As the old guard of the music industry make their exit, as Sire Records Seymour Stein did this past weekend, so dies most of what made the business an art, not just a business.
In the pantheon of music moguls who saw an artist’s potential long before others, Seymour was a visionary. Over the coming days, there will be a lot written about his label’s success. There will be stories about the phenomenal artists who were graced with his vision.
This, however, is a different journey.
This is a food story about a giant in the executive world of music.
Let’s get the artist bit out of the way. The first time speaking with Seymour, he called to express his regards for my kindness and care of one of his artists, Tommy Page. There were a couple of other calls, but the call that changed everything was the one inviting me to meet with him in London, England to discuss signing a band I was now managing.
I flew the red eye via Air Canada, a company whose stewards were all wearing leather that flight, daring anyone to sleep. After arriving in London, I had a quick shower, then headed up to Baker Street to meet Seymour. He immediately suggested a lunch just up the road. It was a heavily curtained restaurant, and the first I ate at where no prices were listed on the menu. Impressed, I believe I ordered the finest wine, and a meal well above the means of an aspiring band manager.
This was the beginning of many a meal with a man who loved his food.
There was the night in New York when we ate Chinese food at a restaurant underneath the Sony building, Black Rock before heading out into the Manhattan night to watch some bands. Around 1 a.m. Seymour suggested more food, and directed us to a late-night tiny Spanish restaurant. I’d never consumed two dinners in one evening. I can tell you, though, the tapas was exceptional.
Seymour definitely enjoyed the Asian foods, though. On another occasion, we ate at a wonderful Chinese restaurant just off Central Park West in New York City. I’m not sure if he did it on purpose, but he ordered me an appetizer of shark fin soup. When it arrived at the table, I had to do a double take as it looked like a cup of warm, male ejaculate.
I had my assistant taste it first.
We ate dinner at the Four Season’s Hotel in Toronto. A fine meal and incredible conversation about The Replacements, Madonna, Ramones, Talking Heads.
There was always discussions about music, about Seymour’s history with the business, about the future of the bands I managed or had worked with when I was at Warner Music Canada.
Seymour had an incredible sense of humour as well. Take the night I ordered a wonderful steak dinner in New York City. As I went for the first bite, he leaned over to tell me to hurry up eating as k.d. lang and Chrissie Hynde were about to arrive, both of whom were adamant vegetarians. The horror on my face had him doubled over with laughter. It was his idea of a joke.
There was the night of Seymour’s birthday meal at the location of an old bathhouse now a restaurant at First and First in Manhattan. All the servers were not what they appeared to be. Seymour was killing himself as I got into a conversation with a group of women at the next table, there to celebrate someone’s upcoming wedding. Turned out the mother wasn’t a woman, and Seymour had plied me with enough alcohol that I was on the verge of heading to a hotel with said woman.
In London, England, on another trip, I ate with Seymour and some very important UK execs and managers. It was a wonderful little Italian restaurant on the outskirts of some London borough. That was the night I got to see the inside of Seymour’s residence, a world of art and exquisite furniture.
Seymour went to Canada to check out an indigenous band. He had phoned to ask if I’d be interested in driving him to the show. Upon driving back to Toronto, he said he was hungry, did I know of a place that would be open late, preferably Chinese, I did.
Still my favourite restaurant, Swatow on Spadina Avenue in Toronto is where we went. I’d never seen anyone eat so much. Two lobsters, deep fried squid, plates of beef and Chinese broccoli. We ate until a very early hour, laughing and enjoying the conversation.
The next morning, I was inundated with calls from Sire’s New York staff, all chastising me for allowing Seymour to have eaten like that. Did I not know he was on a strict diet? Did I not know I could have killed him with all that food?
When I spoke with him about it later, he flipped his hand in the air. Did I not know it had been a fantastic evening, he asked?
Then, there was Paris. At the Louvre, after rooms of portraits of long-dead nobles and their families, Seymour, before the suggestion to head to yet another meal, announced in that unmistakable New York City accent, “Let’s get outta here. It’s beginning to look like wallpaper.”
What an appetite, and what a privilege to have been at the table with such a man.
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