Hit Men

Hit Men Plot Summary

Introduction

In the dimly lit recording studios of 1950s America, a revolution was brewing. As rock and roll burst onto the cultural landscape, a small group of entrepreneurs—many from humble beginnings in Brooklyn and the Bronx—seized an unprecedented opportunity to build what would become a multi-billion dollar industry. These pioneers operated in a world where handshake deals and cash-filled envelopes often determined which songs Americans would hear on their radios. By the 1980s, this freewheeling industry had transformed into a corporate oligopoly dominated by six major labels, with CBS Records and Warner Communications as the superpowers. This remarkable evolution reveals how creativity and corruption intertwined, how power concentrated through strategic control of distribution and radio airplay, and how the industry's moral foundation—shaky from the beginning—eventually led to a system where even the most powerful companies found themselves paying protection money to shadowy middlemen with organized crime connections. Understanding this transformation illuminates not just music history but provides a compelling case study in how American business practices, artistic expression, and criminal enterprise can become inextricably linked in the pursuit of profit and cultural influence.

Chapter 1: The Pioneers: Birth of the Modern Music Business (1950s)

The modern record industry emerged in the aftermath of World War II, when technological innovations and changing consumer habits created fertile ground for entrepreneurial risk-takers. The introduction of vinyl records replaced fragile shellac 78s, while the rise of television ironically strengthened radio's focus on music programming. These developments coincided with the birth of rock and roll, a revolutionary sound that appealed to the growing teenage market with disposable income. Into this landscape stepped a remarkable cast of characters who would define the industry for decades. Men like Morris Levy, who founded Roulette Records in 1956 after making his name as owner of the famous Birdland jazz club in New York. Levy, a towering figure both physically and metaphorically, understood early that the real money in music came from publishing rights—owning the songs themselves. "Copyrights are like real estate," he often said. "They never talk back to you." His business acumen was matched only by his connections to organized crime, particularly the Genovese family and underboss Vincent "Chin" Gigante, a childhood friend from the Bronx. Levy's approach to artists was notoriously exploitative. He routinely put his name on songs he didn't write (including Frankie Lymon's "Why Do Fools Fall in Love") and paid artists with Cadillacs worth a fraction of their royalties. When John Lennon's "Come Together" sounded similar to Chuck Berry's "You Can't Catch Me" (a Levy copyright), Morris sued and eventually released an unauthorized album of Lennon's recordings. As Levy philosophized about the music business, "If a guy's a cocksucker in his life, when he dies he don't become a saint." The industry's ethical compromises were exposed in 1960 when the payola scandal erupted, revealing widespread bribery of disc jockeys. While DJ Alan Freed's career was destroyed, Levy emerged unscathed. This pattern would repeat throughout the industry's history: public scandals followed by cosmetic reforms, while the underlying corrupt practices continued in more sophisticated forms. The payola scandal merely shifted power from individual DJs to program directors, inadvertently setting the stage for the "new payola" that would emerge in the late 1970s. The pioneers of the record industry established both its creative dynamism and its moral ambiguity. They recognized the commercial potential of new musical forms that established businesses ignored, but they also normalized questionable business practices that would haunt the industry for decades. Their legacy was a business model built on exploitation of artists, manipulation of audiences, and a casual relationship with legality—traits that would intensify as the stakes grew higher in subsequent decades.

Chapter 2: Corporate Takeover: CBS Records and the Clive Davis Era (1960s-1973)

