American Scandal - Payola - The $50 Handshake | 1

Episode Date: April 23, 2019

The delicate system of secret bribes and kickbacks used to transform a mediocre record into a hit -- that’s payola. And on the eve of rock ‘n’ roll, it’s consuming the music industry. As the public catches wind of the corruption, DJ Alan Freed and American Bandstand host Dick Clark will be caught in the crosshairs of the investigations.Need more American Scandal? With Wondery+, enjoy exclusive seasons, binge new seasons first, and listen completely ad-free. Start your free trial in the Wondery App, Apple Podcasts, Spotify or visit https://wondery.app.link/rUic7i1hMNb now.  See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

You're listening to the first episode of this American Scandal season. With Wondery+, you can binge the remaining episodes, listen to new episodes early, and explore more exclusive seasons completely ad-free. Start your free trial of Wondery Plus in the Wondery app, Apple Podcasts, or Spotify today. Miami Beach, May 1959. It's past 2 a.m. on the last night of the annual pop music disc jockey convention, and everyone's in high spirits. Disc jockey Alan Freed sits alone at a banquet table, drinking a bourbon.

It's his fourth of the night, or maybe his fifth, he's lost count. Not that it matters. It's all free, paid for by his friend Morris Levy and Morris' label, Roulette Records. All around him, Freed's fellow DJs are schmoozing and celebrating. And why not? They're in a pastel-colored ballroom at the swanky Americana Hotel, overlooking Miami's famous White Sand Beaches. The Count Basie Orchestra plays on a massive bandstand, and the liquor is flowing freely.

Freed makes his way back to the bar for another round. He should be sharing in the festivities. After all, next to Count Basie, he's the most famous person in the room. He practically invented the term rock and roll. He has a hit TV show in New York and a syndicated radio show on WABC. And he hosts concerts and road shows that routinely sell out with big-name headliners like Chuck Berry and Jerry Lee Lewis. As he crosses the room, people he's never met call out his name and slap his back.

Each time, Freed manages a weak smile. No matter how many bourbons he drinks, he can't shake the worry. Looking around him, he sees w he can't shake the worry. Looking around him, he sees wads of cash openly changing hands. This is how the music business works. Record companies pay off DJs with cash, gifts, and girls. In return, the DJs play their singles on the radio. In the industry, it's known as payola, and Alan Freed has taken plenty. But for Freed, payola is something done on the down low, behind closed doors. This is way too brazen.

But across the room, his friend Morris Levy is all smiles and raucous laughter. Levy couldn't be happier. Since launching Roulette Records less than three years ago, he's already built the label into a powerhouse. Levy is a bear of a man, well over six feet tall, with a gravelly voice and hands like catcher's mitts. Half the industry is terrified of him, not because of his size, but because of his alleged mafia connections.

But to Freed, he's like a brother. He calls Morris by his Jewish nickname, Moishe. Freed crosses the room to where his friend Morris Levy is holding court at the bar. The two old friends greet each other warmly. Alan, having a good time? Always, Moishe. Freed orders another bourbon. Is that six or seven? He and Levy clink glasses. Drink up, my man. I've got 2,000 bottles of this stuff. How much did this shindig cost you? 15 grand, but worth every penny. Every DJ in the country is here.

Every greedy bastard, you mean. A lot of dead presidents changing hands here. Haven't these people heard of discretion? Levy shrugs and lights another palm oil. Relax, Alan. It's a party. Freed nods and turns his back to the bar. That's when he sees the guy with the notepad. A reporter from the Miami, taking it all in.

The next day, Freed passes a newsstand at the airport. Through the fog of his hangover, a headline jumps out at him. For DJs, booze, broads, and bribes. God, he knew last night was a bad idea. Several record promoters shot their mouths off to this reporter, describing in detail how much they pay off DJs to get their records on the air. He can just imagine what the average person is going to think when they read some of the quotes. Some of them you can buy with an air conditioner, some with money, and some with a girl.

We put out one record sung by a kid with no voice and no reputation. We spent $100,000 on promotion, most of it on entertaining disc jockeys. Got it into the top 10 in four weeks. It's a lousy situation, but I don't see how anything can be done about it. Without the disc jockeys, we're dead. Freed dumps the paper in the nearest trash can. He's read enough. Then he boards his flight back to New York. The story is bad, but it's just some local Miami rag. Hopefully the whole thing will blow over. Freed orders a drink from the stewardess and tries to forget about it.

But it won't blow over. By the time Freed lands in New York, all the music trade papers will pick it up. Then it will spread to the mainstream press, the New York Times, Life magazine. Freed doesn't know it yet, but the payola scandal has begun. It will ruin careers, damage reputations, and forever alter the way the radio industry operates. Right in the middle of the storm is America's most famous rock and roll DJ, Alan Freed.

