THE WIZARD OF OZ

Rick Archer's Note:  The following story is important to me for several reasons.

Recently a neighbor mentioned he had retired.  After I congratulated him, he said he needed to send me his non-work email address so he could continue receiving the SSQQ Newsletters.  It turns out he likes some of the jokes and stories.

Flattered by his interest, I asked if my stories helped him believe in Fate. 

He answered with a smile, "One thing I'm certain of is that you believe in it."

Which is true.  I am a firm believer in Fate.  Which is why I like this story.  It has Fate written all over it.  It is the story of how a talented and very proud man got taken to the cleaners twice in a row at the peak of his career.  A street hustler conned him to the tune of a half million dollars while some Aussie guy named Rupert Murdoch stole his life's work right out from under his nose.  Talk about a double dose of humiliation.  He lost his job and he lost his reputation. 

Knocked for a loop, some people might have thrown in the towel.  Not this guy.  He came up with one of the ingenious comeback plans I have ever heard of.  He waved his magic wand and produced a movie known as Urban Cowboy out of thin air.

I doubt anyone else has ever told this man's story.  The only reason I know the tale is because my dance career hitched a ride on this man's comet.  As he soared, so did my career as Houston's first Country-Western instructor.  This is a very curious tale; I think you will enjoy it.   -- Rick Archer

SEPTEMBER 1979.  THE YEAR OF LIVING DANGEROUSLY   THE MYSTERIOUS WIZARD OF OZ

Rick Archer's Note:  

So what exactly led to my career as a Country-Western dance instructor?  Probably the best place to start is the secret behind Houston's strange Western Transformation in 1979.  The spark that started this bizarre Transformation was the opening of Cowboy, the first C&W club to ever attempt to attract wealthy professionals to a kicker joint.

Starting with Cowboy in February 1979, over the next six months two dozen or so Houston-area Discos had closed only to reopen a month later as a Western dance hall.  As the result of these unexplained changes, at the start of September only four well-known Discos were still standing... Annabelle's, elan, Tingles, and Pistachio Club.  

This phenomenon upset me no end.  The Death of Houston Disco Clubs was like Russia burning its crops to stop Napoleon.  Without food to feed his troops, Napoleon had no choice but fold his tent and head back to France.  By comparison, if my students did not have a place to dance, Disco would starve to death. 

Here is what was weird about Houston's Western Transformation.  Simultaneous to the demise of Disco in Houston thanks to the Country-Western threat, Disco was hitting its absolute popularity peak in every other part of America.  Indeed, while Disco was on its death bed here in Houston, it was gangbusters everywhere else.  Houston was the lone exception.  "Why?", I asked.  What possible reason could explain why Disco was facing a premature death in Houston?  I asked around, but no one had any idea.  We figured it had something to do with John Travolta and this strange movie he was filming, but as I would later learn, that was just the tip of the iceberg.  Clearly there was more to this mystery.  At the time, my conclusion was that someone was orchestrating these changes behind the scenes.  In my thoughts, I referred to the mystery man as the Wizard of Oz. 

As it turned out, I was absolutely correct.  There was indeed a Wizard of Oz behind all these changes.  Now for the irony.  I never learned who he was until 40 years later.  Why did it take so long?  For one thing, although there were plenty of articles about John Travolta, Gilley's, and the filming of Urban Cowboy, there were no articles in the newspaper to explain the Western Transformation. 

Why not?  Because no one particularly cared.  Curious, maybe, but not threatened.  Wait, let me change that.  There was one person who cared.  Me.  I would venture a guess I was probably the only person in Houston whose profession was threatened with extinction by Urban Cowboy.  It wasn't like anyone else was out of a job.  The club owners still owned a club while all the bartenders and waitresses had to do was go out and buy a pair of jeans.  Sure, there were other Disco instructors who were inconvenienced, but they just went back to teaching Ballroom.  And yes, my Disco students were very irritated, but unlike me, they did not wrap their entire existence around Disco.  If Disco went away, they would adapt.  Not me.  Disco was my identity, my reason to be happy.  Why not teach Ballroom?  I hated Ballroom dancing and I hated the music.  Why not teach Western?  I hated the music and there was nothing to teach.

Given how much I loved to teach dance, my depression grew worse as my Disco classes grew smaller.  The end of my dance career seemed right around the corner.  The worst part of it was my inability to grasp what had caused this bizarre turn of events.  My helplessness was driving me to madness.  Why?  It made no sense.

Since there was no Internet in 1979, it was not until I began writing my book that I began to research the whole story.  As it turned out, the behind-the-scenes tale of Urban Cowboy was amazing.  I doubt you will ever read a stranger story in your life.

HOUSTON'S WESTERN TRANSFORMATION

Before we begin the background story of Urban Cowboy, let's read this article about Houston's Western Transformation again.

C&W Nightclubs Riding High

Written by Michael Demarest
Time Magazine, 1981

In 1975 Houston had at most a dozen Cactus Cabarets.  By the time 1981 rolled around, Houston now had more than 300, few of which cared to emulate Gilley's Dodge City outlaw style.

In February 1979, McFaddin-Kendrick, a Houston-based conglomerate, opened Cowboy, the city's first upscale Twostep saloon after doing extensive market research.  Following its success with Cowboy, McFaddin-Kendrick then went on to launch a national chain of 40 western barns that mixed country music with disco music.

Cowboy's success revolutionized the club industry.  Before then, there was no such thing as a "classy" country place.  It used to be your choices ranged from your standard country dump #1 such as Gilley's to your standard country dump #2. 

No one recognized the market for "attractive" western clubs even existed.  For that matter, no one had any idea it was possible to successfully mix disco music with country and western under one roof without people killing one another.  However, once Cowboy took off for the moon in typical Space City fashion, everyone else jumped on the bandwagon and opened Cowboy imitations.

The most successful, Fool's Gold and San Antone Rose, were located in affluent Houston residential areas and, like Cowboy, catered to the Gucci gauchos.  Imitation proved to be the most sincere form of flattery.
 

WHAT EXACTLY IS A 'CACTUS CABARET'?

What a shame the William Demarest article was not published in 1979.  Since I did not know the future, I was deeply immersed in gloom at this stage.  I was dying to know the answer behind all of these unexplained changes, but no one could help me. 

Every now and then someone asks me if I would have done anything different about my problem.  Yes, if I had to do it over again, I would have visited Cowboy when it opened.  As it stood, I would not visit Cowboy until November (two months further down the road from our current point in the story). 

As one can imagine, Joanne's Cactus Club was a good example of William Demarest's "Cactus Cabaret" reference.  What a dump!  Now here is the irony.  As it stood, I labored under the misconception that Cowboy was just another dreary, run-down Dodge City honky tonk that looked just like Cactus Club. 