By the mid-1960s, the record industry was transitioning from its entrepreneurial roots to corporate ownership, with CBS Records leading the transformation. Under the refined leadership of Goddard Lieberson, a classical pianist and composer from England, Columbia Records (the flagship label of CBS) had become the industry leader by producing prestigious Broadway cast albums like My Fair Lady. Lieberson was urbane and witty, signing his letters "God"—a joke that seemed appropriate since his employees worshiped him. The cultural earthquake of rock and roll presented a challenge for CBS Records. The company's A&R department was dominated by Mitch Miller, who loathed rock music and focused on middle-of-the-road pop. By 1965, CBS Records' "contemporary" roster consisted of just five acts, including Bob Dylan and Simon & Garfunkel, while rivals had Elvis Presley (RCA) and the Beatles (Capitol). The company needed transformation, and it came in the form of Clive Davis, a Harvard-educated lawyer who had joined CBS Records in 1960. Davis's epiphany came at the 1967 Monterey Pop Festival, which he later called "the creative turning point in my life." Witnessing performances by Janis Joplin and other groundbreaking artists, Davis recognized that a cultural revolution was underway. He returned to New York determined to transform CBS Records into a rock powerhouse, signing Joplin, Blood Sweat & Tears, Santana, Chicago, and other acts that would define the era. Under his leadership, CBS Records' market share rose from 12 percent in 1967 to 22 percent by 1970, while profits more than doubled. However, Davis's reign ended abruptly in 1973 when he was fired amid allegations of misusing company funds. The scandal extended beyond expense account irregularities to include accusations of payola and mob connections. A federal investigation known as "Project Sound" began with a heroin smuggling case involving a Genovese family associate who had connections to CBS Records through David Wynshaw, Davis's closest aide. When authorities found Wynshaw's phone number in the smuggler's address book, Wynshaw became a cooperating witness, opening a Pandora's box of allegations about CBS Records' business practices. The Davis era transformed CBS Records from the label of Broadway cast albums to the home of rock's biggest stars. More significantly, it marked the transition from the A&R-driven company of Lieberson's day to what would become known as "the deal company"—where the ability to negotiate contracts became more important than the ability to spot talent. This shift fundamentally changed how the music business operated, prioritizing financial engineering over artistic development. It also demonstrated how even the most sophisticated corporate entity in the record business operated in an ethical gray zone, setting the stage for the more explicit corruption that would follow.

Chapter 3: The Network Emerges: Independent Promotion's Rise (1973-1980)

The mid-1970s witnessed the birth of a system that would eventually hold the entire record industry hostage: the Network. This informal alliance of about a dozen top independent promotion men developed unprecedented control over what songs reached the airwaves. Though initially created to serve the major labels' interests, the Network would eventually become a parasitic force that drained millions from the industry while corrupting the relationship between music and radio. The Network arose from the ashes of Project Sound, the federal investigation that had brought down Clive Davis. The failed government probe had demonstrated the weakness of anti-payola enforcement, emboldening those willing to operate in ethical gray zones. Meanwhile, the major labels faced a dilemma: they wanted to control radio airplay to maintain their market advantage, but they couldn't risk direct involvement in payola after the Newark investigation. The solution was to outsource this function to independent promoters who would serve as buffers between the labels and radio stations. Each Network member claimed exclusive influence over specific radio stations in their "territory." Fred DiSipio, a decorated World War II veteran from Philadelphia, controlled access to approximately ninety stations by the mid-1980s. Joseph Isgro, a Vietnam veteran with a Purple Heart, operated from Los Angeles in similar fashion. If a record company wanted national airplay for a new single, it hired one Network member, who subcontracted the job to others in the alliance. The promoters charged increasingly exorbitant fees—up to $300,000 to promote a single record by the mid-1980s. The methods employed by the Network blurred legal and ethical boundaries. While promoters claimed they merely provided information and enthusiasm about records, evidence suggested many engaged in direct payola—bribing program directors with cash, cocaine, and gifts. One Miami disc jockey later described how promoters approached him: "Here, take this ounce of cocaine. Couple of thousand dollars... And I'll give you a call Tuesday." Such practices violated federal law, which prohibited payment for airplay unless disclosed to listeners. The Network's power was demonstrated most dramatically when CBS Records and Warner Communications attempted to boycott independent promoters in 1981. Dick Asher, deputy president of CBS Records, had championed the boycott as a way to reduce costs and eliminate corruption. The Network retaliated by targeting specific records from labels participating in the boycott. Loverboy's single "Turn Me Loose" had been climbing the charts for seven weeks when suddenly, "it just came off the air," Asher recalled. Within weeks, both companies abandoned the boycott and returned to the Network, now paying higher prices than before. By 1980, the record industry had created a monster it could no longer control. The Network had become, in business terms, the ultimate "loss leader" deal. Labels were buying market share at a price that made profitability impossible, spending at least $60 million annually on independent promotion by 1985. This represented approximately 30 percent of the industry's pretax profits—a financial crisis the industry had brought upon itself through short-sighted decisions and ethical compromises that would soon be exposed to public scrutiny.

