Right Times, Wrong Tracks (Part 2)

In the same way that the much-maligned and often misaligned 8-track audiotape player of the 1960s was eventually redeemed as a pioneer that ushered in the car stereo (see part 1), the sleek, sexy “Disco” of the ’70s eventually earned its rightful place in the world of entertainment.

While the clunky 8-track offered up on tape radical new ’60s music from the likes of Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin and The Doors, the classy high-tech "Discos" of the ’70s served up exciting, upbeat dance music from groups like the Bee Gees.

But in this “Disco,” not only could we hear the Bee Gees singing “Stayin’ Alive” from the soundtrack of the movie Saturday Night Fever, but we could also see John Travolta’s magnificent performance on the dance floor: this “Disco” contained no revolving globes with white laser lights—rather a revolving disk with red laser beams.

Before the CD (Compact Disc) or DVD (Digital Versatile Disk), there was DiscoVision. And like the 8-track, which launched car stereo, MCA’s DiscoVision—the Laser Videodisc Player—was a major contributor to the early days of home video, and the genesis for the way we listen to music on Compact Discs and watch videos on DVD to this very day.

Although it debuted at the height of the disco craze (1978), the only thing DiscoVision had in common with discothèque (disc and bibliotheque [library]) was that it too was a portmanteau—a blended word—combining “Disc” and “Vision.” The “o” was added later for ease of pronunciation.
Eventually, DiscoVision would come to be called LaserVision and Laserdisc.

The foundation of this laser disc technology can be traced back to 1958, when David Paul Gregg, often called the father of the laser disc, invented what he referred to as the “Transparent (Video) Disc.”
In 1967, the technology was brought to the attention of Lew Wasserman, President of MCA Universal. With thousands of movies in his library, Wasserman envisioned a day when the public could play back movies on a video disc player, the way they were accustomed to playing back records on a turntable. So, in February 1968, MCA bought a 60% controlling interest in Gregg’s company, Gauss Electrophysics—along with his laser disc patents—for approximately $300,000.

By 1969, Royal Philips Electronics N.V (commonly known as “Philips”) had improved on the Gregg technology and developed its own format called the “Reflective Optical Videodisc System,” which used a reflexive optical disc rather than the transparent one.

Philips and MCA soon planned to ‘marry’ their technologies, name their “child” DiscoVision and, hopefully, live happily ever after.

Three years later, in 1972, they unveiled the first prototype of DiscoVision, and MCA Universal’s president, Lew Wasserman, believed he had the basis for a technology that would revolutionize the home entertainment market.

So MCA and Philips entered into a “period of cooperation,” with a free exchange of information and technology between the two companies. The responsibility for producing the discs rested with MCA, and Philips, through its Magnavox brand, was to manufacture and distribute the videodisc player.
Wasserman, often considered a god-like figure in Hollywood, was right about his vision, but in 1975, out of Wasserman’s “crystal ball” emerged the Sony Betamax VCR instead.

And when Doyle Dane Bernbach, a New York City advertising agency, sent a letter to MCA Universal in Hollywood, California, on behalf of Sony, requesting permission to run a newspaper ad that read “Now you don’t have to miss Kojak because you’re watching Columbo,” Universal sued Sony, claiming a copyright infringement. And the rest is history, as they often say. (See: Here Comes the Judge, parts 1–6).

It has been suggested over the years that MCA’s primary motivation for suing Sony in 1976 had little to do with copyright issues and more to do with sabotaging the VCR in favor of DiscoVision. This was an allegation MCA always denied, but I, having been in blank media at the time for Ampex and later Maxell, always suspected it was true. But I’m just a royal cynic, folks!

Nevertheless, while MCA fretted about the Sony Betamax, in 1976, JVC introduced the VHS Vidstar. Immediately the VHS recorder became to home entertainment what the invention of the wheel was to transportation. Sales of the VHS decks and pre-recorded movies skyrocketed, and the MCA/Philips DiscoVision was destined for total obscurity.

Very early in the game, MCA knew it was way behind and the clock was ticking fast. So executives quickly “huddled,” went into a “hurry-up offense” and started throwing “Hail Mary” passes . MCA knew it had to get DiscoVision onto the market before it was totally eclipsed by the VCR juggernaut.

MCA started pressing the discs at a frenzied pace, while Philips hurriedly assembled the laser disc players in Europe. Philips had acquired Magnavox to manufacture and service the new laser disc players in America as well. However, the Magnavox plant in Tennessee was not on-line, so all the first players had to be assembled in Europe and air-freighted back to the US. It was suggested that the units cost so much to build and air-ship that Philips lost money on every one they sold.

The optical media age finally arrived in the US on December 15, 1978, when the Philips Magnavox Magnavision Model 8000 DiscoVision Videodisc Player was offered for sale in three Atlanta, Georgia, electronics stores.

The formal wedding day had finally arrived, and the marriage between MCA and Philips had “only just begun.”

In a nearly riot-like atmosphere, consumers tussled over the limited supply of Magnavox Magnavision VH-8000 players, which were selling at $749 each—a fairly hefty price tag for a piece of electronic equipment nearly 30 years ago! The players sold out within a few hours, and those who couldn’t get their hands on one bought up the discs, expecting more players to become available within a matter of days.

But MCA and Philips never made it to the wedding night, let alone the honeymoon. Before the wedding day was over, consumer complaints abounded over players and discs that didn't work.
The rush to release the format in order to quell the popularity of the VCR failed miserably. With the “delivery” date rushed, the poor DiscoVision "baby" was born way too premature.

The marriage of Philips and MCA immediately began to take strain, and each accused the other of causing the technical problems. A lot of “finger-pointing” soon followed, as both companies tried to distance themselves from the fallout created by a astronomical defective rate.

Then, when Philips learned MCA was cheating on it with the handsome “VCR-less” Japanese “Pioneer,” their marriage would collapse and their DiscoVision baby be orphaned.

(To be continued)