Such was not the case.  In reality, Cowboy was a veritable palace.  But I did not know that because I refused to visit the place.  As we shall see, I would pay a serious price for my Ostrich-style unwillingness to face my fears.

We have a saying here in Texas: "Don't put the Cart Before the Horse."

This is another way of reminding us the 'Effect' should follow the 'Cause'.  In other words, first you have Saturday Night Fever, then you have 30 new Discos in Houston.  Cause and Effect.   Such was not the case with Urban Cowboy.  The movie was not scheduled to appear until June 1980.  So why are all these Western clubs opening ONE YEAR BEFORE Urban Cowboy?

I knew this mysterious Cowboy had somehow initiated these 'Disco to Western' changes.  I also knew John Travolta and Gilley's were connected to the mystery.  What I did not understand was why the Disco clubs were in such a hurry to close down and reappear as Western clubs.

When Cowboy first appeared in Houston at the start of 1979, Disco clubs throughout America were doing sensational business.  This was true in Houston as well.  If Houston's clubs had maintained a Disco format throughout 1979, I guarantee these clubs would have made a healthy profit.  Therefore the decision to switch to a Western format one year early was totally unnecessary.  Hey, guys, what's the rush? 

For this reason, I was convinced some sort of mastermind was responsible.  Clearly these club owners were acting on inside information.

Of course I was panic-stricken.  It was not just my career that was threatened, Disco was my entire life.  It was everything I lived for, my total identity, my only claim to fame.  The fear of becoming a nobody again haunted me night and day.  I ripped my hair out trying to understand why these Disco clubs would shut down for a movie that was not even filmed yet.  Furthermore, the total unanimity led me to believe these club owners knew something that I didn't.  If one or two clubs had changed their spots, I could understand that.  But thirty clubs?  Maybe even forty clubs?  Good grief, I was witnessing something akin to a buffalo stampede!!! 

Making things even weirder, no one seemed to care about Urban Cowboy, at least not in my circles.  Given zero interest in Western dancing among the people I knew, on the surface this stampede seemed like a huge gamble.  Disco was making Big Money in 1979, so why trade a sure thing for an unknown?  My conclusion was that these dance club owners had to know something exclusive only to them.  What could it be?   Since these developments made no sense, I developed a theory that something was going on behind the scenes that no one but a select few here in Houston were in on.  There was someone out there, some sort of 'Wizard of Oz' who orchestrated these changes.  But who was it?  Who could it be?  Tell me his name so I could go shoot him!

CLAY FELKER: THE MAN WHO INVENTED NEW YORK

Rick Archer's Note: 

Before we begin, please keep in mind I wrote my story about Clay Felker 40 years after the events described.  What I have written is based entirely on snippets culled from various Internet stories.  Considering there is not one piece of first-hand knowledge involved here, I apologize for any inaccuracies.  That said, I think the story I have shared is pretty close to what took place at the time.  Although the Reader may recall I covered these details at the start of my book, I hope you won't mind if I review the story for better understanding. 
 

 

As founder and editor of New York magazine, over the years Clay Felker published one ground-breaking story after another.  Often referred to as 'Mr. New York', Felker had three great talents.  First, he hired the best writers in the world.  Second, he threw the most lavish parties New York had ever seen.  Celebrities and politicians craved an invitation.  During those parties, Felker and his talented writers made sure to pick up on the latest gossip and use it to their advantage.  Third, Felker had a gift for spotting a good story.  Nancy Newhouse, a senior editor in the early years of New York magazine, once said this about Clay Felker:

"I have never seen anyone who was as open to his intuition as Clay was.  He had no barriers between his intuition and himself.  Most of us have all kinds of defenses.  But with Clay, there was no barrier.  Sometimes he was wrong, but he was right enough of the time, spectacularly right, that it was astounding."

In other words, Clay Felker was the guy with his finger on the pulse of the Greatest City in the World.  Or, as Tom Wolfe put it, he was the Man Who Invented New York. 

Clay Felker was famous.  He was, a major Somebody.  However, at the height of his career, a Nobody named Nik Cohn used Felker as springboard for one of the greatest scams in journalism history.  This is a great story, but why is it relevant to my book?

Rick Archer owes his entire dance career to this tale.  

In a 2016 article written for The Guardian, Nadia Khomani had this to say about Nik Cohn:
 

"Saturday Night Fever was released in 1977, and has since grossed $285m worldwide.

The soundtrack became one of the best-selling film albums of all time after staying at #1 for 24 consecutive weeks, reinvigorating the Bee Gees' music career in the process. 

John Travolta became one of the youngest actors ever to be nominated for the best actor Oscar.

Decades later, not many people remember that this phenomenon was down to one man: Northern Irish rock critic Nik Cohn thanks to his story Tribal Rites of the New Saturday Nights in New York magazine."

Catapulted to fame when Saturday Night Fever became a smash hit, Nik Cohn began living the high life.  Nadia Khomani captured Cohn's upgraded lifestyle in vivid fashion.

"Picture it: A writer pens a magazine article, an instant sensation. Producers come calling, he sells the rights for tens of thousands, the tabloids give him a nickname, acquaintances greet him as a friend, checks flood in, he attends the premiere of his film in Los Angeles with a famous disco singer on his arm.  It's glitzy, it's glam, it's Hollywood, baby.  But as he makes his way through the frenzy outside the theatre, through security, paparazzi and screaming teenage girls, he is filled with moral panic.  Why?"

What is this 'Moral Panic' Ms. Khomani refers to?  In 1997, 20 years after his glory days, Nik Cohn confessed he had made up the entire story and slipped the counterfeit tale past Clay Felker.

That was pretty slick, but the real pay-off came when Cohn turned around and exploited producer Robert Stigwood for a bonanza that was the stuff of dreams.  Stigwood had made a mistake.  He had signed Travolta to a Million Dollar contract only to find out after the ink dried that Grease was not available to be filmed for another year.  Spotting Cohn's fake story in New York magazine, Stigwood knew instantly Travolta would be perfect as the moody dance stud with a big chip on his shoulder.

SCAM OF THE CENTURY

So how exactly did Nik Cohn pull this off?  He had the advantage of inside information. 

Back in England, Cohn had been hanging out with a famous rock group known as The Who ('Who are You', 'Pinball Wizard').  Robert Stigwood was their manager.  During the filming of Tommy, a rock musical based on an album recorded by The Who, Cohn was invited by the band's leader, Pete Townshend, to visit the set.  That is how Cohn met Bill Oakes, an RSO music executive (Robert Stigwood Organization). 

When Stigwood relocated his operation to New York City, Oakes invited Cohn to come along and sleep on his couch till he could find a place of his own.  Cohn parlayed his connections with RSO into a job as music critic for Felker's magazine.  That led to an assignment to check out the dancing at a Brooklyn nightclub.  As it turned out, there was street brawl right in front of the Disco.  Nik Cohn was too afraid to even get out of his taxi.  So he watched a while, then decided to use his imagination to write a fake story based on characters he had met in the London Mod Scene. 