In the past decade, Boeing has been involved in a series of scandals and deadly crashes that have dented its once sterling reputation. At the center of it all, the 737 MAX. The latest season of Business Wars explores how Boeing allowed things to turn deadly and what, if anything, can save the company's reputation. Make sure to listen to Business Wars wherever you get your podcasts. From Wondery, I'm Lindsey Graham,

and this is American Scandal. Most people don't really think about how a new song gets on the radio. We tend to assume the most popular records, the ones that sell the most, get requested the most, are popular because people like them. That's what the pop in pop music is short for, popular. And that's what the record industry wants us to think. That's why they maintain things like top 40 charts, which rank songs based on quantifiable numbers like sales and what's called rotation, how often a record gets played on the radio.

The more copies a record sells, the more spins it gets, the higher it climbs up the charts. It's a level playing field, one on which anyone with talent and a good song can have a hit. Except it's not a level playing field. Some records have an advantage, a big label backing them, with a big marketing budget. And some companies use that budget to bribe DJs to play their songs. The songs become hits not because they're popular, but because their airtime is bought and paid for. The record industry has a term for this practice. It's called payola. Since 1960, it's been illegal. But that hasn't stopped it from happening. In fact, as music moves from radio to streaming, onto services like Spotify, Tidal, and Pandora,

many industry observers think it's just as widespread as ever. This is the story of how payola started, the attempts to end it, and how it shaped the music we hear and the music we don't. Over this six-episode series, we'll meet the DJs and record executives who turned what was once a cottage industry of small, under-the-table payoffs into a multi-million-dollar criminal enterprise, and the prosecutors and reporters who expose them. It all starts in the 1950s with the birth of rock and roll. This is episode one, The $50 Handshake.

Cleveland, Ohio, April 1951. Eight years before the payola story first breaks. Alan Freed signs off from his evening classical music program as he always does. Well, music lovers, that's it for me. My name is Alan Freed, and you've been listening to the Classical Music Hour on WJW AM 850 on your dial. Broadcasting from Cleveland Town, USA. Now stay tuned for these important words from our sponsors. As the last strains of a Brahms violin sonata

go out over the airwaves, he switches off his microphone and punches in the station ID. He leans back warily in his chair, rubbing his temples. He's only been doing this gig for a few months, but already he hates it. Just a year ago,

Freed's career was going great. He had the top-rated show in Akron and was making over $10,000 a year, a good salary for a 28-year-old radio DJ in 1950. But he knew his bosses were earning much more than that from advertising, and he wasn't seeing any of it. When he tried to quit and take a more lucrative job at a rival station,

they invoked a non-compete clause in his contract and shut him down completely. For an entire year, he was banned from the airwaves. By the time Freed could get back in the game, he was all but forgotten and broke. He even had to file for bankruptcy. Now, in desperation, he's taken this classical music job, but the pay is lousy, way less than he was making in Akron, and he's bored stiff playing Brahms and Beethoven. On his way out of the studio, he bumps into one of the station's sponsors, a local record shop owner named Leo Mintz.

Leo sizes Freed up and tells him he looks like he could use a drink. And Freed agrees. Freed and Mintz heads around the corner to an Irish dive bar called Mullins, where Mintz orders a scotch and buys Fried a beer. Fried likes Mintz. He's a lanky Cleveland native who peppers his conversation with Yiddish curse words. He reminds Fried a little of his own father, a Russian-Jewish immigrant with a big personality. Alan, I have a business proposal for you. How would you like to host a rhythm and blues show?

The station bosses have offered me a late-night slot if I'll sponsor and pay for the thing. Now, Freed likes some rhythm and blues, but he's not a big listener, though anything's better than classical. But he's skeptical of Mintz's plan. In his mind, rhythm and blues is part of what the industry calls race records, music by black artists for black audiences. And his station's audience is mostly white. Rhythm and blues? I don't know, Leo. You really think our listeners would go for it? Trust me. In my shop, I get white kids buying those records, too. And no one in Cleveland is playing them on the radio.

It's a wide open market. And hey, I'll even pay you a promotional fee on top of your salary. Freed thinks about it as he finishes his beer. The classical music show is a dead-end gig. What has he really got to lose? Leo, I think you're crazy. But I'd be crazier not to take your money.

