No Way That Just F#@^%$# Happened!
by Jason Bieler
The music business is a lot like a colonoscopy, everyone gets it up the ass, but some get better results than others.
It is my true desire for this to be a love letter to showbiz, one completely free of regret or bitterness. I've had more success than most, and honestly, I wouldn’t change a thing. Sure, there were moments when it felt like starring in one of those TikToks where a monk showcases testicular endurance by letting a junior monk in iron boots repeatedly blast him in the groin. Inspiring in theory, horrifying in practice. But isn’t that just life in general? A little pain, a lot of perseverance, and the nagging feeling that someone, somewhere, is having way too much fun watching your suffering.
I’m still friends with the vast majority of people I’ve crossed paths with along the way. I don’t blame anyone for doing what they thought was right for themselves or their companies at the time. After all, we’re all just figuring it out. In a world where everyone is a “life coach” or an online guru telling you how to succeed, I hope this little tale inspires you to either gut it out or, if you’re feeling more pessimistic, quit earlier than planned, depending on your perspective. It’s all about how you frame it, after all. As for me, I take 100% ownership and responsibility for everything…no blame to be tossed around…if it happened, I must have assumed the come-hither position and tossed a knowing glance over my shoulder that said, ‘have at it.’
If there’s one thing I’ve learned that I can share with you, it’s this: I’m pretty sure no one actually knows what they’re doing. Seriously. Most of us are just making it up as we go along. Some of us are just luckier than others. Of course, I hope this doesn’t apply to doctors. I like to think they’re a little more confident, and slightly more educated, when I’m slipping under the anesthesia for my colonoscopy.
Here’s a gold record and a platinum single, now piss off!
My career came crashing down "Hindenburg-style" with the collapse of Saigon Kick. Despite our actual musical intentions we were forever branded as Hair Metal and went down with that follicly cursed ship.
It didn’t matter that we played with The Ramones, Faith No More, or Soundgarden. We were sentenced to die by successful ballad, a sentence with no chance of parole and no amount of DNA evidence would ever overturn the verdict. In fact, people on death row are more optimistic about their future than those convicted of “ballad violations against humanity.” It didn’t matter what we did, what we said, or what our music actually was; to the world, we were, for all intents and purposes, a dead language.
After coming to this sobering realization, you’re faced with a decision. Even as an atheist, it was a real "come to Jesus” moment. I was in my mid-20s and had two options: accept that my 15 minutes of fame had come and gone, like so many before me, or get up and start moving forward. You know the saying, “It doesn’t matter how many times you get knocked down, it’s how many times you get up.” I just wasn’t aware those numbers would be well into the thousands.
Starting a new band felt like the most logical choice, especially since my hand modeling career had failed to achieve even cult status. I had a solid batch of songs, a few scars, and the kind of vengeance-fueled ambition that always burns hottest, and usually leaves a crater.
Of course, I started rehearsing, assembling a band, and working around the clock to make it happen… for the second time. Finally, a glimmer of hope! We got the chance to showcase for Trauma Records, who, at the time, had Bush, a massive band! The day of the showcase arrived, and we were ready: rehearsed, prepared, and armed with some solid songs.
Two big-time A&R guys showed up to watch our set, which, I’ll admit, I felt pretty good about. After we finished, they came up to me, and one of them said, “This reminds me exactly of the first time we saw Bush.” Ever the optimist, I translated that into, “We’re offering you a $1,000,000 non-recoupable advance.”
Sadly, as is often the case, this was soon followed by diminishing contact, and then… radio silence. It was like watching a distant rescue boat on the horizon, never sure if it was coming or going, a faint flicker of warmth against the vast black darkness, then it slowly begins to slip beneath the horizon.
Fuck 'em, we’ll move forward... back to the drawing board, again. We kept working, and finally, after a relentless barrage of emails and phone calls we got the opportunity to showcase for a guy named Hans Haedelt at MCA. He claimed to be a huge Saigon Kick fan (Which made me question his sanity and credibility... I mean, any A&R guy worth his salt knows the first rule of the job is to pretend you’re absolutely obsessed with whatever’s currently topping the charts, even if it sounds like an orangutan did a remix with a yak herder) and said he'd seen our early shows in NYC. In this climate, I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.