After he finished, Cohn handed the article to Bill Oakes and asked him to take it over to RSO as a potential movie script.  Kevin McCormick was in charge of film development for Robert Stigwood.  The moment McCormick read the story, he saw the potential and engaged Nik Cohn in preliminary talks.  Cohn agreed to $10,000 for an option on his article with Kevin McCormick on board to produce the movie if Stigwood approved.  However the deal had not been finalized. 

When Cohn told his buddy Bill Oakes about McCormick's interest, Oakes said, "Before you go back, why don't you see if you can get your story published?  Stiggy (Stigwood) is a lot more likely to pay attention if you can get it into New York magazine first." 

Cohn was an aggressive guy.  He could have waited to approach Felker at work the next day, but he was impatient to get Stigwood on board.  That night Cohn went to the trouble of tracking the editor down while Felker and several friends ate dinner at a posh New York restaurant. 

Imagine the chutzpah.  Try to picture the nerve it took for this scruffy street hustler to walk uninvited into a restaurant and interrupt his boss while Felker entertained celebrity friends.  Right in the middle of the meal, some lowly unknown music writer breaks in to pitch a story about a bunch of poor Brooklyn teenagers who liked to dance.  Startled, Felker decided to listen as Cohn explained that his story depicted the dance world of disadvantaged teenagers who lived in Brooklyn.  Every Saturday night this tight-knit group wrapped their entire lives around Disco dancing in the clubs. 

To Cohn's dismay, Felker laughed in his face.  Ridiculous!  Then Felker rubbed it in.  With Cohn standing there, Felker embarrassed the young man by asking his dinner guests what they thought about a story covering the Saturday night dance habits of young working-class Italian-Americans.  Understandably these important cognoscenti scoffed.  Who gives a flip about a bunch of teenagers who like to dance on Saturday night?  They had heard it all before.  This lame story could just as easily been written about dancing to surf music in Beach Blanket Bingo.  Hearing the scorn in his friends' voices, Felker told Cohn to forget it.  To him, Disco music was a fringe phenomenon exclusive to boring lower-class youth.  No one who read his magazine could possibly be interested.

Cohn was crushed, but he wasn't going to give up easily.  He went behind the editor's back to speak to Felker's business partner Milton Glaser.  Glaser liked James McMullan's artwork so much he decided to champion the story.  Despite mixed feelings, Felker gave in and let the story run.  Nik Cohn's story, Tribal Rites of the New Saturday Night, was published on June 7, 1976. 

The moment Cohn's Disco story was published, Bill Oakes made sure a copy of the magazine landed on Stigwood's desk.  Timing is everything.  At the exact moment beads of sweat began pouring off Stigwood's brow over his Grease dilemma, Stigwood noticed Cohn's Disco story right in front of his nose.  Stigwood recognized instantly that he could plug Travolta into this story, but then he panicked.  "Oh my God," Stigwood thought, "what if someone else sees the potential in this story?" 

Here's the funny thing.  What potential?  Disco was hardly a household word in those days, but Stigwood did not know that.  All he knew is Travolta needed a movie to star in this very minute and this story had appeared out of nowhere like a gift from the Universe.  Although the details are murky, there is reason to believe Oakes was keeping Cohn posted on the developments.  Look at it this way.  It was quite a coincidence that Cohn wrote this story at the exact same moment Stigwood was agonizing what to do about Travolta.  That is why I sometimes wonder if Cohn knew about Stigwood's 'Travolta problem' ahead of time when he wrote his fortuitous story. 

In 2007, Sam Kashner wrote a terrific story about Saturday Night Fever in Vanity Fair.  One particular item caught my eye.

"Back in the Seventies it was almost unheard of to buy a magazine article for a movie, but 'Tribal Rites' attracted enough attention that producer Ray Stark (Funny Girl) and a few others bid on it."

Sam Kashner made the point that Robert Stigwood was not the only person who noticed the dramatic potential of Nik Cohn's story.  My theory is that once Cohn got his article published, he pitched his story to every producer in town, thereby driving up the price.  One thing for sure, Oakes came back and told Cohn that Stigwood was hooked on the story.  "You won't believe this, but Stigwood told his lawyer he thinks this movie will make a hundred million!"   Oh really?  Since the deal with McCormick had not been finalized, once he knew about Stigwood's interest, Nik the Slik raised the price.  Cohn let it be known to all concerned that another producer had read the story in Felker's magazine and was really interested.  Imagine that.  "Gosh, I'm sorry, but my price tag has just gone up." 

Hmm.  Stigwood's lawyer smelled a rat.  Sensing they were being hustled, the lawyer suggested Stigwood back off.  Stigwood would not hear of it.  After all, Stigwood's intuition told him this movie could be worth a hundred million dollars.  Convinced he had to have this story at all cost, Stigwood said, "I'm going to pay the kid whatever he wants!"  

After telling the lawyer he would handle it himself, Stigwood nailed down the deal by offering Cohn the moon and the sun.  First Cohn was paid $90,000 for rights to his story.  Then Stigwood gave Cohn first shot at writing the screenplay for a guaranteed $150,000.  It did not stop there.  Cohn negotiated percentage points for the upcoming soundtrack album.  This was unheard of.  Yes, musicians got percentage points, but never a writer.  It had never been done before.  However, Cohn had seen how much money The Who had made from Tommy.  Well aware he had the man over a barrel, Cohn used his street smarts to con Stigwood. 

Who can imagine how much money Cohn made once the music album became a best-seller?  Estimates pegged it at $500,000, maybe more.  What an incredible stroke of luck!  The intricate timing caused by Stigwood's dilemma had transformed Cohn's story from a $10,000 windfall into a half-million Bonanza.  Read that again:  Half a million for a fake story.  It was the scam of the century.

THE MOST BITTER MAN IN AMERICA

Rick Archer's Note: 

If I had one wish, I would have loved to interview Clay Felker.  I combed the Internet high and low for any sort of insight into his reaction after getting flimflammed by Nik the Slik.  Unfortunately I found nothing, not even a tidbit.  Since Mr. Felker passed away in 2008, I suppose his private thoughts will follow him to his grave.  That said, I believe I know enough about this story to make some educated guesses.  Just remember to take everything I say with a grain of salt.  I do not wish for anyone to mistake my conjectures as "Fact".

Let me start by explaining why I am so fascinated with Clay Felker.  First of all, I owe my dance career to this man.  I am not going to say why just yet, but take my word for it.  Clay Felker is the man who did more for my dance career than any other person.  I would be more grateful if he hadn't caused me an untold amount of misery by instigating Houston's Western Transformation without telling me what he was up to.  However, since we never met, maybe I should be more forgiving. 