So count me in. Four months later, in August 1951, just past 11 o'clock at WJW Studios, Alan Freed switches on his microphone and launches into the intro for his new Rhythm and Blues show. The show's only a month old, but Freed's got his patter down. He calls himself the Moondog. The show is the Moondog House, and his listeners are the Moondog Kingdom. He calls the music he plays rock and roll show is the Moondog House, and his listeners are the Moondog Kingdom. He calls the music he plays rock and roll, a term he borrowed from blues records. He likes the way the phrase sounds,

and the way a lot of his favorite R&B records use the verbs rocking and rolling as euphemisms for sex. In 1951, when most DJs talk like news announcers in dry, clipped tones, Freed throws emotion and pizzazz into his voice. He wants to match the energy of the music he's playing. He practically yells, even when reading ad copy. When it comes to beer, there's just no sense to spend extra money when you can get the finest Aaron Burr tenor to the popular price. That's what I said and that's what I mean because Aaron Burr... His enthusiasm is infectious as he whoops and shouts over the songs, and he quickly draws a loyal audience.

And now Roy Mildland, make me noise! Alan Freed isn't the first to get carried away by the music. Rhythm and blues DJs in cities like Chicago and Memphis, mostly African American, have been talking over records since 1948. Later in his career, Freed will be accused of stealing their tricks. But in Cleveland, Freed is a pioneer, the city's first rhythm and blues DJ, with an ability to appeal to both black and white audiences. Soon, the phones at WJW are ringing off the hook with calls from kids of all races with requests for the Moondog. As Freed perfects his wild man routine, Leo Mintz sits next to him with a stack of records

and tells him what to play. When the show's over, he hands Freed a $50 bill. He calls it a bonus, a little thank you for the fact that at Mintz Record Shop, R&B records are now flying off the shelves. Alan accepts the money without a second thought. Makes sense to him. If he's helping Leo Mintz sell records, why shouldn't he get a cut of the action? By 1951, Alan Freed is almost certainly familiar with the term payola. The term has existed for almost a decade, and the practice itself is much older than that, going back to the earliest days of radio in the 20s. And while it's not illegal, it falls into an ethical gray area. Some people think it taints the DJ's role as a tastemaker.

Listeners feel a strong connection with radio DJs. Listening to the same voice night after night builds trust. If the DJ has a secret financial interest in what he's playing, it might violate that trust. Others, especially others in the record industry, view the DJ's role in less precious terms. DJs have to read ad copy and thank their sponsors. Plenty of what they say on the air is paid for. So who cares if some of the records are paid for, too? And as far as Alan Freed is concerned,

he's just a guy who's in the right place at the right time. In the early 50s, Cleveland is the seventh largest city in the country, and record labels use it as a test market, releasing records to radio here first to see which ones perform well. Which means, of course, Cleveland is awash in payola. Less than two years after launching Moondog House, Alan Freed becomes one of the biggest rhythm and blues DJs in the country. He hosts sold-out concerts.

Record promoters from all over the Midwest drop by WJW Studios to woo Alan with free records, cash gifts, bottles of scotch. And while the cash payouts are small at this point, $50 handshakes they're called, they're adding up. As much as Freed loves the extra money, he doesn't want anyone to think that they can dictate what he plays on his show. So he develops his own personal code of honor about payola. He only accepts payments for records after he's played them, not before. And he never, ever plays a record he doesn't like, no matter who's behind it. When a reporter from the trade magazine Variety questions him about payola, his response is indignant. He says, if I've helped somebody, I'll accept a nice gift. But I wouldn't take a dime to plug a record.

I'd be a fool to. I'd be giving up control of my own program. By 1952, Freed is doing more than just playing records. He's also started to get involved in making them. After a friend introduces him to a local quartet called The Crazy Sounds, Freed decides to become their manager. He changes their name to The Moonglows. He wants to get the word moon in there somewhere. And when The Moonglows release their first single, the credited songwriter is Al Lance, an alias of Alan Freed.

He explains to the group that this is just his way of collecting royalties on the single as their manager. They still get paid too, and this way they don't have to pay him anything up front. The group, four young black men, all brand new to the record business, accept Freed's explanation. It seems like a small price to pay in exchange for being associated with the most popular DJ in Cleveland, especially when that DJ starts playing you all the time on his show. And right this minute, we're going to hit you with one of the top vocal groups in the nation. None other than the wonderful Moonglows doing their latest hit, Barcelona. But taking a songwriting credit is a trick.

Free picked it up from his other friends in the business. A lot of DJs, artist managers, and label owners claim writing credits, even when they can't play a note of music. When you're a songwriter, you can collect royalties on a song for decades, and not just the original version of the song, but any cover versions as well. And a lot of young artists and songwriters, too naive to know what they're giving up, are only too happy to accept this arrangement, not realizing until years or decades later how much income they've given up. not realizing until years or decades later how much income they've given up. In the 1950s, such arrangements are commonplace,

and they often favor white DJs or label owners at the expense of black artists. Alan Freed doesn't really consider that aspect of it. To him, he's using his power and influence to help an unknown singing group and getting fairly compensated for it. That's just how the business works. So with his extra income, Freed and his wife move into a nice duplex in Shaker Heights, an upscale suburb of Cleveland.

