Jeffry Herman

Fresh out of high school, I found myself slinging pizzas at Chalet Pizza, content with the rhythm of tossing dough and taking orders. That is, until my friend Leland threw a curveball my way. He had just landed a job at JL Marsh on Highway 12 and suggested I apply so we could work together. The idea of something new—and working alongside a buddy—was too good to pass up. I applied and was quickly hired.

My first role? A humble record bin filler. It was a critical job—if the bins weren’t full, order fillers couldn’t do their job, and stores like Sears, Montgomery Ward, Target, and Musicland would be left empty-handed. I took pride in keeping those bins stocked and must have done a solid job because it wasn’t long before I was promoted to the head shop division as a picker. Instead of filling the bins, I was now pulling records for orders myself, working closely with Tom, my boss, to supply head shops all over the Twin Cities.

The promotions kept coming. Soon, I was moved to the All Records Division and handed the keys to a company car. My territory? The entire Twin Cities, where I was responsible for servicing 45 RPM records and oldies racks in record departments. It was my first taste of independence—no set schedule, just me, my car, and a city full of music lovers.

As I proved myself, I was promoted to a sales trainee. The deal was simple: train hard, then get my own sales territory. When the time came, I was given a choice—Detroit or San Jose, California. My fiancée, Cassandra, and I talked it over. I had already done my time in Detroit, and neither of us had any interest in going back. Without ever visiting, we packed up our belongings and set out for San Jose, ready for a new adventure.

San Jose welcomed us with its charm, and my sales route became second nature—a weekly journey from San Jose down to Santa Cruz and over to Monterey. It was one of the most beautiful regions in the country, though I was too focused on work to truly soak it in. Pickwick, our parent company, didn’t pay much, but the perks were undeniable—free records, concert tickets, and the occasional run-in with music legends. When American Can Company acquired Pickwick and JL Marsh, they started holding annual conventions at various Playboy Clubs across the country. Between the travel, concerts, and free music, the low pay was almost forgivable.

Then, life threw me a curveball. Cassandra and I separated, and my motivation plummeted. If I were running the company, I probably would have fired myself. Yet somehow, in 1979, I was named Salesman of the Year. The branch manager must have seen something in me because he recommended me for a Sales Supervisor position in Los Angeles.

Once again, I packed up my life and moved, stepping into a leadership role that put me in charge of a team covering Costa Mesa, San Diego, and the Inland Empire. The job was intense, but the territory was breathtaking. The real turning point came when my Sales Manager left to become a wedding DJ. His replacement, Ray Reed, was gruff but brilliant. He became not just a mentor but a lifelong friend—so much so that he was later my best man when I married Kara.

One of my favorite memories came from RCA’s annual country music contest. The grand prize? A trip to the Bahamas. My team and I gathered at Stephanie Hanson’s house in Carlsbad to strategize. We sat in the jacuzzi, brainstorming ways to win when a stranger asked, “Are you guys planning a social event?” That moment stuck with me—we weren’t just colleagues; we were a team, a family.

Our efforts paid off. Mike Vitikivitz won Salesman of the Year, and I earned an honorable mention as Sales Supervisor. Kent Houston clinched the RCA contest for our team, and together, we set off for the Bahamas. Kent brought his parents; I brought Karen Hamilton. Unfortunately, I caught strep throat in the first week, but after a quick visit to a local clinic, I was back in action.

This was the golden era of the record business—when success was measured in gold and platinum records. Salesmen like me were given sales targets, but record companies often inflated those numbers to push their albums to certification. If I ordered five copies of a new hit for a store, I might receive 20 or 30 instead. It was a game of numbers, and it drove up my return percentages, forcing my team to adjust their strategies.

Looking back, those years were a whirlwind of music, road trips, and unexpected twists. From a record bin filler to a Sales Supervisor crisscrossing California, every step of my journey was shaped by chance encounters, hard work, and a little bit of luck. It wasn’t always easy, but it was never boring—and I wouldn’t trade those experiences for anything.