In addition, I have a deeply personal reason to explain my interest.  I would like to ask Mr. Felker if he believed in Fate like I do.

Let me start by reminding everyone that my former boss, Lance Stevens, called me "The Dance Teacher who Couldn't Dance".  It wasn't a very nice thing to say, but at the time it was true.  In the first year of my dance career I was woefully inadequate.  Nevertheless, right before his eyes two really strange things happened.  Slowly but surely I turned into an excellent dancer.  Practice makes perfect.  But even more remarkable was how my Disco program grew to gargantuan proportions that dwarfed the best Stevens could do. 

How do you suppose that made my boss feel?  Bitter.  That would be my guess.  Stevens surely had to wonder how a clod like Rick Archer pulled it off.  Was he suspicious of my Lucky Breaks?  I speak of things such as the Crossroad Synchronicity, the Partner Dance Crisis, my chance meeting with Deborah Gordon, my chance meeting with Glen Hunsucker, and the incredible contributions of Victoria.  I have tried very hard to explain how I would have been hard-pressed to succeed on my own merits.  Stevens could see with his own eyes how inept I was.  So what could explain my phenomenal success?  Well, you already know my answer.  I gave credit to God and Fate.  But I doubt Stevens was wired to think that way.  The poor man must have been mystified to see me succeed against all odds.

Lance Stevens saw himself as the best dancer and best instructor in the city.  He was the self-described "King of the Whip".  One picture after another lined the wall trumpeting his impressive victories in major Ballroom dance competitions.  Stevens was at the top his game only to see some snot-nosed brat steal his thunder.  How did he explain this unlikely development to himself?

I came to see Clay Felker as a counterpart to Lance Stevens.  Felker was considered a genius.   The Internet is full of accolades for Clay Felker.  I read article after article praising his brilliance.  Some say Felker was the man who invented New York City thanks to one insightful story after another.  He hired gifted writers whose articles gave the city its cachet.  His co-publisher Milton Glaser created the "I love New York" logo.  Felker was respected throughout the country as a very clever guy.

And yet in the story that launched Saturday Night Fever, one of the biggest stories of his career, Felker was totally fooled.  He never saw it coming.  Here was a story that created a national phenomenon, but Felker did not deserve a bit of credit for this ground-breaking article.  He wanted to reject it!  Considering this was the man who was 'spectacularly right' most of the time, it must have blown his mind to miss this one completely. 

In a manner eerily similar to Lance Stevens, Felker was at the top his game only to see some snot-nosed brat steal his thunder.  Although it is highly unlikely Felker realized Cohn's story was a complete fraud at the time, one can imagine the misgivings he felt when this goofy story he had ridiculed magically skyrocketed to become a major motion picture.

Clay Felker's decision to publish Nik Cohn's false Disco narrative in New York magazine was the spark that created the nationwide Disco phenomenon.  Everyone praised him for his wisdom to anticipate this unknown breaking trend.  Hmm.  Do you suppose this development gave him any satisfaction?  I doubt it seriously.  Once Felker realized he had been badly outsmarted by a street punk, he took little pleasure in breaking one of the biggest stories of his career. 

The nightmare did not stop there.  Try to imagine how Felker felt when the film proceeded to make everyone wealthy and famous beyond their wildest dreams.  Everyone but Felker, that is.  Clay Felker, the mightiest clairvoyant of all, Mr. New York, New York himself, had been reduced to a footnote by a nobody. 

I wondered if Felker benefitted in any way from Cohn's story.  In my research, I was unable to find a single story to suggest Felker directly profited from the cultural phenomenon generated by Cohn's Disco story.  Did Felker make any money?  I doubt it.  Does the editor of the Houston Chronicle get money from an award-winning expose printed in his paper?  Probably not.  I could be wrong, but I don't think Felker made a dime off Saturday Night Fever.  Meanwhile Nik Cohn became famous and made an estimated half million dollars.

Perhaps Clay Felker was too hard on himself.  From my perspective, he never had a chance where Saturday Night Fever was concerned. 

No one could have seen this result coming.  That is because it was Supernatural!  If you think I am kidding, nope, not this time.  Robert Stigwood had John Travolta and the Bee Gees in his pocket with no idea what to do with them.  Poof!  Like the answer to a prayer, the perfect story magically appeared out of nowhere.  The luck of having the perfect actor, the perfect story, and the perfect music all at the same time was unbelievable.  Thanks to this Synchronicity, the Arrow of Destiny was pointed at Robert Stigwood, not Clay Felker. 

Nik Cohn had badly outsmarted Felker by planting a bogus article in his magazine.  Gaining credibility from getting his story published over Felker's misgivings, Cohn's story attracted so much interest that he was able to leverage Robert Stigwood into the big payday.  Then Stigwood turned around and waltzed off with the Grand Prize. 

I imagine Felker felt badly used.  No doubt his pride was hurt as well.  Given Felker's sterling track record, I really felt for the guy.  Despite his razor-sharp instincts for spotting unusual lifestyles, a story worth $285 million (SNF box office) had passed right under the nose of the Great Trend Spotter.  Even more pathetic, the story was totally fictitious.  If Felker had been on his game, no doubt he would have caught it.  Instead Felker had to live with the humiliation of being tricked by a street hustler (and the worst was yet to come). 

So here is the question I wanted to ask. 

"Mr. Felker, when you got hoodwinked, did it ever occur to you that you were Cosmically Blinded so Nik Cohn could attain his Destiny?" 

I am just teasing.  I would have had too much respect for Clay Felker to assume I have the right to ask such an impertinent question.  Nevertheless, in manner similar to Lance Stevens, surely Clay Felker had to wonder how Nik Cohn, a menial staff writer for whom he had little regard, managed to pull off a half-million dollar score. 

How do you suppose Mr. New York felt about this?  Personally, I think the most bitter man in America had to be Clay Felker. 

OUT-FOXED

Readers may recall I am fond of an Arabic Proverb known as "Two Days".  This proverb suggests that Life consists of alternating cycles of Brightest Day-Darkest Day, Good Luck-Bad Luck.  When it is your Brightest Day, you can do no wrong.  When it is your Darkest Day, nothing seems to go right.

Something I have always found fascinating is how people who are truly gifted seem to have periods of their life where they really struggled.  Then one day I came across a unique J.K. Rowling quote.

"Talent and intelligence will not inoculate anyone against the caprice of the fates."

To me, this quote suggested that we all are going to experience hardship, even people with money, privilege, talent, intelligence, and friends.  Obstacles are programmed into our life and we have to deal with them.

Currently in our story, Stigwood, Cohn, the Bee Gees and Travolta have embarked on their Brightest Day.  Clay Felker?  This is his Darkest Day.

