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| Barry, standing above the logo, wearing suspenders. |
I've written books. I've written movies. I've worked on dozens of television series. I've labored on politicals, from the local level all the way up to presidential campaigns. I've also edited literally thousands of commercials for clients of every variety. I've cut celebrities and/or put words in their mouths. I even managed to make a nice income in the process. However, I doubt any of that would have happened without the skills and discipline I learned very early in my career at the advertising agency Smith Burke & Azzam.
Nowadays, I always try to teach at least one section of screenwriting at my alma mater Towson University every semester. When students ask me what they should do after college, I always recommend getting a job at an advertising agency. To me, it was like working at a small movie studio or television network. You get the opportunity to participate in the creative process from the origination of a concept, through pitching, production and post. You get to learn about marketing, too. You can't beat that. I still apply the lessons I learned working at Smith Burke & Azzam.
How did I break into advertising? Easy. Nepotism. My mother was the office manager at SB&A. When the powers-to-be needed someone for a day or two to perform a mindless, repetitive task, she immediately thought of her unemployed, college graduate son would be perfect.
What was that task the changed the trajectory of my life? Signing Barry L. Smith's name on thousands of new business letters they were sending out.
Yes, I got my start in the business forging Barry's name.
They must have liked me because I soon found myself at the agency practically every week doing something or other until they finally hired me full time. I worked in the mailroom, the accounting department, media, and the creative department. I worked in every department except Account Services, which dealt directly with the clients. Once, when I remarked upon that fact to agency partner Joe Burke, he replied, "That was not an oversight, Sean." Oh well. They liked me enough to hire me full time not once, but on five separate occasions! (Any time we lost a major account, there would be a bloodbath. I tended to be one of the first to go, but I would usually be back, in at least a freelance capacity, within a couple of weeks at most.)
In addition to offering me the chance to work on some really cool projects, I also got to meet some very smart, funny and talented people at the agency. There were some real characters, and Barry was one of the most memorable.
I don't know if Barry was the first Texan I met, but he was definitely the first classic Texas wheeler-dealer I met. He had a genial Texas drawl, but he wasn't the kind of Texan who went around in spurs and string ties. In fact, he was the first person I met who had a tailor come into the office and pick out clothing for him every season. Instead, he was one of those proud "Everything is bigger in Texas"-kind of Texans. In fact, he used to lament how tame SB&A was compared to some places he worked at in Texas.
Barry was a rainmaker by trade. A new business guy. His job was to go out and get new accounts and he was good at it. I think the highpoint of his career at SB&A was when he somehow nabbed the Playboy account, which was quite an accomplishment for a small agency in Baltimore that wasn't really even in the pitch. He always exuded confidence. When you were on his side, you always felt you were going to win. Of course, since he was a Texas wheeler-dealer, discerning exactly what side Barry was on wasn't always clear. Smith Burke & Azzam itself was born when Barry and his initial partners, Joe Burke and Gene Azzam, lifted the Roy Rogers account from their then employer W.B. Doner. I wasn't surprised when I saw that most of the stories involving Barry on the internet involve lawsuits of one kind or another.
Of course, those legal battles were way above my pay grade. Despite the relatively small size of the agency, which seemed to fluctuate between eighty and a hundred employees, I did not have much direct contact with Barry. He seemed to spend much of his time out of the office doing what he did. My first real direct contact with him seemed as worrisome to him as it did to me.
Barry had bought a new high-end BMW and needed to get it cleaned. I was delegated with the task of taking it to the detailer. I met Barry beside his car in the cramped parking garage behind our offices at 326 North Charles Street. He handed me the keys. I got behind the wheel and discovered to my horror that the car was stick shift. I had driven stick before, but three on the tree, not four (or was it five?) on the floor. There was no way I was going to tell Barry L. Smith that I had never driven that kind of stick before. So I gamely started the engine and shifted gears, but I let go of the clutch too soon and car lurched forward before stalling out. Barry didn't say anything. He just studied me as I started the car again. And, again, I mistimed the clutch and his luxury car lurched forward and stalled. Then he finally walked over and tapped on the window. When I lowered it, he asked with some concern, "Sean, are you sure you know how to drive my car?" "Yes, sir," I lied. Fortunately, this time when I started the car, I got it moving successfully until he was out of sight.
To many of us entry level kids new to the industry, Barry became a legendary figure. Since he was the head of the agency, he was, metaphorically, our father in the business. A couple of us took to calling him Dad amongst ourselves. His exploits, both real and rumored, were endlessly gossiped about and probably exaggerated in the process. Working for Barry was like working for Mad Men's Don Draper, aside from the fact that Draper was a creative and Barry was an account guy. It was fascinating for me, a young and much too naive kid, to watch.
My deepest dive into the world of Barry L. Smith came during one of his weddings. He was marrying his former secretary Shelley. It was his fourth wedding. Her first. Barry hired me to film the wedding because he said I was the type of guy who would ask the guests, in his words: "Why do you think Barry is marrying her when he's already getting the milk for free?" I took that comment as license to ask the guests precisely those kind of questions. And, surprisingly, many of them answered with indiscreet candor! Barry loved the final result. (Shelley less so.) He only chided me because he heard I had cut a tactless comment someone had made in order to protect the person. Barry just said, "Sean, it wasn't your job to protect people."
I kept a copy of the wedding tape. It saddens me to watch it, less for what anyone said or did than for the fact that too many people in it have passed away. Now Barry himself has joined them.
One final Barry story. Barry had left the agency. I don't remember the politics of the move, but he still kept an office there for a while. He was soon hired as a consultant for a hotel chain to help them pick an advertising agency. SB&A was one of the agencies invited to pitch the account, along with four other agencies from all around the country. After the pitches, Barry hired me to make five VHS tapes of each pitch. It was very illuminating. I had worked on many of SB&A's pitches, but this time I got to see how four other agencies handled the same opportunity with the same company. When I gave him back the tapes, Barry asked if I had watched them. I said I had. He asked me what I thought and I told him. Then Barry gave me his breakdown of each pitch, and what had worked and what hadn't. It was a real masterclass in pitching from an old pro.
Barry's former company, and my then employer SB&A, did not win the pitch. The hotel chain went with another agency, which had also hired Barry as a consultant for their pitch. So Barry was working as a consultant for both the hotel chain and the agency that won the account. That made some people suspicious. It made the trades, but Barry angrily denied that his actions were unethical. Why? Because he had offered his consulting services to all of the contending agencies. He couldn't help it if the one that hired him won....
Classic Barry.
Smith Burke & Azzam became Gray Kirk & Evans. I was gone from the staff before they acquired the venerable Baltimore agency VanSant Dugdale and became GKV. Barry ended up on the client side at Choice Hotels, which became their biggest client. Since I frequently worked for GKV in a freelance capacity, I still lingered in Barry's shadow for a while longer. The last news I heard about him was the most shocking: He had gotten religion and started attending a mega church somewhere in the Southwest. Good for him! I was even approached about editing a public service announcement he was putting together for them, but the job fell through. Too bad. I would have liked to have worked with that Barry.
Sadly, I will never have the chance.
Rest in peace, sir.
Here's a more traditional obituary: Remembering the life of Barry L. Smith
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| Barry with his daughter Ashley |
I doubt Barry would mind me promoting my book after my tribute to him. In fact, he'd probably give me an amused half smile. So here goes. Be sure to check out my memoir The Promise, or the Pros and Cons of Talking with God, published by TouchPoint Press. It is my true story of first faith and first love and how the two became almost fatally intertwined, or, as Barry might say, how I ended up with neither the milk nor the cow.
Here are some sample chapters of The Promise:
