"God Jam It!"
by Bing Futch

Life can be so nice and then it can suck. I have a theory called The Four Cycles and it seems to fit the basic patterns of our existence. You start off at "The Plateau Of The Everyday", situations are running fairly smoothly, no annoying knocks and pings in your Reality Engine. Then comes "The Giddy Ascension" which translates into something really cool that happens--could be a nice date, might be a won bet. Things tend to get better before they get worse which results in the third stage "Fitz O' Glee." Keeping in mind that this cycle can repeat itself infinitely in the span of a second or take its slow, sweet-ass time and dish this out to you in decade-sized chunks. Each level can represent the smallest effect on your life as well as stand for your greatest joys and terrors. Let that dance upon your palette as you soar into the next stratospheric level, because waiting for you at the other end of the cycle is "Blackened Cajun Doom."

This is the miry pit of Just Leave Me Alone. Where you feel so wretched that even the wretched took one look at you and upgraded their status to "merely discontented." Low. And if you're one of those people that experiences the cycles in quick bursts of twenty-second interludes, then you've got another reason to be depressed. You're probably psychotic.

I know the folks up at Creative Loafing are probably psychotic, but that doesn't matter because they have shitloads of money and that makes them alright. You can buy any excuse in the world with money because it's the quickest path to happiness for some folks.

Jam Magazine was doomed from the moment former publisher George Biggers signed over his baby to the Atlanta, Georgia-based Creative Loafing. Somehow the dotty old man, who had the cash flow but not too much skill at running a newspaper, was convinced that he would still have some sort of say in operations once the ownership had changed hands. Before you could say "territorial pissing", he and every single staffer except myself had left while interim editor Eric Snider began to whack away at the format of the magazine.

For a while now, I had been working on a story that would focus on the various magazines that cover the scene. For some rags, there are conflicts of interest and issues of competition while others provide unique content and don't care too much about what the other mags are squabbling about. The central Florida corridor has been a long-standing hotbed of intense rivalries, defections, re-organizations, copycatting and even spying amongst the publishing houses and it's created a lurid atmosphere that's not often reflected on in the press.

Until now. Hell, I've freelanced for just about all of the rags in town. Started with Ink 19 as working press for the House Of Blues, interviewed Carrot Top for Axis, was sent on assignment to Tampa for a meeting with the Genitorturers (chee! that was frightening!) and the Orlando Weekly actually got me used to the idea of getting paid. Liz Langley was surely getting a weekly check for "Juice", I figured and showcasing wasn't buttering both sides of the thin bread I was eating. So I worked up an idea for a column about starving musicians and took it to the magazines to see who'd bite. Axis got first dibs since I was then in talks with editor Sean Perry about the possibilities of expanding my realm within the 'zine. But after many unreturned phone calls and e-mails, three months passed and I figured that Mr. Perry was more interested in managing a major rock band than his paper and I moved along. Interestingly enough, when "Starvin'" began to spark some talk in the local scene, he had one of his lackeys call me every week about attending "staff" meetings. Precious. Then I went to David Himes, editor of Connections Magazine. His publication was brand spanking new at the time and he seemed a little cautious about the idea. In fact, somehow a great deal of the dialogue had to do with questions concerning the state of publications in Orlando. It felt like espionage and that's so damn hard to come by these days. Good ol' days of cloak and dagger.

By this point, my prospects were looking dim. The Weekly already had a back-page columnist and a few other papers just didn't have the editorial leaning that would allow for an op-ed piece to fit. That's when I was tracked down. The best way to describe it would be "hunted like an animal" because suddenly, people began appearing chanting the mantra "George Biggers wants to see you."

I had heard about George.

Sabrina Steen is an ex-Jam staffer who worked diligently at the place before getting so outraged with George that she created her own magazine as a not-so-subtle pie in his face. Buzz Magazine, at one time, posed a serious threat to Jam's audience, being younger, hipper and not run by a surly curmudgeon of a publisher. Steen's youthful vivaciousness and popularity with bands positioned her as reigning queen of the media scene. But she loathed George and often referred to her former employer as "that other magazine" in print. She warned me about him, should I ever decide to do some writing for the magazine--felt it was her duty to inform me, to give me "heads up." This floated into my mind as I perused the e-mails and pondered the messages before giving George a call. Preliminaries were spoken; a meeting was set.