The main reason Nik Cohn got away with highway robbery is because Clay Felker was badly distracted.  Felker was in the fight of his life trying to maintain control of his magazine.  Felker was up against a ruthless billionaire named Rupert Murdoch.  Making matters worse, it was his own fault for letting the fox inside the henhouse.

Of course we have to ask why would Felker let his guard down.  If you agree with Joanne Rowling, Talent and Intelligence are no guarantee of protection against a loss of Common Sense. 

Felker was a terrific editor, but he had one major weakness... he liked to spend other people's money.  Felker's expenses were so exorbitant, they out-stripped the magazine's resources.  His lavish spending on limousines, office space, costly parties and personal chefs drew heavy criticism from his magazine's board of directors.

One day Felker demanded they buy him a house in the Hamptons so he could throw bigger parties.  That was the last straw.  Clay Felker had grown too big for his britches.  In 1976, New York was going broke.  Fed up with his rampant spending, the board of directors told Felker to find a solution or start looking for another job.

Clay Felker had recently been introduced to Australian media mogul Rupert Murdoch by Katherine Graham, publisher of the Washington Post.  Graham asked Felker to show the new kid in town around New York.  The two became fast friends, lunching downtown, lounging seaside in the Hamptons and discussing mutual business ventures.

In November 1976, Felker made a bold move.  Taking note of Murdoch's deep pockets, Felker mentioned his boardroom problems to his potential sugar daddy.  Felker casually asked if Murdoch might be interested in making an investment in the magazine.  Murdoch's eyes lit up immediately.  Felker's suggestion was akin to asking the friendly neighborhood fat boy to watch his hot dog for a while.  Murdoch smiled politely, then offered an invitation.  "Why, sure, Clay, why don't you drop by the beach house this weekend?  Let's have a talk!"

Felker must have been in some sort of fog.  Or perhaps he had fallen under the spell of 'Cosmic Stupidity'.  You knew I was going to bring that up, didn't you?  Ordinarily a shrewd man with killer instincts, Felker had missed what Nik Cohn was up to and now he missed what Rupert Murdoch was up to as well.  Felker did not seem to understand was that Murdoch was looking to expand his media empire.  That was why Murdoch had come to New York in the first place.  Murdoch had started with the purchase of the New York Post, a blue-collar tabloid.  Now for his next conquest, wouldn't it be nice to have a way to reach the city's wealthy movers and shakers??  Thanks to Felker's big mouth, Murdoch had just realized the smart, sophisticated New York magazine was in play.  Murdoch licked his chops.

Meanwhile Felker remained blind to the danger.  He was so certain that Rupert Murdoch was a well-meaning buddy, Felker poured his heart out to Murdoch during that fateful weekend in the Hamptons. Journalist Susan Braudy offered this startling eye-witness account:

"I had dinner with Rupert and Clay at Murdoch's rented house in Southampton.  I was there as a weekend houseguest of Clay Felker, the publisher of New York magazine.  Murdoch's daughter and son served steak and fresh baby peas.  Flawlessly tasteful.  Intimate.  A stealthy trap.  For Murdoch, the dinner party was a high-level espionage mission. 

Clay had no inkling that Murdoch was secretly positioning himself to steal New York magazine out from under him.  Clay was loquacious throughout the meal.  He explained Manhattan things to Murdoch who Clay clearly saw as a bit of an Aussie rube.  Clay waxed eloquent about his writers Aaron Latham and Gail Sheehy (who were also present at the meal).  He explained my presence in terms of Ms Magazine which he had helped launch and where I wrote and edited.

Clay bragged about his fabulous parties.  He confided to Murdoch that he got his best stories by listening to dinner party conversation.  He was oblivious that this time it was Murdoch who was doing the listening, turning the tables so to speak.  Clay got no stories at this dinner because Murdoch said almost nothing.  He asked one or two flattering questions and that was it.  Murdoch was doing to Clay what Clay usually did to everyone else... listen.

A month or so later, Murdoch seized New York magazine and instantly fired Clay despite assurances to the contrary."

Clay Felker had been out of his mind to speak so candidly to the fox.  Andrew Tobias, one of Felker's writers, had this say:

"Clay was not great with money.  He was always asking me for financial advice like how he could stint on his editorial package.  Clay's bread and butter was creativity.  The stories and graphics and writing meant far more to him than profits.  Then came the day he met a terrific young Australian publishing tycoon.  Clay told me, "Andrew, you've got to go meet this guy!" 

Clay assumed he was setting up Murdoch to be his shining knight.  When Clay sent me over to visit Rupert Murdoch, Murdoch ended up interviewing me about the magazine.  That's when I got that funny feeling.  Sure enough, to Clay's consternation, Murdoch grabbed the magazine right out from under him."
 

Once Murdoch realized Felker had alienated the board of directors, he saw his opening.  At the same time Murdoch was sharing meals with Felker, he was negotiating behind Felker's back with the magazine's majority shareholder.  Murdoch waved big money at the Board and they took it.  Clay Felker never saw it coming until it was too late.  Once he realized what Murdoch was up to, Felker tried to persuade his friend Katherine Graham at the Washington Post to intercede.  When Katherine Graham learned of Murdoch's backdoor dealings, she called Rupert Murdoch to beg him to reconsider.

"Don't do this to the boy, Rupert.  Don't destroy this boy, don't take this boy's magazine from him."

Murdoch could have cared less.  Murdoch sensed weakness.  He was a shark and there was blood in the water.  Felker might be a great editor, but he was a bad businessman.  The moment Murdoch bought the New York magazine, he told Felker to hit the road.  Despite Felker's deep connection to his baby, Felker was of no use to Murdoch.  He didn't want Felker around.  A ship cannot have two captains. 

Felker felt betrayed, stabbed in the back. He expected Murdoch would help him acquire New York magazine, not take it for himself.  He had trusted the wrong person.  Felker was down to one last hope.  His stable of talented writers was deeply loyal.  They threatened to revolt if Murdoch fired Felker.  However, the writers got nowhere.  Murdoch called their bluff.  If they left, Murdoch said he would replace them faster than the furniture.  There's always another college graduate hungry to make their mark.  Besides, try finding another job in this market, especially after Murdoch put the hex on them.  The revolt collapsed faster than a punctured balloon. 

Here is how Richard Reeves, one of Felker's stunned writers, put it:

"This was a time that we all thought the power was with the writers, with the creative people.  We were wrong.  In a way we were forced to learn what they already knew in Hollywood: That's not the way it is.  The power is with the money.  While we wrote about that all the time, and while Clay understood that fact of life intellectually, as a businessman I don't think he got it."

1976 and 1977 were tough years for Felker.  He was outsmarted by Nik Cohn, outfoxed by Rupert Murdoch.  The toughest blow of all was losing his beloved magazine.  When Murdoch showed him the door, Felker was heart-broken and devastated.  He was also out of a job.  Humiliated, Felker lost his pride, he lost his job, he lost his reputation and he lost the most precious thing in the world, the magazine he had created.  Clay Felker had been synonymous with New York magazine.  But not any more.  People laughed at his downfall.  Clay Felker was called a loser, a chump. 