Cautiously optimistic, we met him for dinner. He was warm, super funny, and we hit it off immediately. He came to see us at our rehearsal space, which, for context, was tucked behind a sub shop in a pretty sketchy part of Pompano Beach. It was right across from the blimp hangar, and just a stone’s throw from where we’d first started rehearsing with Saigon Kick. So much for progress…
But despite the surroundings, he really got it. He wanted his boss to hear the songs and said, “I want to do this!” We were saved. Like the Phoenix, I was about to rise from the ashes again and soar alongside The Stones, The Beatles, and Zeppelin. Finally, I’d get to smirk smugly at all the naysayers and nonbelievers. I started daydreaming about my Grammy acceptance speech, finetuning it for maximum impact, and trying to strike the perfect balance between heartstrings and humility. I was probably going to become the savior of MCA Records, restoring it to its former glory.
Things were really taking off. While we’d recorded and produced the album ourselves with some help from a brilliant friend/engineer, Jim Morris (yes in the back of the sub shop), Hans somehow managed to get the legendary Jack Joseph Puig (Jellyfish… need I say more?) to mix it. Before we knew it, we were heading to LA, mixing at the iconic Ocean Way Studios, where legends like Frank Sinatra, The Beach Boys, Frank Zappa, Ray Charles, and even Radiohead had worked. We knew we had to be radically different from anything people were expecting, with zero traces of our past look or vibe. This, of course, led me to make some of the most unfortunate fashion choices of my life… Fuck it, we were about to blow up, Gangnam style!
We’re in LA, and JJP is convinced the record is brilliant. The folks at the label are buzzing, and I’m on the verge of pulling off one of the most epic comebacks in rock and roll history! We finish the mixes and head back to South Florida, where the label has scheduled an obscenely expensive photo shoot with a top fashion photographer on South Beach. We’re almost giddy... I mean, this is actually happening!
We cap it all off with a label dinner/party at Madonna’s restaurant, The Blue Door at the Delano Hotel in South Beach. The label drops 4-5K on a decadent dinner to celebrate and toast our impending success.
At the same time, being the OG hustler that I am, I’d been working on starting my own label, something I was passionate about and had on my goal sheet. After years of meetings and discussions, it seemed like everything was finally coming together. A friend brokered an introduction to the legendary Andy Allen at ADA, the largest indie distributor at the time. After a few initial emails, we set up a final meeting to dot the I’s and cross the T’s. I was about to become a true mogul! It finally felt like mogul status might not be a punchline.
On a personal note, with all these amazing things in motion and publishers starting to swarm with offers of $200,000 to $300,000 advances, my wife and I had just had our first child. She rightfully suggested we move out of the apartment we’d been living in and buy a house. My daughter was nearing 2, and we were also illegally raising a golden retriever in the apartment (hidden in silence, behind blackout curtains, like she was the canine subject of a banned biography), so it was only a matter of time before things escalated into a full-blown SWAT standoff.
Yep, we did it, we bought a house. No more apartment. Plus, in a few months, I’d probably buy another house in LA or an apartment in New York... maybe even use the corporate jet to bounce back and forth, catching dance recitals and school events. After all, I wanted to be an involved father. Things were on fire! I booked my flight to NYC and headed to the MCA offices for a walk-through, where I assumed the label interns and veterans alike would take turns stepping into the hallway to heap praise on me and express their excitement about working together. Everyone knows the real art of being a music executive is staying close enough to the artists to take credit when things go well, but far enough away to blame someone else when the record flops. Those guys and gals? They last for decades! I also figured they’d try to bond enough with me to earn a hip handshake at our sold-out MSG show (not yet booked, but clearly happening later in the year). I admired their ability to plan ahead.
Instead, I show up and there's almost no one around, no hallway parade, no conference room party. It’s eerily silent, all the doors shut, blinds drawn. Maybe it’s a surprise party... cool, I’ll play along. I walk into Hans’s office, but when I enter, he looks pale, sullen, almost sick. Did the head of MCA die? Or did some massive artist on the label just drop dead?
He calmly encourages me to take a seat, which I do, expecting to hear about some terrible series of events that had befallen someone else. He says, “There’s no easy way to say this… you’re dropped. A few execs decided this isn’t the right fit for MCA.” He pauses, then adds, “This is total bullshit, and I’ll do anything I can to help make this right.” (Hans did go on to be the best music biz relationship I ever had, but that’s a story for another chapter.)
My head is spinning, trying to process the words. I respond with, “But we had dinner at Madonna’s place... isn’t that legally binding?” I’m horrified, but I try to remain cool on the outside. I need to process this. I do the classic self-talk: “Look, in an hour you’re heading downtown to ADA, the largest indie distributor under WMG, to finalize a massive label deal for Bieler Bros., your own imprint. Focus on that. Take the evening to process the MCA news, and regroup. You got this!
