How Music Got Free (23 page)

Universal officially released the albums on Tuesday, September 11. Despite the leaks, they both sold well.
Curtis
moved 600,000 copies in its first week;
Graduation
sold nearly a million. Kanye won the sales contest, even though Glover had leaked his album first. Glover was surprised—he’d just run a controlled experiment on the effects of leaking on music sales, an experiment that suggested that, at least in this case, the album that was leaked first actually did
better
. Regardless, Glover was happy with the outcome. In the days since the leak,
Graduation
had grown on Glover. He still didn’t like Kanye, but he felt he deserved his victory, and Fifty didn’t retire after all.

Besides, Glover figured, they were still getting paid. Fifty had nickel-sized diamond earrings and a founder’s stake in Vitamin Water. Kanye dated runway models and wore an obnoxious gold pharaonic necklace reportedly worth 300,000 dollars. Two months earlier, Doug Morris had purchased a ten-million-dollar condominium overlooking Central Park. Dell Glover, by contrast, worked 3,000 hours a year in a factory to pay his child support, and he had beaten them all at their own game with a rubber glove and a belt buckle.

The day after the release, Glover went to work at the EDC plant. He had a double shift lined up, lasting the entire night. Starting at 6:00 in the evening, he worked six hours regular pay, plus six hours overtime. He finished at 6:00 in the morning on September 13. As he
was preparing to leave,
a coworker pulled him aside. There’s someone out there, the coworker said. Someone I’ve never seen before. And they’re hanging around your truck.

In the twilight before dawn Glover walked through the parking lot. He saw three men, strangers, who did indeed seem to be staking out his truck. As he approached the vehicle, he pulled the key fob out of his pocket. The men stared at him but took no action. Then he pressed the remote, the truck chirped, and the men drew their guns and told him to put his hands in the air.

The men were from the Cleveland County Sheriff’s Office. They informed Glover that the FBI was currently searching his house, and that they had been sent to retrieve him. Glover looked at the men. He was still holding the key fob in his upraised hand. He asked if he was under arrest. They said that he was not, but that they were going to accompany him on the drive back to his house.

Twenty long minutes on the road followed. Glover’s mind went blank. Arriving home, he found an ugly scene. In his front yard were a half dozen FBI agents wearing bulletproof vests, accompanied by a SWAT team. His neighbor, who didn’t like the police, was yelling at them to leave Glover’s family alone. The agents were yelling at her to go back inside. As he walked through his front door, he noticed it had been kicked in. He proceeded to the kitchen, where he found his girlfriend Karen Barrett holding their infant son. On her face was a look of bewilderment, or perhaps recrimination, and there were tears in her eyes.

Special Agent Peter Vu introduced himself. I’ve been looking for you for a long time, Vu said. More than five years. Your friend Dockery has already spilled his guts. You’d better start talking.

Glover asked to see the FBI’s search warrant. Vu showed it to him. Glover read it closely, hoping that the terms of the warrant didn’t extend to his vehicle. If they did, and the FBI searched its CD player, they’d find what they were probably looking for: the leaked copy of Kanye West’s
Graduation
.

B
y the end of 2007 compact disc sales had fallen by 50 percent from their 2000 peak, and that was with aggressive price discounting. Digital sales of legal mp3s didn’t begin to make up the difference. Both margins and profits were squeezed, and once again Morris had been forced to fire hundreds of employees across every department.

Meanwhile, Project Hubcap was rolling to a stop. The RIAA’s educational lawsuits against the file-sharing public had had no discernible effect, even though they had yet to lose a case. The vast majority of the accused had settled. A small number of cases had been dropped, but
only one—out of almost 17,000—had been brought to a jury trial. On October 4, 2007, Jammie Thomas of Brainerd, Minnesota, was found liable for infringing the copyrights on 24 songs she had downloaded off Kazaa. The jury ruled that she owed the recording industry $9,250 a song—a total of $222,000. (
Thomas appealed the ruling.)