Media mogul Rupert Murdoch, a supposed friend, had betrayed a gentleman's agreement in order to seize control of New York behind Felker's back.  After Murdoch confiscated the magazine, Felker was unceremoniously fired.  Not only did Clay Felker lose the most important thing in his life, he was badly humiliated when news of his failure in the nasty power struggle became public knowledge.  This was a painful blow.  No one but Felker knew the inside story how Nik Cohn had embarrassed him.  However, the Murdoch situation was much different.  Felker's giant reputation was badly tarnished when news came out how Murdoch had tricked him.  Imagine what it must feel like to become the laughingstock in the media capital of the world. 

On a personal note, I was very drawn to Felker's story.  It reminded me of the dread I felt back when the fall of Disco threatened my dance program.  Quite frankly, New York was just as important to Clay Felker as my dance program was to me.  It was his baby, his reason to exist.  I also related to Felker's bitter defeat at the hands of the cunning Mr. Fox.  Clay Felker's big mouth cost him his job the same way my big mouth got me thrown out of graduate school.  The knowledge that I had caused my own downfall was searing, so I imagine Felker was equally devastated.  No doubt he was keenly aware his self-destructive behavior had gotten him into this fix. 

Brightest Day, Darkest Day.  This was Felker's Darkest Day.  Saturday Night Fever was being filmed in Brooklyn at the same time that Clay Felker was wrestling with Rupert Murdoch.  Shortly after Felker was fired in late 1977, the movie debuted in December.  At the exact moment Clay Felker was thrown out, he was forced to watch helplessly as box office and soundtrack made Saturday Night Fever one of the most lucrative films in cinematic history.  This had to be the lowest moment of his life. 

Everyone who touched this movie got rich.  Nik Cohn came away with $500,000.  Robert Stigwood made $300 million.  Travolta and the Bee Gees rocketed to stardom.  Felker was aghast to realize he was the big loser in this amazing bonanza.  In particular, he seethed at the indignity of letting Nik Cohn leapfrog to the stratosphere using his unwitting shoulders for lift-off.  Bitter at his fate, Clay Felker decided he had a score to settle.  Feeling like a chump, it is fair to assume Clay Felker sought redemption. 

But what was he going to do about it?

1978: SEEKING REDEMPTION

Rick Archer's Note:

Before we begin, let me remind everyone that my story about Clay Felker is based on best-guess insights gleaned from stories found on the Internet.  I put myself in his shoes and tried to imagine what went through his mind.  Given that I have no first-hand knowledge, I cannot promise 100% accuracy.  However, I think I came close.  Personally, I find the story of Felker's Comeback Trail to be remarkable. 
 

One of my favorite stories about Saturday Night Fever was the L.A premiere party on December 7, 1977.  Faces in the crowd were all sorts of celebrities including Farrah Fawcett, Chevy Chase, Jim Brown, Michael York, Kristy McNichol, Carly Simon,  John Travolta, Robert Stigwood, and the entire cast from the movie. 

Sitting at home that night in New York was Clay Felker.  He was not invited to the premiere.  Why not?  Because he did not have a single thing to do with the movie.  Felker was not in a good mood.  For one thing, he was unemployed thanks to a certain Mr. Murdoch.  In addition, he was astonished at the reception Stigwood's movie was garnering.  His mood grew worse when he heard this virtually unknown movie had become a box office bonanza to the tune of $280 million  based on a $4 million investment. 

One also has to wonder when he saw that Nik Cohn was there that night accompanied by his date, the glamorous Yvonne Elliman.  To refresh your memory, Ms. Elliman had a Number One hit on the soundtrack titled "If I Can't Have You."

Nik Cohn.  Half a million.  Yvonne Elliman.  National acclaim.  That's Hollywood, baby.  My guess is that Felker wanted to murder the guy.

For all the success tales that weaved through the improbable Saturday Night Fever saga, there was one person who was left with his bat on his shoulder.  Clay Felker.  He struck out.  Try to imagine how Felker felt when the movie proceeded to make everyone wealthy and famous beyond their wildest dreams, everyone but him that is.  Clay Felker was proud man reduced to a laughingstock.  Start spreading the news... Once the talk of the town, rumor had it that Rupert Murdoch and Nik Cohn had outsmarted the great Clay Felker while Robert Stigwood had waltzed off with the Grand Prize.  Filled with bitterness, my guess is Clay Felker craved a second chance. 

I doubt seriously Clay Felker ever got even with Rupert Murdoch.  However, I am quite sure Felker wanted to get even with Nik Cohn.  He probably wanted to strangle the guy.  Considering Felker's extensive contacts, I imagine he knew a mob boss or two willing to do him a favor.  Probably the only thing that saved Cohn's life was the fact that Clay Felker did not yet know the Disco story was a complete fraud. 

As for Robert Stigwood, I cannot see where Stigwood did anything wrong.  Yes, he paid a King's Ransom for the fake Disco story, but that had nothing to do with Felker.  If there were hard feelings between Stigwood and Felker, I remain unaware.  However, I imagine Stigwood's uncanny success wounded Felker's pride.  It is likely that Felker wanted to prove he was just as smart as Robert Stigwood. 

The moral of Casey at the Bat is to swing at every pitch because you might not get another chance.  1976 was the year that Mighty Clay Felker struck out.  Still smarting from letting the Nik Cohn story sneak out from under his nose, I believe Felker craved a second chance.  I would bet money that Felker became obsessed with payback.  Felker had an idea.  If Nik Cohn could trick him, then he could trick him right back.  He had a plan to beat Nik Cohn and Robert Stigwood at their own game.  As we shall see, Felker's plan had an element of genius.  Felker's first move on the comeback trail was to get a job as publisher and editor of Esquire Magazine in 1977.  This turned out to be a shrewd move.  His next move was to look for a way to hijack Stigwood's lucrative sequel to Saturday Night Fever before Stigwood did it himself. 

How do you steal a Sequel?  Good question.  Stigwood owned the legal rights to Saturday Night Fever.  No doubt Felker would be sued to oblivion if he tampered with Stigwood's property.  Felker decided his only choice was to make some sort of 'Disguised Sequel'.  Easier said than done.  How does someone make a Sequel that isn't a Sequel?  Looking for an answer to that question became Felker's burning obsession.  Felker knew if he could find the right vehicle, he had the contacts and the skill to pull it off.  Felker had just as many show business contacts as Stigwood.  In addition, Felker knew the Saturday Night Fever formula by heart.  Throughout the filming in Brooklyn, Felker occupied a catbird seat which allowed him to study every move Stigwood made.  The problem was finding the right vehicle.  Fortunately, finding gold in obscure stories was Felker's greatest skill.  If the master trend spotter could track down something similar to the Disco story, he was certain he could emulate Stigwood's success. 

