26
Over the last three years, it was not uncommon for the Go-Go’s to hear that they had turned their backs on integrity and their punk origins by accepting an offer to do a television show. The scuttlebutt was that they had “sold-out”— a meaningless term often applied to groups or artists who abandon their original style in favor of achieving more airplay or increasing their record sales.
The glaring truth was, any band in the Go-Go’s situation at the time would have accepted the offer, even if the network had asked them to perform with a Korean tumbling act twice a month. They quite simply had no choice. There was no way of knowing what the future might bring. And so, on that fateful night with Philip Thielen in front of The Whiskey, that’s exactly what they told themselves in the huddle: We have to do this. We can’t turn this down.
Besides, nobody gets into the entertainment business just to stand pat and not shoot for the stars.
Those who don’t are just fooling themselves.
In either case, the people who were making those accusations were either jealous old friends and acquaintances, or second rate publications that had nothing better to write about.
At the top of the list of those “sold-out” claims were the uniquely adorable products that lined the shelves and hung on the racks of department stores for Go-Go’s fanatics to gobble up in massive quantities. In accordance with all the merchandising, the mindset of the Go-Go’s themselves changed dramatically once they agreed to do a major network T.V. show. As soon as they signed on the dotted line, their attitude went from, “No, we won’t do that” to “Hell, yes, put that shit on the shelves as fast as possible.” They had become “America’s Sweethearts” anyway. Might as well go all the way.
At first, the products that came out were the usual array of easy sellers: T-Shirts, baseball caps, notebooks, etc. Then came the more exotic items; the stuff that was destined to become collector’s items and antiques someday in the future: Lunchboxes, thermoses, backpacks, dolls and their complete dollhouses. Even the ever-so-thrilling Go-Go’s board game, which featured the winner of the game receiving a free back-stage pass to go booze it up with the band. (just kidding. I don’t think the mothers of thirteen-year-old girls would find the humor in that)
The network coincided the merchandise output with the Go-Go’s ratings, which rose precipitously over the course of the first season, dipped slightly in the first half of the second season, then remained roughly the same up to the current times. It turned out to be an interesting dichotomy, however, as the sales of the products dipped slightly whenever the ratings went up. There was no reasonable explanation for this from anyone over at the studio, nor from Mr. Tudball, who was supposed to be an expert in this field. He just blamed it on the historically fickle, American public.
The only positive result from the decline in the sales was the announcement from Mr. Tudball that the semi-annual meetings they were accustomed to would now be held only once a calendar year.
“I really think you girls are going to like these first items,” said Abel.
Mr. Draisaitl picked up a box from the miniature hallway in the office, carried it over, and plopped it down on Mr. Tudball’s desk.
The two of them opened up the box and each pulled out a bath towel and a hand towel for everyone to look at.
“You see that?” asked Abel. “We want to start selling these towels and washcloths with the Go-Go’s name stitched into this tapered area here,” he said, pointing to the band’s name. Mr. Tudball didn’t exactly utter the definition of “tapered” correctly.
“Hey, that’s pretty cool!” Gina blurted out.
Sure enough, Mr. Tudball was now holding up an exquisitely fluffy, aqua-blue bath towel with the Go-Go’s name stitched in light, yellow letters into the recessed area near the end of the towel.
Indeed, it was pretty cool.