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PrintArtist Spotlight: Defining David Lucas
Carl Cederman
During an interview, a journalist once asked David Lucas if he ever considered giving up commercial jingles to write “real music.” Lucas no longer remembers the name of the journalist, or the magazine he worked for, or when he did the interview. But that question about “real music”—that, he’s never forgotten. “Real music—what does that mean?” he asks. “Does that mean opera or classical music is the only real music?”
The seventy-four-year-old Lucas shouldn’t have to worry about remarks like that anymore. In October, the Buffalo native was inducted into the Buffalo Music Hall of Fame’s Class of 2011 in commemoration of a music career that spans over five decades. Interestingly enough, the entirety of that career occurred outside of the Queen City; although he was born here, Lucas moved to Miami as a teenager, and then worked in Las Vegas, Los Angeles, and New York City before returning to Miami for good in the late ’90s. The induction, then, is a nice testament to just how far this native son has gone. “His experiences are both wide and interesting,” says Rick Mathews, president of the Buffalo Music Hall of Fame. “He seems to have been born to make music. His impact on national music is immense.”
That last statement might seem like hyperbole to those who aren’t aware of Lucas. However, an examination of his career reveals that he has an unusually expansive legacy. He’s primarily known as the composer of more than 2,500 radio and television jingles, for brands ranging from McDonald’s and Burger King to Covergirl and Pall Mall cigarettes. He became the first jingle composer to establish his own studio when he cofounded the Warehouse Recording Studio in New York City. As a record producer, he’s worked with Sir Paul McCartney, Luther Vandross, Jimi Hendrix, B. B. King, and other immortal names. He discovered Blue Oyster Cult and produced some of their earliest work. And he even indirectly created an enduring pop culture catchphrase—but more on that later.
Lucas’s first jingle assignment came in 1964 when his cousin, already a jingle writer himself, referred him to compose something for Macleans Toothpaste. He recorded several takes of the jingle with the McCoys, a popular rock group at the time, before settling on a different version—an early example of the unique method Lucas would eventually adopt for his jingles. Only a few years after that assignment, Lucas founded his own company, David Lucas Associates, for the full purpose of churning out jingles. His MO? To make jingles more serious, more impressionable, and more musical than they had ever been before.
“I was writing hit songs for products,” he says. “I was making up sounds like records that were out on the air.” Lucas’s jingles were more than simple hooks—they had actual structure, featuring dramatic build-ups, progressing melodies, concise verses. They had fully fleshed out arrangements, featuring group vocals and full band instrumentation. (Lucas, at the very least, sang lead or in a group on most of his jingles, but he was always just one part of an elaborate arrangement.)
Looking back, he doesn’t seem to have any delusions of grandeur about the actual nature of his work. “Jingle writing is not an art form,” he says. “It’s a developed craft with an objective to sell a product. Now if that’s a sell-out, and I’m a whore, so what? I had fun. I didn’t do much compromising, and so I never had too many regrets for having not done things I wanted. I’m perfectly happy with my accomplishments and my achievements. The only thing that bothers me is I’m only famous for the f****** cowbell.”
Ah, yes, the cowbell. When Lucas first started working with Blue Oyster Cult, he helped produce what would eventually become the band’s signature song, 1976’s “Don’t Fear the Reaper.” Feeling that it was “too floaty” for a rock ’n’ roll hit, he made the simple suggestion of adding a cowbell to the track to lend it some “linear momentum.” If you listen to the song and didn’t know the cowbell was there, you’d probably never pick up on it, which was the point—it’s just there to keep everything moving smoothly.
Twenty-four years after the single was released, someone certainly took notice of the cowbell. An entire Saturday Night Live sketch was devoted to it, imagining a recording session in which Christopher Walken, as record producer Bruce Dickinson, obsessively demands “more cowbell” from Will Ferrell, playing the band’s official cowbell player. The joke eventually became Lucas’s most recognizable contribution to pop culture, more so than any of the actual music he produced. Lucas doesn’t particularly mind the attention he gets from the sketch, and shrugs it off as “cutely annoying.” However, he admits that there are times when the whole thing can get a little out of hand.
Just as Lucas never wanted his music career to be defined by any one thing—be it jingles, cowbells, or a Hall of Fame induction—he’s also never wanted his life to be defined by his music career. So, while keeping busy with some of his music ventures, he enjoys making himself even busier with a variety of other things. Lucas doesn’t consider himself religious, but rather “spiritual in regards to nature,” and he loves taking advantage of the things he can explore in Miami: sailing, gardening, landscaping. He’s into photography, cooking, carpentry, and several other trades. He’s “devoted his life” to working with his children in their respective fields. In short, Lucas is fine with not being the musical genius everyone thought he wanted to be, because leading a full life has always been his top priority.
“With geniuses, people say they spent all their lives, ninety-five percent of their lives on something. I spent twenty-five on music,” he says. “I have accomplished so many other things in my life. You know the expression, ‘jack of all trades and master of none’? Well, I’m a jack of all trades and master of a bunch. I just follow my heart, and I haven’t left much out. I say that without modesty, because I’m seventy-four years old, and I’ve got a right to say what I f****** know I am.”
Jason Silverstein is a junior at the University of Rochester and a former Spree editorial intern.