After taking control of Esquire in 1977, Felker began his search in early 1978.  Did anyone besides Felker know what he was up to?  Perhaps his wife Gail Sheehy and a few close friends, but Felker had learned his lesson the hard way... Keep your mouth shut!!!  No more handing the farm to people like Murdoch. 

So why the need for silence?  If Stigwood had the slightest idea what he was up to, the game would be over.  Felker smartly kept his cards to himself lest this opportunity slip away.  Even so, Felker was not terribly optimistic.  Racing to beat Stigwood to the coveted Sequel, Felker knew his secret plan was a long shot at best. 

The thing about Darkest Day is that one's Brightest Day may be right around the corner.  Just remember to be patient.  Suddenly Felker got hot.  He got a huge break came when Stigwood decided there was no hurry to film a sequel.  Grease wrapped up filming in California spring of 1978.  Felker assumed Stigwood would now turn his attention to making a Saturday Night Fever sequel, but it did not happen.  Since Stigwood had no idea Felker was chasing him, he decided it was too soon to film the SNF sequel.  Instead Stigwood turned his attention to making Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, a 1978 musical mishmash starring the Bee Gees. 

The irony here is that Grease marked the end to Stigwood's Brightest Day.  Now it was time for his Darkest Day to begin.  While Stiggy was in the process of making three of the worst movies of all time, Felker was looking to steal his Sequel. 

JUNE 1978: GILLEY'S

Given this unexpected reprieve by Stigwood, Felker scoured the land for some sort of idea. This was not as easy as he expected.  It took over six months to find what he wanted.  Finally Felker found what he wanted.   His inspiration took place on a summer trip to Texas.  In June 1978 Felker came to Houston to give a Journalism speech over at Rice University.  Stigwood and Felker were on alternating Brightest Day-Darkest Day cycles.  Ironically, Felker's plane touched down in Houston at virtually the same moment as one of the great turkeys of all time, Stigwood's Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, was being released.  Stigwood's star fell as Felker's rose.

The same held true for me.  Felker's Darkest Day was my Brightest Day.  Stigwood's Saturday Night Fever launched my career as a Disco teacher.  Now Felker's Brightest Day would create my Darkest Day.  His grand scheme to steal Stigwood's sequel is what put a premature end to my career as a Disco teacher.  Very curious how this works, isn't it?

In June 1978 Felker was feeling dejected.  Ever since the debut of SNF, Felker had spent month after month scouring the land for a solution to his 'Sequel' problem without success.  The clock was ticking and nothing had caught his eye.  The Houston airport made Felker's bad mood worse.  As he walked through the terminal, Felker was surrounded by neverending images of Saturday Night Fever.  Now that the movie had become the reigning talk of the land, Disco Inferno was raging.  Felker was reminded of his shame by Disco merchandise in every shop he passed.   No doubt Felker cringed each time he saw a picture of John Travolta to remind him of his oversight.  Wouldn't it be nice if he could produce a movie of his own?  Then he would be the one to sell the merchandise in airports among other places.  Gritting his teeth, Felker vowed to find a way to even the score or go nuts trying. 

Little did Felker realize his luck was about to turn.  Felker was met at the airport by Bill Broyles, editor of Texas Monthly magazine, and Mike Levy, the publisher.  They were sponsors of the media event being held at the Rice University School of Journalism.  First the men took Felker to dinner.  Then Levy and Broyles asked him what he wanted to do next.  It was late, 10 pm.  Was he tired?  Would he like to go back to the hotel? 

Felker shook his head.  Felker said he had never visited Houston before.  Would the men mind showing him around the city?  Broyles and Levy were more than happy to oblige.  As the three men got into Levy's car, Broyles suggested they visit élan, Houston's favorite Disco.  élan was just blocks away from Felker's Galleria hotel.  Visit a Disco?  Felker nearly vomited.  That was the last place he wanted to go.  After Felker said he could not stand Disco, Levy decided to try a different look at Texas-style nightlife.  On impulse, Levy and Broyles drove Felker to wild and wooly Gilley’s in neighboring Pasadena.

The moment Felker walked in the door, his eyes grew wide as saucers.  This vast honky-tonk featured a country band, country dancing, a mechanical bull, punching bags, pool tables, and scores of urban cowboys on the prowl for urban cowgirls. 

This was it!  The moment Clay Felker saw dozens of couples dancing to western music, the tumblers fell into place.  Felker had just found what he was looking for.  Felker's instincts said Gilley's was the honky-tonk equivalent of the Disco featured in Saturday Night Fever.  Felker had just hit the Jackpot!! 

Previously Nik Cohn had been in the right place at the right time.  Now it was Clay Felker's turn.  Gilley's had given Felker the second chance he prayed for.  Give the man some credit.  Right now two thousand people were participating in what had to be the most alien environment imaginable to Felker's elitist Eastern sensibilities.  It took some genuine imagination to see the next 'Saturday Night Fever' amidst this beer-fueled honky-tonk madness.   Fortunately, Felker was not put off by the strange sight.  Not at all.  Felker's vision was filtered through a rose-colored lens known as dollar signs.  Felker smiled.  He was back in the Game. 

Here is what I like about this story.  How many people could visit Gilley's and see its potential?  It would never occur to me, what about you?  How many people have the ability to see a run-down, smelly honky-tonk like Gilley's and make it sound like the second coming of Xanadu?  Don't ask me how he did it, but Felker threw Ugly into his spin machine and made Badass sound beautiful.  Felker was about to singlehandedly create a National Country-Western Trend out of THIN AIR. 

JUNE 1978: AARON LATHAM

Give the man some credit.  Felker had the advantage of knowing what he was looking for.  There's old saying: "If a pickpocket were to see a Saint, he would notice only the man's pockets."  If you or I visited Gilley's, we would see the bull, the beer and the brawling.  Clay Felker was said to have a gift for spotting things others missed.  His instant recognition of Gilley's as a substitute for the Brooklyn Disco club that served as the setting for SNF was the perfect example.

Apparently this search had been on Felker's mind for a long time.  I base this conclusion on the fact that Felker instigated his plan the moment he returned to his Houston hotel that night.  On the drive back to the hotel, Felker said nothing to Broyles and Levy, his Texas Monthly friends, about his vision.  Now that he had found his pot of gold, Felker determined that stealth was mandatory. 

Preparing to beat Robert Stigwood to the punch, Felker wasted no time.  Felker needed a country-western story similar to the Nik Cohn story and he needed it fast.  Minutes after entering his room, Felker called his writer friend Aaron Latham at 3 am. 

"Aaron, get on a plane and get your butt down to Houston pronto!"