Chapter 4: Walter's War: CBS vs. Warner in the Battle for Dominance (1975-1985)

In May 1975, Walter Yetnikoff ascended to the presidency of CBS Records Group, replacing the retiring Goddard Lieberson. The appointment came at a critical juncture for both the company and the industry. CBS Records had stagnated during the two-year interregnum following Clive Davis's firing, while Warner Communications' labels were rapidly gaining ground. Yetnikoff, a corporate attorney who admitted to being "tone-deaf," seemed an unlikely savior, but he quickly forged a distinctive identity by declaring war on Warner Bros. Records and its chairman, Mo Ostin. "Walter's War," as it became known, transformed both Yetnikoff and the industry. At CBS conventions, he handed out GI boots and displayed signs that said "FUCK WARNER." He railed against the "Wickey Bird," Warner's corporate jet, claiming it was "a fighter plane with machine guns." This bellicose posturing worked brilliantly. As former CBS executive Elliot Goldman observed, "Walter stirred this enormous fear. Lawyers became afraid: I can't ask Walter for that! He'll get angry at me!" The formerly shy corporate lawyer had reinvented himself as a street fighter with an insatiable appetite for power. The first shot in Walter's War came in 1976 when Yetnikoff signed James Taylor away from Warner Bros. Records for an unprecedented $1 million per album. Mo Ostin retaliated the following year by luring Paul Simon from Columbia. The bidding war escalated, with both companies making increasingly expensive talent acquisitions. CBS offered Paul McCartney the Frank Loesser publishing catalog (worth millions annually in performance rights) to sign with them. Warner renewed Rod Stewart for ten albums at $2 million each. These astronomical deals fundamentally changed the economics of the record business, prioritizing star power over artist development. The corporate cultures of the two companies reflected their leadership. CBS under Yetnikoff was centralized and autocratic, mirroring the management style of CBS Inc. founder William Paley. Warner, guided by Steve Ross, operated as a collection of semi-autonomous labels including Warner Bros., Atlantic, and Elektra/Asylum. Mo Ostin at Warner Bros. Records was the antithesis of Yetnikoff—quiet, reserved, and focused on long-term artist development rather than splashy deals. "Warner is probably the best record company in terms of career development," a CBS executive admitted. "They're sympathetic to groups that take a long time to break. Talking Heads would never have made a nickel on CBS Records." The competition extended to radio promotion, where both companies invested heavily in the Network system. However, Warner began to question the value of independent promotion by 1980. David Horowitz, who oversaw Warner's record division, decided to suspend the use of indie promoters that year—primarily as a cost-cutting measure, though ethical concerns played a role. He hoped CBS would follow suit, creating an industry-wide boycott that would break the Network's power. The failure of this initiative demonstrated how deeply dependent the industry had become on corrupt promotion practices, and how difficult it would be to break free from them. By the mid-1980s, the battle between CBS and Warner had reshaped the industry landscape. The "outrageous" $425,000-per-album deal that Clive Davis had made for Neil Diamond in 1970 seemed like a pittance by decade's end. The result was a business driven by bigger and bigger deals, where financial muscle often mattered more than artistic vision or long-term development—a trend that would ultimately undermine the industry's creative foundation and financial stability.

Chapter 5: Payola Empire: How the Network Controlled Radio Access (1980-1986)