I hug Hans... or did we do the awkward bro handshake? I’m not sure. But either way, I left the building.
New York City is truly a living, breathing entity. When you leave a record label’s office after rejection or, in this case, something more akin to a one-night stand, the city itself seems to know you're doing the walk of shame. I could swear it was sunny when I arrived, but now ominous storm clouds were framing the city’s buildings, making even the vast concrete expanse of Broadway feel warped and claustrophobic.
I hail a cab and head to ADA’s offices, trying to get my head straight for Andy Allen. I want to be sharp with a solid release agenda, confident and on point. I need to make sure I don’t ramble and only hit them with the best of what we have. I arrive at their building on Spring Street, step out of the cab, and head up to their offices. I’m laser-focused but also acutely aware that I’m barely containing the internal sweat valves, which feel like they want to burst open and pour out like Niagara Falls. Focus, Bieler!
A few minutes later, the receptionist invites me into Andy’s office. There are a few other execs sitting around, and everyone seems cool and ready for the meeting. I start my presentation, one of the best label pitches anyone’s ever given. I hit every point on the head. Best of all, I play 3-4 of our key artists’ focus tracks, and not only do they like them, they’re openly smitten. Smiling, bouncing along, really into it. Much better than I could have ever hoped for!
I wrap up the clearly stellar presentation, and Andy says a few very kind things about the music and the ideas. Then, he finishes with, “This is awesome, and we’d love to have you on board. Unfortunately, WEA just shut down new label acquisitions for the rest of the year, and we have no clear indication of when we’ll be able to revisit this, or if we’ll be able to at all in the future.”
What… who… I don’t… spinning… vomit rising… do not pass out. I think I muttered a few things like a guy who’s been punched so hard his brain hasn’t yet processed that he’s been knocked the fuck out. He stumbles around for a few seconds before he hits the floor. “Great, thanks. Brilliant. No, no, this is perfect, thanks again.” I shake a few hands and leave.
I remember pulling on the handles of the large glass exit door the wrong way, causing a cacophonous, horrible sound, that echoed through the office like a death knell. Dead man walking.
Now, I’m standing in front of the elevator. My band’s dropped, the publishing offers are gone, and the label deal is a smoking, decapitated carcass. The glass doors open, and a cheerful receptionist comes running up to me… WAIT, I feel a glimmer of hope, she looks genuinely happy. Maybe they’ve changed their mind, or made an exception! Like in a car dealership, maybe my walkout was seen as a brilliant negotiating ploy.
NOPE.
She yells, “It’s raining very hard outside, please take this umbrella so you don’t get soaked.” Oh, right. Sure. Ummm, thank you very much.
I hear the ding of the elevator, like the ferryman arriving to carry me across the river Styx. And just like that, I’m gone.
I arrive at ground level to what can only be described as a hurricane. There’s no way I can catch a cab on this side street, I have to walk to the corner in 50-mile-an-hour winds and just hope for the best. I somehow make it to the corner, when a sudden gust hits me, and my umbrella is gone. Last I saw, it was heading into low Earth orbit.
I’m standing in a monsoon, label presentation in tatters, no umbrella, no cabs, no label, no record deal…mortgage payment due… Welcome to showbiz!
I head home and realize I’ve got two options: whimper, cower, and give up, or get back up, dust myself off, and move forward. I decide to channel my inner Stuart Smalley, look in the mirror, and tell myself, “I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and doggone it, people like me!” Time to make it rain!
I had the tracks from the now-dropped MCA record, so I fired off a Hail Mary email to John O'Connell (who would go on to become a lifelong friend and a key figure in breaking some of our label's bands…we even kind of broke Matisyahu together, well, I sent him the single, and he did the rest. Where’s my gold plaque for that?). At the time, John was the Program Director at The Buzz in West Palm Beach, the hottest station in South Florida. I wrote something like this:
Hey John,
You don’t know me, but I think I’ve got a really good song here, and I’d be really grateful if you could take a second to listen to it. I don’t mean to apply undue pressure, but if you don’t like it, I’m probably going to open my window and jump out. I do live on the ground floor, so the worst that’ll happen is a few scrapes and bruises, but any blood, no matter how little, will still be on your hands. Your move.