As I think it's been mentioned already, George was the money and management guy, although his management style reportedly left much to be desired. His wife Carol, a menacing lady who looks and sounds like she could've been a Marine corps Sgt., helped to manage things around the tiny office in Longwood. There was associate publisher Jay Bruno and managing editor Rebecca Thomas who was somewhat new to the position herself. Seems that George was editor-in-chief but didn't know a whole hell of a lot about editing, which is why the turnaround on managing editors was quicker than the ink could dry on their names on the masthead. He certainly seemed imposing across that big expanse of desk, heaped high with old issues, CD's and bits of office flotsam and jetsam. With white hair and a folksy face, George Biggers peered at you with his lazy, rheumy eyes and stretched out sentences until you wanted to finish them for him. "I brought you in here because I think you're a good writer," he said. I had to go to the bathroom. I waited. "We're moving the magazine in a new direction," and this excited me. It wasn't important that I get my name on a byline somewhere--I wanted to be a part of some growing revolution that would actually make a difference in this town. George was realizing that his fuddy-duddy handling of the magazine was losing readers to Buzz, which was more in touch with the scene. He was reluctantly reaching out to someone from the outside to pepper up the sauce. "You've got a unique style," he said after twenty minutes and I leaned forward, trying to reduce the strain on my bladder. Not polite to pee during contract negotiations. Don't break the vibe.

Don't break the vibe. "And uh, we're looking to expand our local coverage...."

"I can help with that," I started, and took that opportunity to pitch him. At least if I was talking, the need to urinate wouldn't be on the front of my mind.

The release felt good.

We shook on the deal and it felt good too. I'd be contributing local CD reviews as well as a bi-monthly back-page article called "Starvin'." $75 an issue, starting November 6th, 1998 with reviews of the Rodney Jr. Band, Wurster, Spoonbeach and the first column entitled "Something's Fishy." When I told Sabrina, she actually seemed hurt that I had gone to work for "The Enemy", especially under an exclusive contract that allowed me to write for no-one else save Ink 19 (whom I'd never stop writing for because it's where I got my start.) There was also some largely anti-Jam sentiment amongst musicians and readers who simply got turned off by the magazine in its slow limp into lameness.

George's relentless grip on the mag loosened as the first bits of feedback came in about "Starvin'." I got away with murder--introducing the first photo byline in the history of the magazine and the first blatant swear words as well. With every column, George read and cringed, hoped for the best and let it go unedited. The response was 50-50. A good many readers applauded the column and looked forward to hearing more. A good many readers wanted me also to die horrible, choking chickenbone deaths. Fact was, they were reading and responding and George knew this.

My pay was raised.

Over the next year, attrition once again spun those revolving doors and many good talents came and left, allowed to add their own dashes of inventiveness and youthful exuberance to the mix. Jam became more colorful, more interesting and better yet--actually practical as opposed to being a whacking ground for press-release happy bands. A near cataclysmic fire in the Longwood offices didn't stop production from continuing at George's household and a new building was acquired not long after on Wymore Road. With a little extra money, George began spending dollars on improvements, new computers and promotional efforts. Still stubborn in his day-to-day dealings, his insistence on final say proved counterproductive in such instances as the 1999 Jammy Awards, an overly-expensive fiasco at Hard Rock Live with an ambitious roster and not enough sponsors. The magazine limped into the second fiscal quarter owing money and meekly promoting showcases as fund-raisers to bail themselves out. Money also turned into a problem for Sabrina Steen, whose primarily self-financed Buzz Magazine finally ran out of capital steam and vanished from the scene abruptly. Phone calls of concern were unreturned and over the next few months questions of "whatever happened to Buzz?" became a conversation-starter of choice.

In the late summer of 1999, George Biggers called me into his office and made some noises about a big change taking place, that I wasn't to tell anyone outside the organization. Seems that he had been in talks with Creative Loafing, the big national publishing house, it looked good--that Jam would be absorbed into their family of magazines and he wanted to know if I'd stay on board. I was skeptical. He was adamant. There was no money and no money meant no growth. Jam had been steadily increasing distribution and had been experimenting with formats that had gotten a great response from people who had just about turned their backs on the floundering 'zine. But that year-long period of growth had left the money muscles severely strained and with the bank tapped, there was nowhere to go but down or to sell out. He was careful to comfort me about my fears regarding Big Money Mitts. Creative control would still go to the Jam staff, he said. It was just an influx of much needed green grease.

It's never that simple.

It took some time to go down, but it finally worked out. Matt Kelemen was hired as music editor, I had worked with him during his time spent at the Orlando Weekly and briefly on Juggernaut. Interim editor Eric Snider seemed to be positioned as top Creative Loafer though his status as music editor for Tampa's Weekly Planet gave him only temporary clout, but no-one could tell him that. Snider immediately struck me as one of those "too-Hollywood" guys that actually says things like "check you later" and "gotta bail, time for lunch." His closed door meeting with myself, Matt and then-managing editor Danielle Lindblom was an eye-opening peek at the terror that would later befall Jam Magazine.

