Tales of an Impresario

There is a phrase that pops up frequently in the British music press: “the handful of people who ran the 1960s.” The meaning behind it is that what we now accept about the sex, drugs and rock ’n’ roll of that era were actually the adventures of a tight circle of artists and privileged hangers-on.

If a similar circle existed in Canada at that time, it was certainly even smaller. The music scene here circa 1967 was nothing compared to what was going on in London, New York, Los Angeles or San Francisco. There may have been glimmers, but anyone with real ambition, be they Neil Young, Joni Mitchell, Steppenwolf or the Collectors, knew that Canada was nowhere.

The stage was therefore set for someone to do something—anything—to create a modern home-grown music industry in Canada. To some degree, that person was Bernie Finkelstein, now known as the longtime manager of Bruce Cockburn, founder of True North Records and a major force in the creation of CanCon regulations, as well as the FACTOR and VideoFACT granting bodies.

True North: A Life in the Music Business, Finkelstein’s memoir, is not the first by an influential music business figure, although such figures are a secretive bunch by nature. Very few have ever been compelled to reveal the dirty details of how the business actually operates (a notorious example being Elvis Presley’s manager, Colonel Tom Parker, an illegal alien from Holland who exploited his charge in every conceivable way in order to pay off his personal gambling debts).

It is still a mystery whether the Colonel actually enjoyed Elvis’s music, but what Finkelstein establishes from the opening pages of True North is that his love of folk singers and early rock ’n’ rollers is what drew him into the business. What is also clearly established is that he really loved making money. These two themes drive Finkelstein’s story, beginning with his youth as the son of an RCAF officer and the itinerant life that went along with that. He notes that he was living in England at the same time as the lads from Liverpool were starting on their path toward becoming the Beatles, and was soaking up the same influences.

Finkelstein was far more interested in the art of the deal than in being a musician. By the time he and his family settled in Toronto in 1962, he was determined to carve out his own slice of the city’s embryonic music scene. It is at this point in the narrative that Finkelstein’s unadorned, conversational writing style is perfectly in sync with how wide open things were in Canadian show business at that time. The entrepreneurial Finkelstein had already started his first booking agency with partner Peter Simpson when he dropped out of Downsview Collegiate in grade eleven. There were plenty of places for bands to play in the Yorkville coffeehouse district, making it easy for someone like Finkelstein with an ear for talent, an engaging personality and some basic money management skills to get something happening quickly.

Finkelstein’s break came in 1966 when he stumbled upon a band called The Paupers. Within months, he had landed them the opening slot for Jefferson Airplane’s New York debut, an appearance that got The Paupers noticed by virtually every major music industry figure, including Albert Grossman, Bob Dylan’s enigmatic manager, who eventually bought their contract from Finkelstein and briefly became his mentor.

If this all sounds as if it was easy, it is because that is precisely how Finkelstein makes it sound. The casualness with which Finkelstein breezes through this period reflects how undoubtedly fast-paced his life was at that moment, but the lack of detail is frustrating. A good example is his description of his only encounter with Dylan: “On the way out of Albert’s office that day I finally met Bob Dylan. I’m not sure why he was there, maybe waiting to meet with Albert, but we were introduced. I shook his hand, and that was that. A thrill, of course, but now I had business of my own to get on with.”

This and other innocuous “brushes with greatness” demonstrate Finkelstein’s shortcomings as a writer. His reluctance to fully delve into at least a few stories about inevitable struggles with business associates is True North’s biggest failing. Then again, it is hardly surprising that Finkelstein puts a positive spin on everything since the Canadian music business remains a small, insular community, and Finkelstein has proven to be as much of a figurehead as someone in his position can be.

By hypothetical contrast, a memoir written by Bryan Adams’s manager Bruce Allen would surely dispute everything Finkelstein is touting. Allen has often presented himself as the antithesis of Finkelstein, an outspoken critic of government agencies whose mandate is to level the playing field for Canadian artists at home by releasing records and gaining radio play without being forced to compete directly with American and British artists. Allen’s position is that this breeds mediocrity; yet proof of Finkelstein’s contributions can be seen in how most internationally known Canadian acts today received early boosts through both CanCon and FACTOR, and he deserves full credit for that.

The subtext of True North is how much Finkelstein’s promotion of state involvement in popular music production and broadcasting helped him achieve his own goals as a manager and label head. But with the exception of Cockburn—an unquestionable world-class talent both as a songwriter and guitarist—most other artists that Finkelstein extols have fallen into the realm of classic CanCon semi-obscurity. Even when he was slightly ahead of the curve, as was the case when he signed gender-stereotype challenging new wavers Rough Trade in 1980, Finkelstein’s determination to break them into the mainstream has unfortunately left their records locked in a sonic time capsule along with other early 1980s Toronto relics such as Dalbello and Blue Peter.

By the end of that decade, the rules were beginning to change, but it was too late for Finkelstein to join the revolution and transform True North into a viable competitor with the majors, as independent labels such as Beggar’s Banquet and Creation had become in Britain. It can only be speculated what Finkelstein’s label could have done if he was able to sign the standard bearers of the new “Canadian sound” such as Blue Rodeo or the Tragically Hip at the outset of their careers when either would have leapt at any recording contract offer.

But there is no room for second-guessing or regret in True North. The book ends with a reflection on the 2005 quadruple bypass surgery that ultimately motivated Finkelstein to put his life story on paper, so he can hardly be criticized for taking the opportunity to express gratitude to everyone he has worked with.

However, as a rock ’n’ roll memoir, True North is sadly lacking in, well, rock ’n’ roll. Finkelstein hints at excessive behaviour throughout the book, but again, these asides seem like afterthoughts when his main concern remains what it has always been: selling his artists. What therefore could have been Toronto Babylon is instead a rudimentary survival guide for a music industry that no longer exists. Artists today have the capability to control all aspects of their careers, from management to product distribution, something Finkelstein acknowledges was another motivating factor in his decision to leave the business. He helped enable that artistic freedom to flourish within Canada, and has every right to celebrate that fact. Still, Finkelstein was also in a position to observe the growth of the Canadian music scene overall, and what True North offers of that unique perspective must only be the tip of the iceberg.