Beethoven and Bach Take a Lesson From Rock : Pop promoter Barry Fey helps the Colorado Symphony players run their own concerts

Nothing seems to bother Barry Fey. For 22 years as king of concert promotion in Colorado, the roly-poly impresario has calmly held his own in the manic, rock ‘n’ roller-coaster world of big-time pop music.

Maybe that’s why he appeared to be the only relaxed person in the room during a recent planning session of his latest and most daring, project: the Colorado Symphony, a do-it-yourself, player-run orchestra dreamed up by Fey only a few months ago.

The five musician-administrators sitting around the conference table nervously shuffled the sheets of paper outlining the orchestra’s first season as Fey and three representatives of a local ticket agency worked through details of selling season subscriptions.

That’s when the bad news hit.

“You’re putting them on sale Monday morning?” a ticket seller asked. “That’s when Motley Crue goes on sale.”

A mixture of groans and non-believing laughter filled the room. At the head of the table, Fey leaned back and flashed a sly grin.

“What a great mix,” he said brightly, no doubt envisioning a group of middle-age, well-dressed classical buffs crowding the ticket window alongside a mob of heavy-metal fans.

“Hey, we could combine both things: Call it Motley Shostakovich!”

It’s all rock ‘n’ roll to Fey, 50, who blithely admits to near total ignorance about classical music. Of course, he also doesn’t have a clue about many of the rock groups he’s booked into local clubs.

What does he know? “After two decades in the business,” he likes to boast, “I know how to sell tickets.”

On Oct. 27, with local and national media in attendance, nearly 14,000 Denverites packed McNichols Sports Arena and heard Fey invite everyone to “please welcome your Colorado Symphony Orchestra.” The crowd--paying $10 or $12 admission--stood and cheered as 90 musicians paraded through the hall illuminated by spotlights.

But there have been few cheers since. The first classical weekend of three concerts drew a total of 2,592 in a 2,700-seat hall. Fey said the musicians were paid $200 for the weekend. Ticket sales were less than brisk for a pops concert featuring country singer Michael Martin Murphey the next weekend.

But the Colorado Symphony has planned 43 classical programs--interspersed with 18 pops concerts--in a season stretching to March 26. Unlike other orchestras that are subsidized about 40% with donations, the Colorado Symphony’s very existence will depend on ticket sales alone. And a rock promoter will be selling those tickets.

Sounds pretty radical. Fey cringes at the suggestion. “I’m not trying to be a revolutionary,” he insists. “I doubt that this thing will spread if we succeed. It can’t, really. You need someone with my credibility, my high profile.”

The Colorado Symphony may or may not make it--but Barry Fey cannot lose. “I really didn’t court this thing. If it works, great. I’ll stay with it for a few years until the players don’t need me anymore.

“If it fails, well, you can’t blame me for trying.”

It all began innocently enough last spring. The financially crippled Denver Symphony Orchestra (DSO) collapsed under the weight of a $4-million debt after the players refused to accept an offer of sub-poverty wages from management.

That set Fey to thinking.

“It really irked me that the symphony board should decide the musicians’ fate,” he recalls. “I said to myself, ‘Let the people decide.’ ”

Fey made a few calculations and placed a phone call to DSO viola player Lee Yeingst. History was about to be made.

As Yeingst remembers that fateful phone call from Fey, the promoter spelled out his very simple plan for re-designing the orchestra and marketing it like any rock band--one gig at a time.

“It was not an instant marriage,” Yeingst says of his relationship with Fey. “I sensed his sincerity, but I worried about the public’s reaction--and the players’ reaction.” His choices at that time were few.

“There was nothing out there for us. But it wasn’t as if this proposal was a last gasp for the players. We had all committed ourselves to no season.”

Yeingst wasn’t the only one tentative about this unlikely partnership. “I realize there was a lot at stake,” Fey admits. “I don’t want to hurt the players. In fact, when I went down to the concert hall to explain my proposal, I was nervous. I didn’t know what to think. I said to them, ‘Let’s come up with every reason why this wouldn’t work.’ ”

Evidently, those reasons were scarce: Shortly after that meeting, the players voted overwhelmingly to abandon the Denver Symphony and follow Fey.