"I don't think our readers really care about local music," he said matter-of-factly. He announced that they were going to cut back coverage. The small format made the paper easily mistaken for an auto trader or similar publication, so they were going to a wide tabloid format ala the Orlando Weekly, he went on--not asking for input or stopping to take a breath. And "Starvin'", he said. He was more interested in getting a rotating selection of columnists to offer up different points of view or better still, doing away with the feature altogether. Not one to let my balloon be shot down without due protest, I offered that there was actually a loyal readership for the column and that their opinion counted since they were picking up copies in bars, music shops and restaraunts all over the state. "We're changing our readership," he said. "They won't know you."

Danielle and Matt were just as surprised at some of the things that Snider layed out--nothing had been discussed with them about the dropping of "Starvin'" or any of the other changes that he had detailed. Matt promised to advocate, as did George--who was furious when he had heard about the meetings minutes. "Starvin'" got a two-month reprieve and then was permanently struck from the pages in January of this year. About that time, George and Carol, frustrated from the head-banging arguments with the Creative Loafing people, settled their monetary involvement with the paper and got the hell out of there without so much as a "it's been nice working with ya." I followed shortly thereafter.

Things went from bad to worse for Jam at that point--the new format wasn't sitting well with readers, "hard to roll up and stick in your back pocket" being one of the key issues. Pick-up rates decreased as Snider began changing and then re-changing elements of layout, ordering last minute write-ups and generally acting like a dick. Stress levels rose and glitches appeared throughout the issues, screwed ads, wrong copy, un-checked spelling errors, omissions--they peppered the paper. Apparently, someone at corporate noticed the shift and came down with the Holy Handsaw of Truth, shearing off heads and restoring some order to the place. Boosted to editor, Matt Kelemen began handpicking staff to turn Jam Magazine around. He theorized that the money pipeline was in place, a new computer network was on its way and he could build from the ground floor up with a new staff. Unfortunately, Snider had fucked over some of his freelancers and they would no longer contribute to the magazine. Biting his tongue and swallowing his pride, Matt asked me if I'd start writing for the rag again, because I think my words upon departure were "not if it would help the fucking space program."

I agreed. It was mainly for the money, I'm not proud. But it was also for every country music or classical or left-field artist that has ever sent a CD to Jam, because most of the reviewers pick over this stuff and let the weird music settle to the bottom of the pile like lake silt. When I first arrived at the magazine, there was a stack of spurious looking CD's that had been picked over and left for dead. On some of those discs was priceless music--detritus from the fallout of popularism. What I do as a reviewer is keep the process alive--artist makes music, needs to get it out there, the reviewer aids in the discovery of an artist. And gets $5 per review, which aids in the feeding of said reviewer. Plus, the CD's become property of the scribe and that comes in handy if you also happen to run an internet radio station. So, begrudgingly, I came back.

Should've stayed away.

Things didn't get better, they continued to flip-flop. Matt continued to battle Atlanta for this and that, for payroll, for computer problems. What used to be a simple matter of payday turned into a harrowing experience for all involved. The atmosphere in the Wymore Rd. offices got to boiling points and it had become status quo for vocal flare-ups to take place by the time my wife Chinesa joined the staff. By definition, I was only a lowly freelancer and didn't have to deal with any of the interoffice bullshit that was going down. Unfortunately, my wife did. There were tales of humor and tales of woe, tales of disbelief and tales of when to say "no." From the sound of it though, the office folks managed to get along while sharing a healthy hostility for the marching black boot of Creative Loafing. Word began to leak out to other publications that plans were to expand Jam to four publishings a month to compete with the Orlando Weekly. Murmurs about including film and dining reviews cropped up as well, long before the sudden announcement on Tuesday, June 27th that Creative Loafing was closing down Jam Magazine.

No warning. Just a bolt out of the blue as the natives struggled to get an issue out to press. A simple "we're changing the locks, don't come back" statement and it was all over. It didn't take long throughout the day to get more of the big picture. Corporate in Atlanta had known about the decision for two weeks: their reasoning; Jam was a money-loser. That may be true, but plans for Creative Loafing Orlando, a new weekly entertainment paper, had already been in the works. Jam was just an easy salvage job. Buy the paper, close the paper, grab the distribution, advertising leads and circulation, to hell with the rest. In the corporate world, that's called a "green-out." In the southeast, that's called being "drawn-and-quartered."

I've tried to be as objective as possible with this treatise, but why bother really? You can only remove yourself so far from a subject and like the man said, "write what you know." The Big Bang that was the destruction of Jam will only result in another publication somewhere, somehow. Don't know if it'll be a rebel paper created to defy and match blows with one of the corporates or a shrewdly underground mag that captures the spirit and the imagination of the region. All I know is, there are a handful of wandering gypsies out in the City Beautiful right now, former staffers of a decade-old magazine that was suddenly chomped, masticated and spit out by one of the very big money companies that Generation X is always railing against. It happened to a paper created in the spirit of independence, toughened in the harsh public arena and fueled with the blood of the passionates that believed enough in the freedom of press to go toe to toe with time.

Snuffed by Big Money. The weasels are showing up now and they're buying stock.

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