By the early 1980s, the Network had evolved into a sophisticated operation that effectively controlled access to commercial radio across America. This informal alliance of independent promoters had divided the country into territories, with each member claiming exclusive relationships with specific stations. Joseph Isgro dominated Los Angeles and much of the West Coast. Fred DiSipio controlled Philadelphia, parts of New York, and stations throughout the Northeast. Other members had similar regional strongholds, creating a nationwide system that record companies couldn't circumvent if they wanted their songs on the air. The economics of the Network were staggering. Major labels were spending between $3,000 and $10,000 per song to have it "worked" to radio, regardless of whether the promotion resulted in airplay. For superstar releases, the costs were even higher—Michael Jackson's "Thriller" singles reportedly cost $100,000 each in independent promotion. By 1985, the record industry was spending an estimated $60-80 million annually on these services. CBS Records alone allocated nearly $17 million to independent promotion that year, almost 10% of its total profits. The Network's power came not from its ability to make hit records but to prevent them. This was dramatically demonstrated to CBS Records deputy president Dick Asher in 1980, when he conducted an experiment with Pink Floyd's single "Another Brick in the Wall." Despite the band's sold-out concerts in Los Angeles and the album's number one status, four major L.A. radio stations refused to play the song until CBS hired independent promoters. Within hours of the promoters being engaged, the song was in heavy rotation. As one executive explained, "You got the feeling you had to hire them so bad things wouldn't happen." More disturbing were the Network's alleged connections to organized crime. Joseph Isgro maintained a close relationship with Joseph "Piney" Armone, an underboss in the Gambino crime family. FBI surveillance captured Armone discussing with Gambino boss Paul Castellano how "they gave him fifty thousand to a hundred thousand to push a record." Other promoters had similar connections, creating a situation where major corporations were indirectly funding criminal enterprises through their promotion budgets. The Network's influence extended beyond promotion to affect the creative direction of the industry. Record companies increasingly focused on songs that would appeal to radio programmers rather than artistic merit. As one executive noted, "If you're spending $100,000 to promote a single, you're not going to take chances on anything unusual." This commercial imperative shaped the sound of popular music throughout the era, favoring formulaic productions over innovation and contributing to the homogenization of radio playlists. By 1986, the situation had become untenable. The cost of independent promotion had risen to levels that threatened the industry's profitability. Even Walter Yetnikoff, who had long supported the Network, began to question its value. The stage was set for a confrontation that would expose the industry's corrupt underbelly to public scrutiny and force a reckoning with practices that had become normalized over decades. The Network had evolved from a tool of the major labels into a parasite that threatened to consume its host.

Chapter 6: The NBC Exposé: Media Spotlight Reveals Industry Corruption (1986)

On February 24, 1986, NBC Nightly News aired an explosive seven-minute segment titled "The New Payola" that would shake the recording industry to its core. The report, prepared by investigative journalists Brian Ross and Ira Silverman, exposed the connection between independent record promoters and organized crime figures. Opening with footage of Joseph Armone, identified as a Gambino family capo, the segment proceeded to show promoters Joseph Isgro and Fred DiSipio attending the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame dinner alongside music industry executives. The NBC investigation had begun with tips from law enforcement sources about Isgro's connections to Armone. Through patient surveillance, Ross and Silverman captured remarkable footage of a meeting at New York's Helmsley Palace Hotel that included not only Isgro and DiSipio but also John Gotti, then the newly installed boss of the Gambino crime family. The reporters also found a Miami disc jockey willing to describe on camera how promoters had offered him cocaine and cash in exchange for playing certain records. Most damning was the revelation that record company presidents had refused to discuss the promoters on camera, "some saying they feared repercussions." This admission of fear from executives running billion-dollar corporations stunned viewers and suggested the depth of the Network's power. The broadcast noted that CBS Records "did the most business with the independent promoters now under investigation" and specifically named Walter Yetnikoff as having "a lot to do with stopping an investigation" that the Recording Industry Association of America had considered launching months earlier. The industry's response was swift but transparently hypocritical. Within days, the Recording Industry Association of America issued a statement claiming they had "no knowledge that any firm or individual with whom our companies do business is engaged in any illegal activity." Yet simultaneously, major labels including Capitol, MCA, Warner, RCA, and Arista announced they would immediately cease using independent promoters. CBS Records, the biggest spender on indie promotion, held out briefly before joining the boycott on March 5. Federal authorities launched multiple investigations following the broadcast. A grand jury in New York subpoenaed documents from record companies, while Senator Albert Gore announced a Senate probe into the "new payola." The Los Angeles Organized Crime Strike Force began investigating Joseph Isgro for tax evasion and payola violations. For the promoters, the fallout was devastating. Joseph Isgro saw his multimillion-dollar business collapse overnight. "I've worked twenty years to build this," he lamented. "I got out of Vietnam, I fucking got into this business, I've worked hard all my life... And by one guy coming on, not saying anything, he destroys my entire business." Despite the public outcry, the industry quickly found ways to circumvent its own ban on independent promotion. Labels began channeling funds through artist managers or disguising promotion payments as "tour support." Most significantly, these expenses were now charged against artists' royalties rather than coming from label budgets. As Joe Isgro observed, "The labels wanted to move the cost of indie promotion to the artist. That's what they're doing... I think it was a brilliant move." By 1987, independent promotion had quietly returned, though in a more discreet form. The NBC exposé had changed the mechanics of payola but failed to eliminate the practice.