It's a big step up, but it means a longer commute, which is a problem since Freed's spending more and more time at Mullen's Irish Bar after work. In April 1953, Alan Freed is driving home from WJW Studios in downtown Cleveland to his home in Shaker Heights.

It's well after 2 a.m. He's exhausted and sleepy from a few beers at Mullins. He can barely keep his eyes on the road. Freed falls asleep at the wheel on a dark suburban road and drives head-on into a tree. His head goes through the windshield, cutting his face to ribbons. When local police pull him from the twisted wreckage, he's bloody and barely breathing. The ambulance crew that arrives minutes later frantically gives him an adrenaline injection to keep his heart beating. When he finally wakes up in the hospital, days later, a doctor tells him he's lucky to be alive.

But Fred can't actually see the doctor. His entire face, including his eyes, is covered in galls. That's because the doctor explains it took 260 stitches to reattach his shredded skin to his face. Two months later, Fried hauls himself out of bed and shuffles into the bathroom. He's been cooped up at home, recovering since the accident, and he's restless, eager to get back to work. But the doctors keep saying he needs more time to rest.

In the bathroom mirror, he examines his face. It took nearly $12,000 worth of plastic surgery to repair it, more than his annual salary. And it still doesn't look right. One side of his mouth barely moves, and there's a prominent scar running across the bridge of his nose. As a young man, Freed was considered handsome. Now he fits the old music business saw, you've got a great face for radio. His wife Jackie tries to get Freed to go back to bed, but he's through resting. Moving slowly, still in agony from broken ribs and damaged internal organs, he begins getting dressed. He

needs to get back to the station and back on the air. And it's not just Freed's ego that's driving him back on the airwaves so soon. It's those plastic surgery pills. Insurance only covered some of it. While he's still drawing his WJW salary, he's not earning any promotional fees sitting at home. He needs money fast. And the fastest way to get it are those $50 handshakes. On January 5th, 2024, an Alaska Airlines door plug tore away mid-flight, leaving a gaping hole in the side of a plane that carried 171 passengers. This heart-stopping incident was just the latest in a string of crises surrounding the aviation manufacturing giant, Boeing. In the past decade, Boeing has been involved in a series of

damning scandals and deadly crashes that have chipped away at its once sterling reputation. At the center of it all, the 737 MAX, the latest season of business wars, explores how Boeing, once the gold standard of aviation engineering, descended into a nightmare of safety concerns and public mistrust. The decisions, denials, and devastating consequences bringing the Titan to its knees, and what, if anything, can save the company's reputation. Now, follow Business Wars on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. You can binge Business Wars, the Unraveling of Boeing, early and ad-free right now on Wondery Plus. He was hip-hop's biggest mogul,

the man who redefined fame, fortune, and the music industry. The first male rapper to be honored on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, Sean Diddy Combs. Diddy built an empire and lived a life most people only dream about. Everybody know ain't no party like a Diddy party. But just as quickly as his empire rose, it came crashing down. Today I'm announcing the unsealing of a three-count indictment, charging Sean Combs with racketeering conspiracy, sex trafficking, interstate transportation for prostitution.

I was f***ed up and I hit rock bottom, but I made no excuses. I'm disgusted. I'm so sorry. Until you're wearing an orange jumpsuit, it's not real. Now it's real. From his meteoric rise to his shocking fall from grace, from law and crime, this is The Rise and Fall of Diddy. Listen to The Rise and Fall of Diddy exclusively with Wondery Plus. New York City, August 1953. Morris Moysha Levy stands under the black awning in front of his jazz club, Birdland. He watches the yellow

taxis cruise down Broadway and hopes that one of them contains Hal Jackson, the new emcee of Birdland's nightly live radio broadcast. It starts in just 20 minutes, and where the hell is he? At 36, Levy has already been working in nightclubs for over 20 years. He started as a hat-check boy and worked his way up, and he's never, ever been this late. Levy mutters to himself, this is unprofessional, totally unprofessional. And Levy doesn't have time for unprofessional. He opened Birdland in 1949 and quickly established it as one of the city's top jazz clubs. He's proud to tell anyone who asks that Charlie Parker played opening night. Miles Davis and Count Basie soon followed. By 1950, the club was broadcasting its midnight show

each night on live radio. Soon, WABC came calling, and the show got nationally syndicated. But a few weeks ago, his regular emcee announced he was quitting, and Levy needed to find a replacement fast. Hal Jackson, a smooth-talking DJ from South Carolina, was the obvious choice. He already had two hit shows on other stations. Hal Jackson, a smooth-talking DJ from South Carolina, was the obvious choice.

He already had two hit shows on other stations. He's known and well-liked in the jazz scene. But looking at his watch, Morris is starting to like him less. He taps his foot impatiently. And then, finally, he sees a yellow cab crawling down the block. It stops two feet from Levy and the door opens. Out steps Jackson, looking stylish as ever, in a khaki suit and shiny two-tone shoes. Levy barks at him in his gravelly voice.

Nice of you to join us, Hal. You know we start at midnight, right? Sorry, Moishe. Took me a little longer than it should have to hail a cab. Levy knows what he means. Even though many radio listeners don't realize it, Hal Jackson is black. And in 1953, a lot of New York taxi drivers won't stop for black men, even when they're dressed as sharply as Jackson. Levy sighs and backs off. Ah, forget it. You're here now, so let's do a show. They descend the staircase down to the basement club. It's a cramped, low-ceiling space filled with cigarette smoke. Jackson has to stoop as he steps onto the stage at midnight to begin the show. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Bird Life, the jazz corner

of the world. My name is Hal Jackson, the host that loves you the most, and it gives me great pleasure to welcome to our stage Mr. Dizzy Gillespie. Jackson's delivery is smooth as silk. Standing in the back of the club, Levy cracks a smile. Hal Jackson is the first black broadcaster ever to host a syndicated show on a major radio network. Morris had to stick his neck out to get him the job, and he's proud that he did. Levy is a complicated man. He truly loves music, and he loves supporting the people who make it, regardless of their race. Birdland is one of the first New York nightclubs outside of Harlem to be fully integrated. But Levy also has a dark side. It's rumored that some of his business partners have ties to the mafia. To many of the patrons, the large Italian men he employs

as bouncers look and act like mobsters. But Levy brushes aside the allegations. He's just from a rough part of the Bronx, he tells them. The guys he goes into business with are the guys from the old neighborhood. If some of them know a mobster or two, so what? It's none of his business what they do outside the club. When Hal Jackson wraps up his Birdland broadcast, the sun's coming up. He doesn't bother to try and hail a cab. He knows no one will pick up a black man at this hour. Instead, he catches the subway back up to Harlem, climbs the stairs to his apartment, and collapses into bed. He's exhausted, but he can't rest long. At 4 p.m., he has to be at WNJR Studios in Newark, New Jersey for the first of his three radio jobs. Jackson is the first and only DJ in the New York City area with shows on three different stations.

He's proud of this distinction, but it's not entirely by choice. Black DJs, even successful ones, make far less than their white counterparts. And Hal has a wife, three kids, and a mother-in-law to support. When he arrives at the station that afternoon, he gets a hero's welcome. Slaps on the back, shouts of congratulations. Many of his colleagues at this all-black station heard his broadcast from Birdland last night, and they're proud that one of their own has broken through to the national spotlight. The Birdland gig is a huge

break for any DJ, but especially for an African-American one. Overnight, he's become a national radio personality at a time in history when far more people own radios than televisions. Jackson's desk is covered with letters and cards offering him congratulations. One of the envelopes has a return address from a record promoter who often pitches him records. He opens it and a $20 bill falls out. Such little gifts are common practice and Jackson accepts them without much thought. He's never promised to play a record in exchange for money. He likes what the promoter is pushing and how he plays his records. To him, this 20 bucks is a thank you. It's not a bribe. Because Jackson knows his behavior has to be beyond reproach. As one of New York's most prominent black DJs, everything he says and does is more closely scrutinized than the behavior of white DJs who do the same job.

He would never dream of damaging his reputation by accepting payola, but he figures there's no harm in a few little gifts here and there. As Jackson is getting ready to head to the studio to do his show, WNJR's station manager brings a box of reel-to-reel tapes. He tells Jackson he wants his opinion. They want to rebroadcast a show by a DJ out of Cleveland who has ratings off the chart. But, he says in his lowering voice, the guy is a bit unconventional. Give it a listen and tell me what you think. Jackson's curious and agrees. What's the guy's name? Alan Freed. Listening to the tapes, Jackson likes what he hears, and a month later, on his recommendation, WNJR rebroadcasts Alan Freed's show. Jackson doesn't really see Freed, a white DJ, as competition.