24 hours went by, nothing. 48 hours, nothing. Then a week... then two weeks. Then, miracle of all miracles, he emails me! He says, “Hey, this is a pretty good song. I’m gonna play it tomorrow at this time!” My hustle instincts kick into overdrive! Yep, I’m already setting a court date to legally change my name to The Comeback Kid!
At this time, all the labels were run by early versions of the Moneyball theory: "We don’t know if the music is good by listening to it, so we do research." All they cared about was how many requests a song was getting at retail or radio. They’d compile these figures into elaborate PowerPoint reports with pretty graphics to present at meetings, and then they’d sign things based on the perceived "heat" they were getting. (Which, now of course they realized how silly and pointless that was, instead they go to TikTok and try and sign things going viral…I don’t think most of them even have the sound on when searching. )
Being savvy to the stupidity of this new A&R technique, I saw my opportunity. Like a card counter in Vegas, I was going to beat the house at their own game. I personally called every retail store in South Florida at random hours, using different voices and asking different questions every day for weeks after The Buzz started spinning the song. A relentless onslaught of queries about this unknown band, Super TransAtlantic, and their song “Super Down.”
(I’d like to apologize to the staff at The Buzz, yes, we hammered you with fake requests… but I had a young child and a new mortgage, hopefully you can forgive me.)
I also knew the labels would eventually get wise to the fact that all the requests were only by phone. My wife and band members spread out across the area, going into stores and asking for the new "Super Down" song they’d heard on The Buzz.
Sure enough, Universal Records, with their crack team of research Gollums, came calling. “Hey, Jason, you seem to have a real firecracker on your hands with ‘Super Down.’ We’d love to talk to you about doing a deal.” Redemption was mine once again!
I calmly respond, “I guess we can set up a meeting to hear what you have to say.” I head back to New York once again and meet with Universal, ironically, they’re one floor above MCA in the same building I had walked out of just a few short months ago, with my ass handed to me. I meet with their A&R staff, and everything seems great. They want to sign us. I leave the meeting feeling cautiously optimistic.
Then I get the call. GOD DAMNIT.
You see, MCA and Universal may be part of the same parent company, but they’re not exactly the best of friends. There’s one thing that strikes fear in the heart of a label more than a flopped record: dropping an album, having it picked up by another label, and then watching it become a massive hit, especially within the same label group. To them, that’s the worst-case scenario. MCA had already said, “NO, you can’t use these recordings.” Hooray, now we’re at war with them, as their initial intent was to make sure this record never saw the light of day.
I owe a debt of gratitude to Universal’s head of A&R Jocelyn Cooper. For some unknown reason, she was always incredibly kind and supportive. She even made a call to Doug Morris, the head of the entire music group. (In another bizarre twist of fate, Doug had also been the head of Atlantic when Saigon Kick were signed there. He’s even in our gold record photo with Michael Douglas, J-Flo, and Ahmet Ertegun… man, this just keeps getting stranger the more I write.) Jocelyn had Doug tell MCA to stand down, giving us the green light to move forward once again.
However, part of the deal was that we couldn’t use the actual Jack Joseph Puig mix or the masters, but we could re-record the album.
I had to quickly re-record and mix the entire album, plus add a bunch of new songs, in one of the bedrooms of my new house, in the hopes of sliding by on a legal technicality to salvage this new deal. One of Universal’s A&R guys, Greg Hammer (still a friend, though we almost came to blows when he tried to make me wear his shoes during a photo shoot), comes down to visit me.
He brings with him a VHS advance screening of a movie and thinks Super Down might be a good fit. We all sit in my living room, me, the band, my wife, and our young child, watching the movie unfold. The film is American Pie, and at the time, it felt like one of the most horrifically offensive, yet hilariously funny movies we’d ever seen. The song gets picked for the movie, and we’re right back in the ring, gloves half-on. again, about to hit the big time!
Except, Universal gets cold feet and basically does zero to promote, push, or market the record. The Uni team that had been excited about us was now on the chopping block during one of those bi-annual corporate shakeups, “We have a new team with better research guys.” As it turns out, even though the song is actually blowing up and getting serious airplay, it’s over before it really starts. We only sell a few thousand copies, though I do walk away with a gold record from the American Pie soundtrack. Oh, and almost forgot, we get dropped AGAIN!
During one of our final shows as a band, I’m sitting backstage when I hear a rumble and the crowd going absolutely insane. I move up to the stage for a closer look. It’s a local band called Nonpoint, and they’re absolutely destroying the place. Instantly, I decide I’m going to help these guys. I introduce myself, and next thing I know, we’re back on the hamster wheel. Maybe this is my calling?
I get them signed to… wait for it… MCA. By my friend Hans Haedelt. The same executive staff that once pushed me to the brink of personal destruction is now praising me again. Now I’m producing records, thanks in large part to Hans, and really starting to kick ass and crush it!
I also secure a massive publishing deal for the band with Warner Chappell, soon followed by Darwin’s Waiting Room, who also sign with MCA and land a big publishing deal with Warner Chappell. Then, MCA, YES, MCA, comes to me and my brother and says, “How would you guys feel about having your own label?” Now I’m killing it, visualizing myself as the new David Geffen! They offered us a three-year, high-six-figure label deal, with full signing power and zero oversight. Can you say ballin’?
I hired a big-time lawyer to handle the deal. Fifty grand later, I had a contract and a mild nosebleed.
We were only a month or two into this exciting new deal when Universal unexpectedly decided to dissolve MCA and merge it with Geffen Records under the leadership of Jordan Schur, who had recently finished working alongside Fred Durst at Flip Records. Wait… what? Who’s that again? When did all this happen? Shit! The great cull was underway, another extinction-level event. As with most mergers, the meetings with the old MCA executives were nothing more than a cruel formality… the new Geffen regime swept through the MCA brass like the angel of death at a Miami Beach senior residence.
After some HR bullshit “courtesy” interviews, everyone who mattered to us at MCA is fired, and our deal is terminated. Huh? What? How? Really? I’m obviously disappointed, but screw them, I had an iron-clad 3-year deal, I’m good… at least for a while. Plus, this new band we signed, Skindred, had a track starting to blow up on a couple of radio stations.
Just when I am feeling disappointed but soothed by the comfort of a large payout..once again, we’re in an extremely precarious situation. The label deal is done, but not DONE. Skindred is still signed to us through MCA, but they’re starting to bubble, and I start getting text messages from the head of business affairs that Jimmy Iovine is paying attention, saying he digs it. On the surface having a legend like Jimmy take notice would seem like a net positive but remember when I explained that the worst thing for a label is dropping a band and watching them become a hit for someone else? We find ourselves playing a game of existential limbo.
Our label becoming free and clear became infinitely more complex with Jimmy’s passing interest…not love, not passion…but more of a hmmm interesting. Not wanting to drop or commit, it was safer to let the label and our bands die a slow, unremarkable death. Yeah, we managed to do it again.
Are you f@%ing serious?
Especially when you consider that we had just recently rescued Skindred, who had been left for dead by BMG after Howard Benson produced their brilliant debut. But in a shocking turn of events, everyone who signed and loved them at BMG was fired (can you believe it?), and the new regime wanted nothing to do with the old regime’s signings. I had to convince, actually, beg, the BMG team to accept a few points in override with no upfront money for a record they’d already sunk $250K into. I had to sell myself as a tiny, non-threatening label that specialized in dancehall music for punk rock fans…
Not an easy deal to strike, especially when you consider how labels live by the "better to kill it than let it succeed elsewhere" creed.
The head of Universal’s business affairs (a guy I befriended by sneaking him into Dodger Stadium to see Shaggy after someone forgot to put him on the guest list) did us a solid. In the chaos of the merger, he managed to convince Jimmy to just let us go. One problem solved.
Now, it’s time to collect the remainder of my mega contract buyout and move on. I call my lawyer (remember him? The $50K-fee guy). I say, “Look, get us our cash, and we’ll move on to Phase 2.” He then explains one of the most valuable business lessons I’ve ever learned: the difference between being legally correct and having enforceability.
Uni had no intention of giving us our money. They wanted to settle, and made it clear that, if we were willing to fight them for 10 years, we’d eventually win. But they suggested we settle now for much less, save time, money, and aggravation, and avoid putting our bands into indefinite limbo.
Mother @#&%^$!!!!!!!!
Eventually, we settled for much less than we were owed, mostly to avoid dragging our artists into a mess and risking their momentum and or careers. Yippee! It was a classic case of “take a hit for the team”… only with way more paperwork and less glory.
Then, I meet with my lifelong friend and A&R legend Jason Flom, along with my good friend Andy Karp at Lava Records. I play them Skindred, and they get it.
(Jason actually signed Saigon Kick to Atlantic, along with Dave Feld, who, by the way, originally wanted to sign a different band, but they ended up signing with Geffen... naturally he jumped on the Saigon Kick wagon instead. This all happens before the part we’re really getting to, but I’m writing this Quentin Tarantino style,…stay with me.)
