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Climbing Down The Ladder: A Corporate Guide To Being A Rock Star
By Peter Kimmich: 2008-12-05 01:48:25
The world relies on its business leaders, there’s no question. Michael Bloomberg, Donald Trump, Steve Jobs and Rupert Murdoch indirectly, through one means or another, tell you what to do every single day. It is probable that at any given moment, every single member of the civilized world is doing just what those guys want them to do. Except for one demographic: rock stars.
Caleb Followill doesn’t give a fuck what stock he should purchase. Axl Rose would shit on an iPhone, Dean DeLeo uses Armani suits as bath towels, and it’s likely that the last time Liam Gallagher visited a shopping mall it was to look for a place to have public sex with four women. And it’s very, very likely that this stubborn segment of society infuriates Bloomberg, Murdoch, Trump and Jobs. Well, maybe not Trump. How can the world’s business leaders solve this dilemma? Well, I’m glad you were wondering that, because I’ve been dreaming up the answer all day. The way to beat someone, as we know, is to join them. Thus, the only way for the world’s business leaders to conquer the rock star demographic is to out-rock star them. Why, of course! This guide will instruct the corporate masthead of the world on rock star ways, so that they may learn how best to ensnare this elusive market. Or at least so they may create spontaneous, ironic humor. We shall proceed. CEO = lead singer. You, the big man in the office, are not as big as Robert Plant. You will probably never be, but you can emulate him by fronting your own musical board of directors. You already have everything you need: Your leadership ability, you can use that when you have to whip your mules into shape. Your smart sense of intuition will help you decide which crazed groupie to toss your shirt to. And of course, your naturally inflated sense of self-importance will continue to do everything it did for you back at the office. And the same things will likely continue to be said behind your back. CFO = lead guitarist. Chief financial officer, you’re in charge of making sure your lead singer has currency to work with. And by currency I mean a sweet, heavenly rock and roll vibe that will get his id flowing and ensure maximum trade in hormones between your organization and the audience. Because if you don’t make it easy for him to arouse as many female concertgoers as possible, then the payoff in floozy love will be marginal, and you can bet it’s not going to you. Senior risk analyst = bass player. When the noise starts, your job is to keep everything in your scope and provide a solid, blunder-free foundation for your front man to build on. Even if everything on the stage is going haywire, it’s up to you not to lose it. Because if you fall off the ball, everyone will know you’re employing a bunch of 6-year-old sweatshop workers, and the human rights activists will start throwing tomatoes. Large, legal-system tomatoes. Tax accountant = drummer. As the backbone of the group, and probably the least appreciated, you will make sure everything adds up at the end of the song. And as might be familiar to some companies, you’ll skip a couple of beats to make everything sound ok in the event of an innocent slip-up. This can keep your band in good favor with your investors, who paid good money to see you people hunk around like emasculating jerks. You know that whole Enron thing? Keith Moon wouldn’t have even blinked over that. Expensive, tailored suits = stylized thrift store rags. Yes, as business leaders you try to appear stylish, but rockers inherently have Style, with a capital ‘S.’ Of course, there are many levels to Style. There’s the straightforward, no-screwing-around rock star uniform à la KISS, or the Ramones street-urchin look, for example. You may trade your feeble playboy attire in for a more rebellious wardrobe, or you can retain it and add a bit of irony to your image. You can even keep that shameless comb-over to affect a Neil-Young I-Don’t-Give-A-Fuck obstinacy, though I’m not sure everyone will believe you. “You’re fired” = “you’re out of the band.” Dismissals are about the same in both worlds, with the exception that bratty behavior is allowed, and even expected, of rock stars. As Velvet Revolver’s example demonstrates, a long, awkward blogging bitch fight is not out of the question. Another exception is the possibility that the dismissee may end up back in the band, whereupon the entire process can repeat itself in a messy tornado of emotional debris, like that whole Van Halen thing. Gold-plated watch = Johnny Walker Gold. The concept of a thoughtless token gift is still applicable in the rock star world, just in a different form. It’s very easy to remember the differences: gold-plated pen equals liquor. Gold-plated paperweight, liquor. Engraved plaque, liquor. $40,000-a-year raise? Yeah, like you ever do that. Specific, detailed coffee order = random, unidentified shot. Forget about your 134-degree venti Splenda mocha, what you get when you’re a rock star is whatever someone hands you in a bar or puts in front of you on the stage, and you like it, whatever it is. Because you’re rocking, and you don’t have time to hoist up your dress and ask what it is, like a wuss. Will it get you drunker? That’s all you need to know. Just like when you absorbed that production plant to shut it down and make the market price drop 14 cents. Ritzy uptown condo = van, couch, girlfriend’s pad. Kiss your walk-in coat closet goodbye. When you’re a rock star, all you need is 6 feet of space to stretch out in, maybe with a couple feet of vertical room for hip gyration. You don’t need to actually live anywhere. This is good for you, because it means you don’t have to worry about your maid stealing things or your wife inviting her male friends over while you’re gone. If you spill a handle of SoCo on the carpet, you don’t care, because you’re going to be above a new carpet in 24 hours. Plus, it means the Feds will have an even harder time finding you, without all those false bank accounts. Silver Porsche = dented jalopy. If you even drive in your rock star life, and if you remember which car is yours, you’ll be sure to have lower theft insurance. If you even have insurance. Because no one will want to steal your ugly, broken, smelly, primer-gray Hyundai with three mysterious panties in the back seat and fries all over the driver’s side. And you’ll save a ton on car washes. Luxurious company birthday party = Johnny Walker Gold. Yep, the thoughtless, token gift rule even applies to well-planned, personal affairs. Nothing shows a friend’s appreciation like the opportunity to briefly escape from the crippling sadness and unbridled cruelty of this cold, unscrupulous world. But who knows – maybe you enjoy that, you slave-driving megalomaniac. (Disclaimer: Unfortunately, none of these formulas work in reverse. A lead singer would make a horrible CEO, and it wouldn’t be pretty to hand your boss a railslide instead of an espresso. But you’re welcome to try.)
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