For Universal’s lawyers, the finding was a vindication of the RIAA’s strategy. Average citizens with no vested interest in copyright law had found in favor of the recording companies, and awarded surprisingly heavy damages. You really could sue the average file-sharer, and you could win. Thomas’ case was a landmark judgment.

But from a financial perspective, the RIAA’s victory was a farce. Thomas, a single mother of two who lived in a small rented apartment and worked on an Ojibwe Indian reservation, would be bankrupted by the judgment. Regardless of the outcome of the appeals, it was widely understood that the RIAA would only ever receive a small
fraction of the damages. It was also widely conceded, even by the RIAA’s lawyers, that Thomas herself was digitally unsophisticated, with only a limited understanding of peer-to-peer file-sharing technology and no connection whatsoever to the elite-level Scene members and torrenters who actually ran the world of music piracy. She was
the music industry’s sacrificial martyr.

Contrast that with a
real
pirate. A month before the Thomas ruling, the FBI, after years of effort, had finally broken the Rabid Neurosis crew and picked up the Scene’s inside man: Bennie Lydell Glover. Here was a packaging line manager who on his own initiative had leaked almost 2,000 albums over the course of more than eight years—the man who destroyed the music industry to put rims on his car. Glover had pleaded guilty and was now offering to testify against his coconspirators, but the RIAA would never seek financial damages.

The problems continued: quasi-legal digital storage lockers like Megaupload began to appear; peer-to-peer file-sharing moved to torrent sites; rival leaking groups emerged to take RNS’ place. The war on piracy looked like the war on drugs: costly and probably unwinnable, even in the face of felony criminal prosecutions. Lil Wayne’s new album
Tha
Carter III
was the first to capitalize on his post-
Dedication
fame, but it was leaked too—not by Glover, but by one of Wayne’s own producers. The leak came months in advance, and Wayne responded by creating a new “intermediate” album titled simply
The Leak
.

Between 2006 and 2008 Wayne had appeared on at least 200 tracks as a featured artist, not even counting his own mixtapes and albums. The entirety of his output during this period was impossible to catalog. This ubiquity brought mainstream attention, and when the final version of
Tha Carter III
arrived in stores, it was a hit—sort of. The album moved nearly three million copies and was the bestselling release of 2008. But it failed to do even half the business that
Get Rich or Die Tryin’
had done just five years earlier. The same numbers in 2000 wouldn’t have put it in the top ten.

The album was dying. Doug Morris, however, was doing fine.
Presiding over an industry in free fall, he was still earning almost 15 million dollars a year. He owned a waterfront mansion in Syosset with a tennis court, a boat dock, and a pool. He owned a condo on a key in Sarasota. His new apartment in Manhattan had an incredible view. He traveled by private car and private jet, and he sat on the boards of the Robin Hood Foundation and the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. He inhabited a world of privilege, populated by celebrities and powerful CEOs. The world’s most famous musicians dropped everything to speak with him, and even Steve Jobs returned his calls.

During his time at Universal, he had so far grossed more than a hundred million dollars in aggregate, and this by a considerable margin made him the highest-paid major label CEO. His fortune began to attract attention from outside the insular recording industry world. Trade organs like
Billboard
and
Variety
had always gone easy on him, but he had a target on his back now, as Bronfman once had, and the mainstream press was after him.

In late 2007, Morris agreed to an interview with the journalist Seth Mnookin for
Wired
magazine. The resulting article portrayed Morris as the clueless relic of an earlier age. Morris, as always, tried to hide behind the hits, and insisted there wasn’t a thing he could have done differently. Mnookin let him hang himself.

“
There’s no one in the record company that’s a technologist,” Morris explains. “That’s a misconception writers make all the time, that the record industry missed this. They didn’t. They just didn’t know what to do. It’s like if you were suddenly asked to operate on your dog to remove his kidney. What would you do?”