On paper, at least, the plan looks quite simple: The promoter would apply his marketing expertise and staff (along with about $20,000 to get things rolling), while the musicians would take care of concert planning. No foundation money would be solicited, no wealthy board of directors would be appointed. After expenses were met, 15% of every ticket dollar would go to Fey--the rest would be distributed among the players.

Boiled down to basics, the Colorado Symphony would operate like no other orchestra in the country.

It didn’t take long for the novelty of this arrangement to catch the attention of orchestra administrators nationwide. And for good reason.

In recent years, the lights had gone out in concert halls in Kansas City, Oakland, Nashville, New Orleans, San Diego and San Antonio, mainly because of a rising tide of red ink caused by decreased government support and local economic downturns. In those cities--and others--civic pride is one of the major reasons the music has returned. Though each city has a different tale to tell, none of those cities can match Denver for sheer offbeat originality.

Newsy it may be. But, according to a sampling of symphony officials, the Barry Fey way won’t work.

“We’ve been following the story closely, though more out of curiosity,” says J. Thomas Bacchetti, executive vice president of the Atlanta Symphony. As with other administrators, Bacchetti takes issue with Fey’s strict reliance on ticket revenues.

“Ticket sales and other earned revenues provide only half of what it costs to run our orchestra,” he noted. “That seems to be the going rate around the country.”

According to Kevin Hagan, general manager of the Florida Symphony (and former general manager with the Denver Symphony), “There’s just no way they can make money without contributions.”

In San Antonio, Rick Lester has been following the Denver story closely since his orchestra went through a similar mutiny two years ago. Breaking from management, the musicians formed Orchestra San Antonio. It was not a great success.

“The first concert,” Lester recalled, “each player got $98. The next four or five they get nothing. A player-run orchestra wouldn’t work here--it didn’t work here.” Instead, management and labor reconciled their differences. Today, Lester said, things are better, though “we have yet to solve short-term cash-flow problems.”

While voicing similar reservations about player-run orchestras, Los Angeles Philharmonic Executive Director Ernest Fleischmann noted: “It’s not possible to rely on ticket sales alone anywhere in the world.”

All those doubting Thomases don’t faze Fey a bit. In fact, such criticism seems to heighten his resolve.

A shrewd, seasoned businessman, Denver’s unlikely symphonic savior appears to revel in the role of nose-thumbing anti-traditionalist. He leans back in his office chair and casually swats away every argument against the prospects of success.

“Everyone tells me an orchestra can’t get by on ticket sales alone,” he says. “But that’s erroneous. If we only have 1,500 people for each show--which is what the Denver Symphony averaged last season--we’re fine. That works out to an annual salary of $23,000 for each player. And that’s not including a summer season.”

Each group of three weekend concerts for the ‘89-90 22-week season is carefully budgeted, with an emphasis on cheap. No more than $2,300 can be spent on advertising per show, while about $3,500 is allocated for soloists and conductors for each performance (again, based on DSO figures). In sympathy with this fledgling orchestra’s plight, nearly every guest artist for the first season has taken a healthy cut in fees or has agreed to appear for expenses only.

Some of Fey’s calculations have had to be revised, explains Yeingst--who has become the orchestra’s president.

“Barry didn’t understand that the players would need the concert hall for more than just performances. We need to rehearse in there as well.” Evidently, Fey figured the players would practice in someone’s garage.

In many ways, the new orchestra has created its own problems. By hastily arranging a season at the last minute, the artist committee had no hope of landing any superstar maestros (DSO music director Philippe Entremont resigned in a huff in January). Instead, such non-stellar names as Semyon Vekshtein, Gilbert Levine and Miguel Gomez Martinez were booked. Guest soloists also lack name recognition.

Once again, Fey is unconcerned. For one thing, he hardly knows who any of those superstars are. For another, he figures much of his audience doesn’t either. “It’s all an unknown for them. Most won’t care who’s conducting.”

Fey likes to use the phrase “The People’s Orchestra” in describing the Colorado Symphony. “I don’t expect any spike-heads to come, but maybe they’ll put in a good word for me with their parents.

“I’m not excluding anyone--certainly not the old guard. Everyone is welcome. The music has to bring people together, and it can do that.”