March 26 was one of the saddest evenings I have had recently. I went to the “going away” party at the Virgin Megastore in Times Square. This was a private event, and the attendees were music business folk who had done business with the chain, and employees who worked, or had worked there over the years. I fall into both categories, having sold and marketed through them at one point in my career and having been their VP of Marketing for North America from 2000-20002. A lifetime ago.
I was invited by a colleague and friend, a man who is right hand to the great Richard Branson himself, and who came to America a few years back to, I presume, try and save the company from the carnage of the Music Business in The United States.
I was excited to see people I haven’t seen in a while, former colleagues as well. But the store, oh the store. As their Marketing go-to person I worked on the creation, design and execution of every endcap in every store during my 2 year stint. We spent big money on those artful and slick campaigns with a strict adherence to the brand’s irreverent, cheeky voice. I was proud every single month to walk into one of the stores and see how a campaign was doing.
On March 12 I was in Times Square for a meeting and some errands. I was shocked to see the store looking like a worn out bar girl. It was like visiting someone you know has a terminal illness, you know intellectually that they will not look the same. Yet nothing can prepare you for the moment of actually engaging your former friend or loved one, an emaciated, shell of who they once were. I was so taken back by the look of the store, the garish orange clearance signs on everything, that I didn’t have the heart in me to walk in and buy something on sale.
So there I am, a week later, forcing down cheery thoughts like a kid takes a spoon full of castor oil. As I got ready to go to the store I wondered if it would be a typical Virgin bash? Equal parts posh and debauchery with perhaps a bit of nostalgic humor nicked from an Irish wake. I hadn’t even called anyone to see if they were invited or going. I had said I’d be there, and I intended to show some respect to the institution which had been transformative for me. The atmosphere of the early evening had a cinematic quality to it. A gray, rainy end-of-winter day, colder than usual and by the time I got to Times Square, the sky was crying. Giant dirty tears bidding adieu to another monument of an industry in disarray.
There was a large line outside the store, by the look of it, all kids who’d worked behind the cash register or stocking shelves, anxious to get some free eats and a beer. The downstairs which used to be a cafe, looked like a construction site, midway through demolition. People were gathered in small huddles, holding their plastic cups. A band of employees played covers from the past, “Don’t Walk Away Rene” wafted up through the empty isles to the dusty cavern of the ceiling. I looked around the room, for familiar faces from labels and distribution. I knew no one. At the bar I chatted up a rep from ADA, a very sweet and thoughtful person who is still working hard every day with her indie accounts. She told me that the staff she is on had dwindled from 30 to 8 this year, yet she remains optimistic that her customers, her friends, would survive and regain their footing in the shakiest economy any of us has experienced. Eventually I met up with a few people I knew from the corporate office in LA. My former CEO who is now working with an online direct marketing concern, spoke with enthusiasm about the start up. Then I saw one of my all time favorite people, Andrew G. He had been the buyer for most of the indie labels, he was one of the few people who remained at headquarters, he’ll probably be the guy who turns out the lights on Wilshire Blvd. for the last time. Still as I scanned the dimly lit room, I saw none of the senior level people who used to regularly fly me around the country for parties and showcases. Not the one who used to get so drunk his head literally fell in his food more than once. Not the guy from that same company who left for powder room visits as many times as Lindz Lohan. What occurred to me then I knew when I worked at Virgin, that all of these high fivin MF’s were as disingenuous as they appeared and not one of them had the balls or the manners to at least make a show of respect for a company who helped them break artists and sell millions of records out of that very store. I walked up the broken escalator to the front exit, and as I did, I saw someone who has been a mentor and employer of mine more than once. He’s the President of one of the majors, and probably the only one who still plays his guitar with a passion and takes vacations surfing in El Salvador. It was a bittersweet moment, in an awkward evening. I guess for most of the weasels I was for so long it’s just too hard to share a real moment or give a damn about one of the last large “tastemaker” stores closing for good. That would mean they’d have to have a hard look in the mirror, figure out what a tweet is, and 10 years too late pull their collective heads out of the sand.
Goodbye Virgin-you treated me right.
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