Personally, I would hire a vet. But to Morris, even that wasn’t an option. “We didn’t know who to hire,” he says, becoming more agitated. “I wouldn’t be able to recognize a good technology person—anyone with a good bullshit story would have gotten past me.” Morris’ almost willful cluelessness is telling. “He wasn’t prepared for a business that was going to be so totally disrupted by
technology,” says a longtime industry insider who has worked with Morris. “He just doesn’t have that kind of mind.”

Morris was furious with Mnookin’s portrayal of him. He felt the article was a hatchet job meant to appeal to
Wired
’s technologically savvy reader base, complete with an unattributed quotation that implied he was kind of dumb. Morris felt he had a fine mind, particularly for the business he was in. The vet analogy was a poor one. A better one would be to compare the music business to Mnookin’s own: journalism, perhaps the only field that had handled the digital transition worse than music.

The quotes from the interview weren’t hypotheticals. Several people with good bullshit stories
had
gotten past him, and he’d watched both Vivendi and Time Warner squander tens of billions of dollars of capital. Shareholders at those companies would have been better off if management had never even
heard
of the Internet. Morris himself had wasted tens of millions of dollars on online ventures like Pressplay that had effectively generated zero revenue. The aggregate investment experience in technology threatened to do the unthinkable: to make A, the capital he drew, greater than B, the capital he returned. And that was the one thing Morris would never let happen.

And, really, what could he have done differently? If there was some other record industry executive who’d done better, who’d taken a different path, maybe the case could be made. But the decline of the music industry had affected every player, from the largest corporate labels to the smallest indie. Morris had once been a gatekeeper, the guy you needed to get past to get into the professional music studio, and the pressing plant, and the distribution network. But you didn’t need any of that stuff anymore. The studio was Pro Tools, the pressing plant was an mp3 encoder, and the distribution network was a torrent tracker. The entire industry could be run off a laptop.

As an arbiter of cultural trends, Morris remained unimpeachable.
In the past two years, his labels had signed Rihanna, Rick Ross, Taylor Swift, Lady Gaga, and—best of all—Justin Bieber. Doug Morris didn’t understand the technology, but he did understand how to turn an unknown YouTube busker with microwaved hair into a global superstar, and his hot streak was now almost twenty years long. Universal had done everything right, everything a label was supposed to do, investing in and grooming A-list talent from around the globe and outsmarting all its competitors. And now, in addition to that, he was supposed to be some kind of tech guru? If so, was Karlheinz Brandenburg expected to sign Lil Wayne? Was Seth Mnookin expected to invent the Kindle?

Maybe. One thing was certain: the interview was a low point in Morris’ career. He was the target of satirical cartoons and a great deal of vicious Internet flaming. The website Gawker, reblogging other people’s work with characteristic restraint, called him the “
World’s Stupidest Recording Executive.” The anger was shared by many of his employees, some of whom in fact
were
gifted technologists who had passed up jobs in Silicon Valley to work for him. “He made the company look ridiculous,” Larry Kenswil, the chief of Universal’s digital strategy at the time, would later say. “That was insulting to a lot of people inside the business.”

The chorus of criticism that Morris was too old, too out of touch, began to crescendo. He was 69. Vivendi had a mandatory retirement policy for all of its executives, effective at age 70, and the company’s management board had informed Morris that, while they were willing to stall for a couple of years, ultimately he was not exempt from this policy. Already, Morris had begun training his own successor, the British music executive Lucian Grainge. In 2010—two years—he would be done. For his critics, the deadline couldn’t come soon enough.

But for Morris, redemption was always just around the corner. Perhaps Mnookin’s public shaming of him was ultimately a net positive. Perhaps it jolted him out of his complacency. Perhaps it took this kind of widespread embarrassment to make him change direction. He
denied this, of course, but in the period immediately following the
Wired
interview he began to innovate as never before. Whatever his motivations, the business decisions he made over the next two years laid the framework for the economic future of the recording industry.