Chapter 7: Aftermath and Legacy: How Payola Shaped Modern Music (1986-1990)

The years following the NBC exposé revealed how deeply entrenched corruption had become in the music industry's business model. Despite federal investigations and public outrage, the practice of paying for radio airplay proved remarkably resilient. By 1987, independent promoters were back in business, though their services were now often paid for by artists rather than record companies. This shift represented a cynical solution that allowed labels to maintain the benefits of payola while distancing themselves from its legal risks. The federal investigation into Joseph Isgro dragged on for years, encountering numerous obstacles. Prosecutor Marvin Rudnick, who had initiated the case, was mysteriously removed and eventually fired from the Justice Department. His replacement, Richard Stavin, was burdened with an enormous caseload that prevented him from giving the payola investigation proper attention. When indictments finally came in 1989, they targeted not only Isgro but also Ray Anderson, the former head of Epic Records, who was accused of accepting kickbacks from Isgro. The trial of Joseph Isgro in 1990 exposed the mechanics of payola in unprecedented detail. Former employees testified about delivering cash and cocaine to radio programmers in exchange for airplay. Ralph Tashjian, who had worked for Isgro, described how he would "submit a check request, then deposit the check in my corporate checking account and write myself a check for cash." George Crowell, a former program director, admitted receiving over $100,000 annually from Isgro, with payments typically exchanged in restaurant bathrooms. Despite this damning testimony, the case against Isgro collapsed in September 1990 when Judge James Ideman dismissed all charges due to alleged prosecutorial misconduct. The government had failed to disclose that one of its key witnesses had previously made contradictory statements under oath. This technicality allowed Isgro and his co-defendants to walk free, reinforcing the industry's belief that it was immune to serious legal consequences. The payola scandal coincided with significant changes in the industry's power structure. In January 1988, Sony Corporation purchased CBS Records for $2 billion, marking the first major acquisition of an American cultural institution by a Japanese company. Walter Yetnikoff, who had orchestrated the sale, initially strengthened his position but soon found himself marginalized. His behavior became increasingly erratic, and he alienated key artists and executives. In September 1990, Sony announced that Yetnikoff was leaving his post after fifteen years as head of CBS Records, ending an era defined by excess and corruption. By 1990, the record industry had begun a transformation that would eventually lead to the digital revolution of the 21st century. The major labels had consolidated into six global conglomerates, with foreign ownership becoming the norm. The Network's power had diminished but not disappeared, and new forms of influence peddling would emerge as technology changed how music reached audiences. The legacy of the payola era lives on in the industry's continued emphasis on promotion over artistic merit, and in the persistent power imbalance between those who create music and those who control access to audiences.

Summary

The transformation of the American record industry from 1950 to 1990 reveals a profound paradox: as the business grew more corporate and seemingly legitimate, its fundamental moral compromises only deepened. The pioneers of rock and roll—men like Morris Levy who operated on the fringes of legality—gave way to Harvard-educated executives like Clive Davis and Walter Yetnikoff, yet the industry's ethical foundation remained unstable. The concentration of power in six major labels, particularly the superpowers CBS and Warner, created an oligopoly that controlled both distribution and radio access. This consolidation culminated in the Network system, where even the most powerful companies paid protection money to independent promoters who could make or break careers. This history offers sobering lessons about the relationship between art, commerce, and corruption. First, it demonstrates how easily financial incentives can distort cultural gatekeeping—when money determines which songs reach the public, artistic merit becomes secondary. Second, it shows that corporate consolidation often leads to less diversity and innovation, not more efficiency. Perhaps most importantly, it reminds us that systems built on ethical compromises tend to spiral toward greater corruption over time. For today's entertainment industries facing similar challenges with streaming platforms and digital gatekeepers, the record industry's evolution stands as both cautionary tale and strategic playbook—revealing how power concentrates, how creativity can be commodified, and how easily the public interest can be sacrificed on the altar of corporate control.

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Fredric Dannen

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