The first thing you notice as you trundle your way up the stairs is the collection of autographed record albums on the walls. “To Jay, the Best, Pops Staples”; “To JB Ross and Co. From the Chi-Lites, All the Best.” Signatures are scrawled across albums by Charlie Musselwhite, Albert King, and Ricky Nelson; there’s even a “To Big Jay” from Jello Biafra.
“Take a message.”
“Tell him to hold on a second.”
Rap music pulsates in the front room. Jazz music wafts from the recording studio upstairs. Prince’s “1999” blares from a boom box out on the street. The voice over the intercom sounds like a rap record. “Beeeep. Take a mes–, take a mes–, take a take a take a message.”
“Having done this for 20 years, one gets a broader overview of what it takes to be successful,” Ross says. “Not that anyone can say, ‘I know what it takes to make a star,’ but you see certain themes and variations on those themes. Image is always very important. We had a fellow who came into our office about seven years ago. He was a very unusually dressed man who wanted us to change his name. He had a very unusual image with his jewelry and the way his hair was cut. He said he wanted us to change his name from Lawrence Tero to Mr. T. So we did.”
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Among Ross’s employees are two other lawyers, a secretary, a paralegal, and assorted people trying to break into the music business. There is office space for rent on the ground floor and a music studio on the third floor. Ross works in between. His classic show-biz bathroom has a phone next to the commode and a collection of toiletries filched from hotels: soap from the Midland, a sewing kit from the Marriott Marquis, more soap from the Fairmont. Ross’s private office is a shambles. There are knickknacks all over the place, spiderlike chairs the same blue as Sesame Street’s Cookie Monster, tumbling stacks of cassettes, a Bugs Bunny glass, a broken clock made out of a Motown record, a collage of photos of Albert Einstein framed on the wall, stacked cardboard boxes, and papers on the floor. On the bookshelves, legal tomes hold their place alongside volumes about the history of rock and roll. There’s nothing at all in the trash can.
Ross sits at his desk wearing a blue blazer and a salmon-colored shirt with a matching handkerchief. No tie. On his lapel is a commemorative pin from NARAS. His hand is covered with scrawled phone numbers. His silver hair isn’t combed and now he’s using a giant paper clip to scratch a sideburn. He takes a swig from a bottle of pineapple soda. “Did I forget to shave today?” he asks.