And hey, if he can help Rhythm & Blues reach more of a white audience, so much the better. For Freed, back in Cleveland, it's a break he's been waiting for. A toehold in the New York market. And despite WNJR's small signal, Freed's show is an instant hit. Within a year, Allen's left Cleveland and brought his show, now called the Allen Freed Rock and Roll Party, to WINS, one of New York City's biggest stations. He's also attracted the attention of Birdland owner Morris Levy, who's branching out into concert promotion, putting on rock and roll shows and sock hops at larger theaters around New York. In Levy, Freed sees a kindred spirit, a fellow hustler who loves music,

but will also do whatever it takes to get his piece of the pie. Just a few months after Freed comes to New York, Levy becomes his manager. And in January of 1955, the two men decide to put on their first concert together, the Rock and Roll Jubilee Ball. One of the headliners will be Alan Freed's favorite vocal quartet from Cleveland, The Moon Glows. They've just scored their first number one hit, thanks in part to Freed, who plays the song constantly on his New York radio show. Backstage, before the concert begins, Freed introduces the group to all his New York friends, fellow DJ Hal Jackson, Birdland owner Morris Levy. Everyone's in a celebratory mood, but Moonglow's

leader Harvey Fuqua has something else on his mind. The band is starting to wonder why they still haven't seen any money from their first chart topper. Harvey pulls Freed aside. Hey, Alan, you said Sincerely sold 300,000 copies. That's a lot, right? Yeah, it's huge. It's one of the biggest R&B records of the year. You should be proud. I am very proud. But when do we get paid? We haven't seen a dime from that record. Before Harvey Fuqua can say another word, Freed runs out onto stage to start the show. The crowd sees him and roars. Fuqua is frustrated. It's an answer he feels like he gets a lot. Soon, be patient. Meanwhile, he and his bandmates got to eat. He heads back to the green room to do some last-minute vocal

warm-ups with the rest of the band. Like a lot of black recording artists of his generation, Fuqua is starting to realize that the music business seems to be rigged against him. The musicians and songwriters, the real people who write the songs, always seem to be the last ones to get paid. Up until now, Alan Freed has acted like he has the Moonglow's best interest at heart, but now Fuqua isn't so sure. He tries to put it out of his mind. There's certainly not much he can do about it now, and the Moonglows have a show to put on. He'll figure out the situation with their royalties later. That night, even on a bill that includes the Drifters and Fats Domino, the Moonglows steal the show. But as they're taking their final bow,

the thought still nags Harvey Fuqua. When are we going to get paid? By January 1956, Alan Freed feels like he owns the town. He's been here just two years, but already he's the top-rated DJ in New York, with shows in three different time slots. And now label owners are coming from all over the country to shower him in payola. One label rep travels all the way up from Texas to give Freed a huge diamond ring. You just made us 400,000 bucks, the label rep says. It's the least we can do. Around noon on a cold, sunny day, Freed strides through the gilded doors of the Brill Building

in Midtown Manhattan and takes the elevator up to his office. He's got non-stop meetings all afternoon with record promoters, label heads, song publishers, plus some media interviews. After that, he's scheduled to do his regular rock and roll party show at WINS. The Brill Building is the nerve center of New York's burgeoning new pop music industry. Every major songwriting team has offices there, along with many of the city's best-known labels, artist managers, and song publishers. Working on upright pianos, the songwriters churn out new tunes in whatever style is in the current fashion. Rock, doo-wop, rockabilly, rhythm and blues, then take the elevator up a few floors to pitch the songs to labels and music publishers, or cut a demo in one of the building's many small recording studios.

As Freed walks down the hall to his office, he hears the muffled tinkling of a dozen pianos, the sound of songwriters searching for the melody of a future hit. It's unusual for a DJ to have an office in the Brill Building, but Freed likes being in the center of the action. Plus, these days, he's a songwriter himself. Technically. He's starting to take more co-writing credits on songs in exchange for agreeing to play them. Even though he hasn't picked up an instrument since high school, he's already amassed over a dozen writing credits, including

Maybelline by a guitar player out of St. Louis named Chuck Berry. After Berry's label agreed to give Allen a writing credit, he played the song non-stop on his show for two hours. Freed's first meeting is with an old friend of Morris Levy's named High Weiss. Like Morris Levy, Weiss is a tough-talking Bronx native who's been hustling in the record business for over a decade. He's also one of the city's most notorious distributors of payola. High Weiss likes to boast that he invented the $50 handshake. Freed's office is tiny.

He doesn't actually spend much time there. He just needs a place in the city where he can make deals without his radio station bosses looking over his shoulder. invented the $50 handshake. Freed's office is tiny. He doesn't actually spend much time there. He just needs a place in the city where he can make deals without his radio station bosses looking over his shoulder. To keep up his songwriter's facade, he's jammed an old upright piano into the corner, next to a desk that takes up most of the room. Highwise arrives wearing a dark trench coat and tweed three-piece suit, like a banker, Freed thinks.