I love Jason, his meetings are among my favorites. No bullshit; you know exactly where you stand within seconds. It’s both amazing and horrifying, especially considering the stakes this time. In ten seconds, Jason will shoot you down and then ask where you want to eat, all before you’ve even gotten to the “so here’s my concept” part of the pitch.
We strike a deal, and the band goes on to sell over 350K records. While it wasn’t the mega breakthrough we were hoping for, it was still a solid success. Oh, and by the way, we also get Nonpoint signed to Lava, and they end up getting featured on the Miami Vice soundtrack, a pretty nice payday for Lava. You’re welcome.
We close a few more artist deals with Lava, and then it seems time to relaunch the Bieler Bros. label as a stand-alone entity. Once again, we’re offered a distribution deal with... wait for it... ADA and Andy Allen. Life is once again amazing, if not bizarrely serendipitous.
Oh, and I almost forgot to mention, Andy gets pushed out shortly after we sign the deal and retires. But we stay optimistic because our good friend Mitchell Wolk takes over at the helm. Sadly, only for a short stay before he gets squeezed out due to more corporate nincompoopery.
As emotionally jarring as all the never-ending mergers and corporate musical chairs were, they really became the least of our problems. Just as things were starting to get sorted and back on track, the entire music industry collapsed in such a quick and epic fashion that it made us long for the kinder, gentler times of October 29th, 1929.
The first wave of piracy hit our artists and label especially hard, since the majority of our band's fans were young, hip to file-sharing, and tech-savvy. OUCH. Then, the digital revolution really kicked in. We went from Best Buy accounting for 80% of our label’s revenue to them no longer even selling music, all within a few short years.
I take great pride in telling people that, as an indie label based in Florida, we went on to do over 13.5 million in sales. The only catch? It cost us $15 million to get it done.
IT'S JUST A FLESH WOUND.
While we were no longer selling $10 CDs, surely iTunes would save the day with those 99-cent downloads. I read The Long Tail (man that is one epic tail…like light years long…we must be talking comet type tails); I understood how this worked. Downloads were the new king, King Bieler, at least in my mind.
WAIT, WHAT? WTF is streaming? No one is buying 99-cent downloads anymore? It’s all free now? Oh, okay. Gotcha. Now this makes sense... sort of. We used to sell 100K records at $10 each, then we moved to 20K downloads at 99 cents. But now the industry’s gonna make it all up with .0000000034 streaming revenue?
No, no, this makes perfect sense. Let’s all fly out to an expensive music biz conference, might I suggest San Francisco, and celebrate our genius. Well done, everyone!
This story goes on and on, with so many twists and turns it almost sounds made up… even to me, and I lived it. Obviously, this focuses on the second chapter and skips the first and third. A ton more happened earlier, and an avalanche of interesting events transpired after. But the point of all this is... well, I’m not actually sure.
Let this be both a warning and a beacon of hope. I truly love making music and being involved with creative, talented people, and I wouldn’t change a second of this adventure. This is in no way a sob story or a tragedy; I’ve built an amazing life, having never had a "real" job other than the music biz.
My new project, The Baron Von Bielski Orchestra, has easily been one of the most creatively fulfilling chapters of my career. I’ve had the joy of working with people I genuinely admire, Butch Walker, Devin Townsend, Bumblefoot, Clint Lowery, Marco Minnemann, Pat Badger, Benji Webbe, and so many more. It’s strange, surreal, and somehow more exciting than the first time around.
Somehow, I managed to be rediscovered by the progressive rock community—fans, press, and even some legendary artists I’ve worked with—and along the way, I’ve been semi-jokingly (but not entirely inaccurately) crowned the king of prog. Which is wild, considering most people never even get one shot, let alone a second or third. As far as I know, only two of us have successfully leapt over the hair-band barricade to be rediscovered as something entirely new: Dave King of Flogging Molly (formerly the singer of Fastway) and, well… maybe me.
In closing, everyone else might complain, blame others, and give up. But you? You’ll still be standing. Whether the masses finally recognize your brilliance and celebrate you at the Kennedy Center, or you quietly keep making music in obscurity, honestly, in this business? That ain’t too bad either.
The new Jason Bieler & The Baron Von Bielski Orchestra album, “The Escapologist,” is out everywhere now!
Jason Bieler & The Baron Von Bielski on Bandcamp