The new A&R guy at Elektra Records isn't fitting in with his co-workers. A self-professed night owl, he rarely gets out of bed before noon, and when he deigns to show up at all, he rolls into work considerably later. He wears sunglasses around the office, pleads blissful ignorance of "music-industry stuff" and insists on smoking cigarettes from the window of his 17th-floor corner space. While he appears to be the only senior vice president who chats gregariously with janitors and makes mix-tapes for interns, he has yet to partake in the most hallowed of office traditions. "I'm just not sure about the watercooler talk," says the new guy, Ric Ocasek. "I certainly know the other people who work here, but it feels awkward to me. I'm used to being on my own."
If Ocasek seems at odds with workplace protocol, it should be noted that his résumé differs markedly from those of his fellow employees. Some decades ago, he held an assortment of odd jobs but never kept one for very long. The work ceased altogether in 1978, when Ocasek became a rock star as frontman of the Cars. When the band dissolved in 1988, the musician released a handful of solo albums and was employed as a freelance producer by groups including Weezer, No Doubt and Guided by Voices. Mostly, he just worked out of his basement.
"I was quite okay the way I was," says Ocasek, who lives in downtown Manhattan with his wife, the model Paulina Porizkova, and their two children. "I didn't need a job. Then one day out of the blue, Sylvia Rhone, the president of Elektra, called and asked me to help with signing bands. I like Sylvia a lot and I've always been fond of the label. Plus, I figured this would be a great way to figure out what's really going on in the music business."
So in April, the '80s icon, now 54, found himself working his first-ever desk job. It's a cushy gig. His well-appointed Rockefeller Plaza office—black leather sofa, flat-screen TV glowing with muted music videos, a suspiciously uncluttered desk—sits empty three or four days a week. Most of the time, the startlingly lanky Ocasek can be found back in his basement, weeding through a pile of demos. "I get about a hundred CDs each week," he says. "I listen to everything. Major labels tend not to go through unsolicited tapes, but some of that stuff is brilliant. I don't pound the clubs, though. I played in so many over the years that I can't even stand the smell of them. [Besides], anybody can learn to play well live—as far as I'm concerned, it's all about making a cool record."
One guesses that in courting bands, Ocasek has a leg up on his competition: In recent years, he has become an elder statesman of cool for an '80s-infatuated youth culture. "Every new indie band is trying to sound like the Cars," says Chris Streng, singer in the Stratford 4—the first and thus far only band Ocasek has signed. When contacted by the Cars veteran in the midst of a tour, the Bay Area quartet had fielded no previous major-label offers. "By the end of the tour," Streng explains, "word had trickled out and the guest list was entirely A&R people." The Stratford 4 ultimately went with Elektra because of Ocasek. "We felt very comfortable with Ric. He's an incredibly nice, down-to-earth guy but also this, like, pop mastermind."
Attesting to Streng's faith, his band will be recording its major-label debut with its A&R rep—who's no slouch in the studio. Although Ocasek describes part of his Elektra role as being "sort of an in-house producer," he continues to work with all the non-label-affiliated artists he wants, recently recording tracks for a forthcoming Le Tigre album. Ocasek also raves about the young folk eccentric Devendra Banhart, but declines to name any bands he's pursuing for Elektra.
There is one potentially hot act, however, that he declares to have no interest in whatsoever. "I would never sign myself!" says Ocasek, who just completed a solo album. "That would be pretentious and unfair. I'm not trying to reenter the pop thing—I don't want to play that game anymore. I'm just making music because I love it so much."