Aaron Latham was a Washington DC resident married to long-time 60 Minutes correspondent Leslie Stahl.  Although Latham was born in West Texas, he went to college at Princeton.  After graduation, Latham remained on the East Coast to begin his career.  Latham had been Felker’s primary Watergate reporter at New York in the early Seventies.  Developing a close rapport, Latham and Felker became amigos.  This was good because Felker needed someone he could trust.  If one word of his plan leaked out, Stigwood might cut him off at the pass.  

Aaron Latham had never heard of Gilley's, but that didn't matter.  Following Felker's emergency phone call, Latham made a beeline to Houston.  He understood his mission.  Felker wanted him to cut and paste Cohn's Disco story into the C&W environment at Gilley's.  Latham quickly fast-tracked the script that would give birth to Felker's precious 'Sequel in Disguise'.

Clay Felker introduced Aaron Latham to Sherwood Cryer, co-owner of Gilley's.  As the two men walked around the club, Cryer advised Latham on various angles for the Esquire article.  Sherwood Cryer had a big smile on his face.  Cryer enjoyed walking this stranger through the cavernous paths because Felker had confided in him.  After swearing Cryer to secrecy, Felker confessed he intended to make Gilley's the C&W equivalent of Saturday Night Fever.  Based on that conversation, Cryer crossed his fingers.  It was crazy to believe, but Latham's story might just put Gilley's on the national map.

During his tour of the club, Latham met some interesting Gilley's regulars including the colorful operator of the mechanical bull.  Unbeknownst to Latham at the time, the bull operator was an escaped convict hiding in plain sight here at the club.  The man somehow persuaded Latham into riding the mechanical bull.  Latham must have been a brave man.  Since beginners were sure to be thrown, it took real guts to get up on that violent machine.  Sure enough, Latham was quickly thrown off the bull. Latham was hooked.  Undeterred, he spent the rest of the day trying to master the mechanical bull.  Bruised, beaten, sore all over, Latham laughed at how seriously he had taken the challenge.  He vowed to make this mechanical beast the surprise star of his story. 

Latham hung around Gilley's for a month.  He interviewed everyone in sight and rode the bull every chance he got.  The more people he talked to, the more he realized many of them had grown up in the Texas countryside just like he had.  They had moved to the big city to chase factory jobs created by Houston's booming economy.  The Gilley's regulars brought their country ways with them.  Boots, cowboy hats, trucks, Wrangler jeans, and love of country music played a big part in who they were.  These people were straddling two worlds, City and Country, part-Urban, part-Cowboy.  Latham smiled.   Referring to these uprooted kickers as 'Urban Cowboys', Latham's story would revolve around young men, many of them chemical plants workers, who spent every spare evening trying to impress women by riding the mechanical bull and looking for love on the dance floor.  Latham stated “the cowboy, the most enduring symbol of our country,” needed to be reinvented, generation after generation, by people of the American West.

In September 1978, Latham's Ballad of the Urban Cowboy and America's Search for True Grit appeared in Esquire.  This was undoubtedly one of the most pretentious titles in history, but so what.  The important thing was Clay Felker's good sense to place a powerful subtitle on the cover of his magazine: 

'Saturday Night Fever, Country-Western style'!!  

Clay Felker's headline worked like a charm.  He made a phone call to the same guys at Paramount Pictures who had released SNF.  The moment they got the hint: 'Disguised Sequel!', they took the bait.  Then came Irving Azoff, business manager of the rock band Eagles and several others.  He saw the chance to do for his country music artists what Robert Stigwood had previously done for the Bee Gees.  Azoff won the soundtrack bidding contest and began producing Urban Cowboy.  In a blinding stroke of good fortune, John Travolta was available.  With Travolta on board, the success of the movie was guaranteed.  Pasadena, Texas, became Brooklyn with boots on, with a hard-hitting story of directionless youth with John Travolta as the Dancing Cowboy.

I have to believe that Clay Felker's Urban Cowboy project must have been deeply satisfying to him.  Considering the hardships he had faced, Felker was surely proud of himself.  Putting this 'Disguised Sequel' project together was an extremely clever move.  But it was not an original move.  All Felker had to do was follow the Nik Cohn-Robert Stigwood formula.

First, get control of Esquire, a substitute for New York magazine.
Second, find a substitute for the Disco that served as the location for SNF.
Third, hire Latham to replicate the Nik Cohn story featuring directionless youth who spent countless hours dancing in a club.
Fourth, publish the story in Esquire to drum up interest in Latham's sto
Five, stress the Sequel aspect, "Saturday Night Fever, Country-Western style"
Six, get John Travolta to emphasize the sequel angle.
Seven, contact the same guys at Paramount who had made a fortune off SNF
Eight, sell the music rights to an Urban Cowboy soundtrack item
Nine, market C&W clothing
Ten, publicize the movie to every media outlet in the country using Felker's many contacts.

Clay Felker had the sense to capitalize on his contacts in a very unique way.  My guess is that Felker began selling his Sequel to Hollywood before Latham's story was even finished.  There is ample circumstantial evidence to suggest Clay Felker contacted everyone on his Rolodex regarding tie-ins to the movie.  It cannot be a coincidence that the United States was inundated with Country-Western fashions prior to the release of the movie.  Nor can it be a coincidence that the movie soundtrack was released well in advance of the movie release.  This, of course, was a technique that Stigwood had introduced.  In other words, all the marketing was in place long before the public had the slightest idea this project even existed.  Felker would go to orchestrate one of the great pre-movie publicity campaigns in cinematic history. 

This is speculation on my part, but it stands to reason that Clay Felker tipped off Lance McFaddin.  McFaddin was the director of Houston-based McFaddin-Kendrick, the company that specialized in opening fancy nightclubs such as Foxhunter, élan, Ciao, Rodeo, and Cowboy. 

Where do you suppose Lance McFaddin came up with his ground-breaking idea to open a stunningly beautiful counterpart to Gilley's, the ugliest club on the planet?   I am certain McFaddin used insider knowledge to commission market research on the viability of an 'Upscale Western Club'.  Pleased with the survey results and privy to the secret of Aaron Latham's upcoming Esquire story, McFaddin decided to take a huge gamble and authorize the expensive remodel of Foxhunter necessary to create Cowboy.  McFaddin-Kendrick's February 1979 debut of Cowboy became the opening shot in Houston's Western Transformation.  Once the other club owners saw the overwhelming success of Cowboy, they rushed to join the bandwagon. 

So now we know the story behind the curious Disco-to-Western chain reaction that ended my career as a Disco teacher.  The movie box office was $53 million, soundtrack earnings were $47 million.  Although Saturday Night Fever exceeded $400 million, this tidy $100 million payoff was nothing to sneeze at.  I think Urban Cowboy did pretty well considering it was at best a rather tedious rip-off.  For that I tip my hat to Clay Felker, the Wizard of Oz.