And he's bigger than he looks under that suit. When he sits in one of the office's two rolling Eames chairs, he can barely fit between the armrests. Thanks for agreeing to see me, Mr. Freed. Please, call me Alan. Any friend of Morris's is a friend of mine. What can I do for you? Oh, it's not for me, it's for a friend. He's got this doo-wop act, the Cordettes, all female, nice girls. Sure, yeah, I got that new single, The Wedding. Played it a few times. Yeah, we appreciate that. But my friend would like you to play it more. He thinks it's a hit.

I don't care what he thinks. I'm sure Morris told you I only play what I like. My services aren't for sale, Mr. Weiss. Weiss reaches into his jacket pocket. No, of course not. All we ask is a little consideration. Freed's expecting to get another $50 handshake. But instead, Weiss takes out a check.

He places it in front of Freed. It's made out to him for $5,000. Morris says you're building a new house and might need a little help with a down payment. Consider this a loan. Take your time on paying it back. Weiss leans back in his chair and gives Freed a wink. Freed knows what this means. This isn't a loan.

It's a bribe. Alan studies the check. To take it is risky. It's by far the biggest amount of payola he's ever seen, and cashing a check will create a paper trail. But Weiss is right. He does need the money. The new house he's got his eye on is a 16-room mansion in Connecticut with a private beach. He needs to come up with $35,000 for a down payment, and this five grand will be just enough to get him there. Allen stands up and shakes Weiss's hand. Well, thank you very much for the loan, Mr. Weiss.

Tell your friend I'd be happy to help the Cordettes in any way I can. And whatever else I can do to help you and your brother, of course. I hear you've got a label. We do, yeah. I'll have some singles delivered. I think you'll like what we're doing. Oh, I'm sure I will. And just like that,

Alan Freed accepts his first payola check. It won't be his last. When Freed's payola demands were smaller, his connections could pay him off in cash. But as his influence grows and he starts asking for four, five, seven hundred dollars a month, the kind of money record labels don't have just lying around. They write checks. Freed doesn't care if there's a paper trail. The kind of money record labels don't have just lying around. They write checks. Freed doesn't care if there's a paper trail. The way he sees it, he's entitled to the money, and he's not doing anything illegal. This is just how the record business works. But the more Paola checks Freed cashes, the more he's making himself visible to people who aren't on the receiving end of business as usual. And when state and federal investigators

start looking into the practice of payola, which to them is commercial bribery and therefore criminal, one name will come up more than any other, Alan Freed. I'm Jake Warren, and in our first season of Finding, I set out on a very personal quest

to find the woman who saved my mum's life. You can listen to Finding Natasha right now exclusively on Wondery Plus. In season two, I found myself caught up in a new journey to help someone I've never even met. But a couple of years ago, I came across a social media post by a person named Loti. It read in part, Three years ago today that I attempted to jump off this bridge, but this wasn't my time to go.

A gentleman named Andy saved my life. I still haven't found him. This is a story that I came across purely by chance, but it instantly moved me, and it's taken me to a place where I've had to consider some deeper issues around mental health. This is season two of Finding, and this time, if all goes to plan,

we'll be finding Andy. You can listen to Finding, and this time, if all goes to plan, we'll be finding Andy. You can listen to Finding Andy and Finding Natasha exclusively and ad-free on Wondery+. Join Wondery in the Wondery app, Apple Podcasts, or Spotify. In June 1957, Jerry Wexler enters the lobby of the Brill Building, glancing around suspiciously, hoping no one recognizes him. The 40-year-old Wexler, known as Wex, is a pretty widely recognized figure, and not just because of his imposing physique and jug-handled ears. Once an Army veteran turned music journalist, he's now a record executive and widely credited with inventing the term rhythm and blues to describe Black popular music. Since joining the R&B label Atlantic Records, he's overseen the release of landmark

singles by Ray Charles, The Drifters, and Big Joe Turner. His name is synonymous around New York with quality music. And yet here he is, pacing the lobby of the Brill Building with an envelope full of cash. Wex's boss, Ahmet Erdogan, sent him here to pay off Alan Freed. He said it's the only way Atlantic can keep producing hits. Over the past three years, Erdogan has spent thousands of dollars on Freed. He even paid for the DJ's swimming pool. But Wex thinks it's a waste of money. In the last few months, Freed has hardly ever played Atlantic artists.

Freed steps off the elevator, attracting attention as usual in his loud plaid jacket. People stop to stare at the famous DJ as he strides across the lobby to Wexler, who at this moment is wishing the ground could just swallow him up. How's things, Wex? Fine, Alan. Let's get this over with. Wex doesn't want to be seen going up to Freed's office, so they duck into a cloakroom off the lobby where he pulls a folded paper bag out of his jacket. It contains $600 in cash. He hands it to Alan. Look, Alan, I'm not going to lie to you. Things are a little tight at the label right now.