It began with a visit to his teenage grandson. In a hands-on experiment in consumer demographics, Morris had asked the kid to show him how he got his music. Morris’ grandson explained that, while he didn’t pirate anything—
promise
—neither did he buy any albums nor even many digital singles. Instead, for the most part, he just watched music videos on YouTube from the computer in his room. Soon the two were seated in front of the screen.

Watching rap videos with Grandpa sounded like the premise for a comedy skit, but in Morris’ case most of the videos were ones he had green-lit and budgeted himself. After a bit of searching, the two opted on a mutual favorite: 50 Cent’s “In Da Club,” which Morris’ grandson liked because it bumped, and which Morris liked because it had moved eight million units. The video had a clever conceit. It featured 50 Cent reclining in a nightclub, surrounded by his entourage, while on the dance floor gorgeous models waved snifters of expensive cognac in the air. The camera then panned through a dummy wall to reveal that the dance floor was actually located in the “Shady/Aftermath Artist Development Center,” a secret desert laboratory where Dr. Dre and Eminem, standing with lab coats and clipboards, watched through a one-way mirror, perfecting the science of the club banger.

Had that framing device been used again, the camera would have panned from the desert to Morris’ office in New York. He was the ultimate patron of this culture, the one who signed the checks that Curtis and Andre and Marshall cashed. Now, in his grandson’s bedroom, watching this music video, he made a startling observation. Next to the video, in small embedded boxes on the YouTube website, were a series of advertisements. The ads were junky. They offered weight-loss supplements and mortgage refinancing and One Weird Tip to Shrink Your Belly, Discovered by a Mom. But their presence
meant that, somewhere in Silicon Valley, an economic transaction was occurring—a slice of revenue was being sold against the creative product that he had spent 15 years developing. And he wasn’t getting paid.

The next day, Morris summoned his lieutenant Zach Horowitz to his office for a memorable conversation.

They’re selling ads, Morris said.

Who is? said Horowitz.

All of them! said Morris. The websites. They’re selling ads against our videos!

Doug, said Horowitz, those videos are promotional.

Promotional for what?
Get Rich or Die Tryin’
? said Morris. That album came out four years ago.

Doug, we give those videos away, said Horowitz.

Not anymore we don’t, said Morris.

He ordered Horowitz to draft an ultimatum to all the major websites: give us eight-tenths of a cent every time you play one of our videos, or we pull everything. By the end of 2007, thousands upon thousands of videos on YouTube went dark, and every artist in Universal’s roster disappeared from the major video hosting sites.

The takedowns extended not just to officially licensed music videos but to millions of amateur efforts scored with music from Universal artists. Your fan-made cage-fighting highlight reels set to Limp Bizkit; your supercut of Ross and Rachel’s most romantic moments scored to Sixpence None the Richer; the Josh Groban montage you made for Brad and Sharon’s wedding video—all of it went quiet. The outcry from the YouTube commentariat was as furious as it was predictable, and in thousands of comment threads Morris was personally attacked for his parsimony and greed.

But what made the public angry made his artists ecstatic. Soon the video hosting sites were forced to negotiate, and they gave Universal a significant portion of the advertising revenue stream. Morris, with a few threatening letters from his legal team, had created
hundreds of millions of dollars in profit out of thin air. The mp3 revolution had caught him flat-footed, but it had at long last taught him something, and he was determined never to let anything like that happen again.

He began to look for similar sources of income. Advertising streaming revenue was a new front, one that offered an opportunity to correct for the mistakes of the past. In addition to the charts, Morris now began to pay attention to the Internet’s fundamental unit of exchange: the cost per thousand impressions, abbreviated as “CPM.” The metric represented the price advertisers were willing to pay for a bulk unit of 1,000 advertising views. CPM rates were determined by instantaneous electronic auctions, and prices could range from fractions of a cent to hundreds of dollars. Video CPM rates were especially good, and on average cleared about thirty bucks a unit.