One of the things that I’ve long found to be a cause of a bit of pity is the sighting of an ad in the back of a city paper—Detroit’s Metro Times or Chicago’s Reader or the like—for the various bars and lounges that are featuring live music and seeing the name of an act that once played to arena-sized crowds. Now the group, a little older, a little more confused, to borrow a line, is competing with dollar-draft and local “talent” contests, with the opportunity to slam German digestives or to witness wet cotton stretched tight over breasts. To be sure, most of the people in the bands in question didn’t exactly have the time or the inclination to pursue things that might give them something to fall back on: We may hear of young actors getting private tutoring, for example, but post-high school education is probably something that was given the pass by most of the people in question here. They may have road-smarts, but that probably qualifies you, in the long run, for nothing more than a position greeting people at Wal-Mart. So the obvious thing to do is to, as they undoubtedly say to themselves as a mantra, trying to convince themselves of the relevancy and righteousness, “keep on keepin’ on.” The cry to “PAR-TAY!” complete with up thrust arm becomes weaker as the bus just continues to break down between Nowhere and Someplacenondescript.

But this is not always the case. . . .

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Bill Flanagan really must have some juice. Encomia on his novel A&R are provided by Elvis Costello, Lou Reed, Peter Buck, and Tom Petty. Someone more cynical than I might say that this constitutes a large portion of the literate throng among the rock community. I’m not saying that.

Flanagan, according to the dust jacket, is senior vp and editorial director of VH1. Evidently, he knows intimately about the business he is telling a tale about. And make no mistake: It is a business.

A&R could be turned into a movie (of the week) in short order, a roman a’ clef always makes for the who-is-it? fascination.. There is the requisite number of interlocking and tangential narrative threads as it follows Jim Cantone, A&R man who, in order to get some bigger coin, leaves behind a smaller label to move to the modestly named WorldWide Music, where his belief in himself—and his music—is sorely tested. There is the head of WorldWide, “Wild Bill” DeGaul, who has done everything with everybody as he has created his musical empire. Musicians Lily Rope and Jerusalem. . . .Sex. Drugs. Travel. Rock and roll. And, oh yes, financial machinations.

OK. So it’s a potboiler.

But Flanagan raises an interesting point. A financial guy takes control of the company and does a reorg of the WorldWide staff. And he says, “I think we have to address the reality that pop music now is R&B. That’s not good or bad, it’s just the truth. . . .I listen to what’s getting played on Top Forty radio, it’s pretty clear that rock and roll is no longer the center of the universe. Rock and pop are moving away from each other. . . Why should pop be a subdivision of rock?”

He goes on to say, “Rock and roll doesn’t have to carry the bottom line anymore.” (Remember: we’re talking business here.) “It doesn’t have to pay for everything else. Let hip-hop take that financial burden and you let rock flourish as an art form. It’s a mature style now, like jazz.”

So I ask all of you: Is this correct? Is pop R&B? Is rock mature? Does it matter?