Maybe you could give us a break and let us skip next month's payment? I'd love to, Wex, but I can't do that. I'd be taking the bread out of my children's mouths. Fine, Alan. How are your kids liking that swimming pool, by the way? I hope they thank their Uncle Ahmet every time they jump in. You tell Ahmet if he doesn't like it, he can bring us a men's truck and fill in the pool. I'll play Atlantic artist when I'm good and ready. Alan strides out of the cloakroom with a paper bag filled with cash under his arm.

Wex is stunned by the DJ's arrogance and finding himself in this position. Just a few years ago, as reporter for Billboard magazine, Wex wrote a series of articles criticizing the industry for this very thing. Now here he is, handing out bags of cash to DJs himself. It's humiliating. And what's worse, no one seems to care. Paola is more rampant than ever. Wex exits through the Brill Building's front doors

and out onto the hot Manhattan pavement. From a passing car, he hears the song that's been blaring out of radios in New York all summer, Elvis Presley's All Shook Up. It's a great song, he thinks, but Jerry Wexler knows better than anyone how many great songs never make it onto radio at all. He finds himself wondering whether Elvis' label paid

to make All Shook Up a hit, and figures that of course they did. By now, every song on the radio has at least some payola behind it. Jerry Wexler isn't the only one listening to All Shook Up and wondering how much it costs to get on the radio. Just a few miles away in Greenwich Village, a 45-year-old composer named Burton Lane is in his manager's office,

demanding to know how it's possible that a no-talent hick like Elvis Presley can get on the radio when Lane's own beautiful compositions are getting no play. Lane's manager throws up his hands. Radio's all about the teenage market these days, he tells him. I can't get your kind of music played anymore. No one can. For Lane, this struggle to get his catchy melodies heard is unfamiliar territory. He wrote his first hit song for a Broadway review when he was just 21 years old.

Back then, before the Brill Building, the center of the pop music industry was a New York street called Tin Pan Alley, and Lane was one of that scene's go-to songwriters, right alongside Irving Berlin and Lane's mentor, George Gershwin. There, Lane helped discover Judy Garland and wrote hit songs for Broadway musicals

and Hollywood blockbusters. Just a few years ago, in the 1951 film Royal Wedding, Fred Astaire danced on the ceiling to a Burton Lane tune. But since then, Lane feels like he can't even get arrested in this town. He hasn't had a hit song in years, and his last movie musical bombed. Doesn't make any sense to him. How could the public's taste change so fast? Lane's heard his manager's excuse before, the entire old explanation about teenagers and their beloved rock and roll music taking over their airwaves.

But he's also heard rumors that the whole thing is a sham, built on greedy DJs taking bribes and payoffs from a bunch of crooked, fly-by-night record promoters. He's starting to suspect that together, they're conspiring to foist mediocre music on an unsuspecting public and leave the real talents, talents like him, out in the cold. Up until now, Lane hasn't been able to do anything about it. But earlier this year, his peers in the old guard music industry elected him president of a trade group called the American Guild of Authors and Composers. Now, a fed-up Burton Lane is going

to enlist the Guild to help him to find out more about the cozy relationships between these new rock and roll record labels and the DJs who spin their product. And he's going to take what he learns to the highest levels of government. He's going to demand that they finally take action to stop payola, and by extension, he hopes, to put an end to this awful rock and roll. From Wondery, this is episode one of six of Payola for American Scandal. On the next episode, as the public's concern over payola grows, Alan Freed becomes the target of a congressional investigation. But his greatest rival, a DJ-turned-television star with

a squeaky-clean image named Dick Clark, will find himself in just as much trouble as Freed. To listen to the rest of this season of American Scandal, start your free trial of Wondery Plus in the Wondery app, Apple Podcasts, or Spotify. With Wondery Plus, you can listen to other incredible history podcasts like American History Tellers, History Daily, Tides of History, or Spotify. With Wondery+, you can listen to other incredible history podcasts like American History Tellers, History Daily, Tides of History, and more. Download the Wondery app today. If you'd like to learn more about Paola, we recommend the book Big Beat Heat, Alan Freed and the Early Years of Rock and Roll by John A. Jackson. This episode contains reenactments and dramatized details.

And while in most cases we can't know exactly what was said, all our dramatizations are based on historical research. American Scandal is hosted, edited, and executive produced by me, Lindsey Graham for Airship. Sound design by Derek Behrens. This episode is written by Andy Herman. Edited by Casey Miner. Executive producers are Stephanie Jens, Jenny Lauer Beckman, and Hernan Lopez for Wondery.