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The son of a Turkish diplomat, Ertegun made a return on some investment capital in 1947 that helped him build a music empire that was nearly as diverse as Rome at its height. He presided over an era when recorded music exploded into a cutthroat capitalist industry that breaks hearts like bubble wrap. “Tread softly, for you tread on my dreams,” sigh generations of hopefuls (some of whom even realize that they’re quoting Yeats), and the music biz laughs cruelly.
Sure, Ertegun came from a privileged background and moved in the very highest of social circles. Sure, he might have been just another one of those upscale college kids “slumming” in jazz clubs. But he didn’t stop there. Perhaps coming from a different culture entirely gave him a different view of American and British music that helped him spot standouts, but his instincts were almost always true. Just like exemplaries in sports, the arts, politics, or what have you give the young and the middling dreams that are not necessarily realistic but necessary nonetheless for a certain kind of survival—willingly getting out of bed every day doesn’t come naturally to everyone in a depressed, recessed nation, after all—Ertegun’s life and career is a “Go West, Young Man” story for the record hound and the hopeful tastemaker.
