I don't like to be so analytical about my panties; why does Spencer think I wear panties, anyway?

David Atwereboanda: My worst experience. hmmm... ya know, I really can't think of one. I just love this place SO MUCH. And I love the people here SO MUCH. I feel SO LUCKY to be a part of all this. I think I'm going to cry now so I'm goint to stop here. Anyone have a Kleenex?

Dave Martin: The time no one in the office had any salt.
(Dave hasn't worked here very long. --ed)

The dogs? What about the goddamn bull?!?

Patrick Amory: It was mid-October, 1994. I was the new sales director. We were shipping two of our biggest records of the last several years simultaneously: The Jon Spencer Blues Explosion Orange and Pizzicato Five Made In USA. This was before Matador had street dates. We just tried to make sure that distributors got the new records at the same time, which, incidentally, was virtually impossible, particularly considering our manufacturer was the gigantic Specialty Records, otherwise known as WEA Manufacturing. Our friends at Specialty couldn't really tell the difference between manufacturing 20,000 CDs or 25,000 CDs -- the numbers were so small anyway, what's the difference?

In order for everyone to get the records simultaneously, we shipped West Coast distributors first, then Midwest distributors, then East Coast distributors. Our two biggest distributors (and competitors) are ADA and Caroline. ADA's warehouse is in the Midwest, and Caroline's at the time was on the East Coast. In the staggered shipping schedule, ADA was shipped first, on Tuesday, while Caroline was shipped last, on Thursday, due to their locations. Theoretically, they would both have received stock at the same time -- on Friday. I say "theoretically" because Specialty didn't succeed in manufacturing the full allocation of Orange or Made In USA, and didn't tell us, either. Instead, they just kept on shipping the records to distributors until they ran out. Naturally, they ran out after shipping to ADA and before shipping to Caroline. And, miraculously, the records made it from Specialty in Pennsylvania to ADA in Illinois in under eight hours (normal transport time two days), so ADA was gleefully taking orders for the records on Thursday. (By the way, this superfast transport time is only available from trucking companies if you have screwed up a new-release shipment.)

When Michael Bull at Caroline found out that a regular customer, CD 1-Stop, had given a plum order for a Matador release to his biggest competitor, he phoned up Rusty and me screaming, "Where the FUCK is our stock?!?" We in turn called Michael Black at ADA and asked him to stop selling the records. Not surprisingly, they called us both crazy and told us to get our manufacturing and shipping in order.

Rusty and Chris Lombardi and I were here until 10 p.m. that Friday night making phone call after phone call, trying to assuage wounded feelings and damaged balance sheets. A year and a half later, Matador introduced real street dates for its independently distributed releases.

James McNew, Yo La Tengo, Dump: The "busy hands" of a drunken Accutron 2000, Matador Christmas Party 1995.

Deborah Orr: Who has been eating my Total? This has been an ongoing worst experience, perpetrated by a shadowy individual or group within the office, leaving me with useless dust in a formerly near-full box. I find it hard to believe anyone would actually want to eat this stuff, so perhaps the motive involves some Gaslight-style plot or even causing my economic ruin (despite the cereal wars, a box of Total doesn't come cheap).

Gerard Cosloy: So many unhappy memories, where do I start? There was the famous city-marshal-changing-the-locks day (complete with the sheriff warning me how bad this would look on my college application). And there was the time Jon Moritsugu set the Hippy Porn contract on fire and tore the CD negatives apart with his teeth (we didn't have the guts to tell him the test pressings arrived that day). And how can we forget the fateful day Johan Kugelburg told us he was quitting? Chris and I begged and pleaded with him to reconsider, but he said he had to do it for his family (and how can you argue with that?). Or the day Rudolph Grey passed out in the office. (Don't worry, Rudolph recovered.) But no Matador moment was more unpleasant for me than the evening we screened the completed Kids in the Hall: Brain Candy for the assembled Matador staff and artist roster. Their collective silence during the very long ninety minutes spoke volumes--I heard more laughs during Schindler's List. I am no longer allowed to discuss "soundtrack opportunities" during office hours. (On the plus side, I don't ever have to go to Toronto again, so it wasn't all bad.)

Christina Zafiris: When I was an intern for Chris and Gerard and didn't really know them too well, the ten-by-fifteen-foot office was a little too close for comfort. I was included in conversations about personal interludes and label stuff. I always felt a little awkward being on the peripheral of these discussions so I usually relied on the "Ha ha that is so funny" approach to seem less conspicuous.

One day Gerard came in with a very grim look and flopped himself down with a sign. "What happened?" we asked a few times. He explained that one of his record boxes fell on two of his week-old kittens, leaving one unscathed but the other seriously injured. He heroically scooped up the broken kitty and ran down the street to the vet, the convulsing animal cupped in his hands. The vet tried to save her, but her back was broken. The next morning the vet called him for a $25 cremation fee. It was a sad story, and I could tell he was upset. Now the horrible part: The only reaction I could muster up to keep from crying was to laugh like usual and so I did--hysterically. Chris laughed too, we both must have looked like a couple of jackals. To this day this bothers me, so I would like to apologize: I am sorry I laughed at you Gerard.