(excerpts)

Many people — even knowledgeable people — assume that Pete has it made; that a single by John, George, Ringo or Paul rises to the top of the charts by a natural process; that no disk jockey in the nation could be so monumentally dense as to ignore a new Beatle release. Pete runs into this assumption all the time.

“I'm gonna say something," said Pete, “And Mel’s gonna agree wid me. Today, you got to push and push, no matter if it’s Beatles stuff. The promo man is the most important man for a record, because the promo man contacts the program director. I mean, does the artist come here and sit down with Mel and discuss about records! Or the songwriter or producer? No, it’s the promo man that sells the record. Then, when it’s a hit, it’s the artist that did it!”

But suppose the record is by John? “John Lennon needs promotion like every artist in the world needs promotion,” Pete said adamantly. “Nothin’s a guarantee. John Lennon’s album, the one before, wasn’t a big album. It needed promotion. We did the best we could with it, ya understand. I'm calling up stations saying, look, it’s sold 300,000 copies, why don’t you give it some air play.
“So we told John he had to go more commercial if he wanted to get a big smash. I mean an artist has to put out what he feels, but I'm sure an artist wises up and that’s why John put out this new type of album. So we went with ‘Imagine’ and it’s a Number One.”

 

 

As a kid of nine in the Bronx, he said, he had helped support his widowed mother by shining shoes in a bar. “Frank Sinatra was a regular customer of mine.” In his teens, he learned to drum and formed several bands. (It was an MC at a drumming contest who inadvertently altered Pete’s name from Benedetto to Bennett.) In 1952 when Pete was 17, a scout for Tommy Dorsey picked him to replace Buddy Rich in the band.
“I was a great musician,” said Pete, “no question about it.”
Pete also served as Dorsey’s road manager, in which capacity he made contracts with many of the most useful disk jockeys in America.

“After a while, people suggested that I should use my contacts to become a promo man, so I gave up drumming,” said Pete. “In 1962, Mr. Nat King Cole hadn’t had a big record in a long time and he wanted one. So he had heard of me and he asked me to come to listen to six acetates of new songs. I picked one, but he didn't want me to take it because it was corny.
But I took it to a DJ friend in Philly and asked him to play it and that night they started getting calls on it. So the record company had to press it right away and it sold 40,000 in Philadelphia in one week.”

“The name of the song was ‘Ramblin’ Rose’.”

“Mr. Cole couldn’t believe it. He thought I was joshin’ him until he saw the figures.”

After that coup, Pete signed on as Allen Klein’s promo man, handling Sam Cooke, Herman’s Hermits, the Animals, the Stones and finally, the Beatles.

 

Back in Mel’s office, Pete unveiled his big surprise.
“Don’t look at the label!” he said, putting his hand over Mel’s eyes. “Just put it on.”
Mel fumbled to get it on the spindle. A hiss came out of the speakers.

“Happy Christmas, Yoko,” whispered Yoko.
“Happy Christmas, John,” whispered John.

“This is gonna be Number 1 for a long time!” boomed Pete. “A standard! John Lennon's new Christmas song!”
“Spector?” asked Mel, as the strings came in.
“Spector,” said Pete. “He's a great producer.”
Having played the Christmas song, Pete packed up his acetates and said good by to Mel.

“You see what I mean?” Pete said as we rode down in the elevator. “It's a tough job. They get a pile of about 800 singles every week here, and they gotta pick four. Like on John’s record, did Mel say, ‘Where can I get it, send it to me’? No, he said. ‘Mmm. so it’ll be out in a week and a half.’”

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