They're Singing Marvin's Song

McKinsey rocks!

Today, four of the James O band's eight members are bona fide McKinseyites, while the others include relatives and friends such as McCarthy's wife and the brother-in-law of McKinsey partner Eric Roegner, the band's saxophonist. Meanwhile, Kevin Coyne, a McKinsey partner from Atlanta, is an occasional guest member.

Based in Cleveland, Ohio — the city that gave birth to rock-and-roll — the James O band today offers new insights into a consultancy better known, perhaps, for its legacy dress codes than acoustic shrills. "It's a chance for us to completely drop the formality," says McCarthy. "At the end of the day, we take off our business suits, throw them in a corner, put on jeans, sneakers, and T-shirt, and go out and act like adolescents."
Few disagree that a more edgy image could favor the firm, in light of the new cultural dictums being advanced inside some of the e-world's most successful companies. "It's great that there's this visible representation of the talent in the firm," says Clay Deutsch, a senior partner, who adds he's confronted by the "Are you boring?" issue all the time. "There is an impression of us outside the firm, particularly on campus, that is completely at odds with reality. It's often asked as questions: 'Gee, are you smart and powerful guys all dull and boring? Do you have any fun?'"
For McKinsey's Ohio contingent, the band offers more than an opportunity to make music. "We have a history in Cleveland of perhaps feeling we had to work a bit harder. There was a time 20 to 30 years ago when we were somewhat self-conscious about the fact that we were not New York, London, Paris, or Tokyo. We were Cleveland," Deutsch says. "Little things, like the band, are a source of pride. It's something to feel good about."

Start up the band

The band's history actually goes back to an office annual outing in the early 1990s. During cocktails, conversation turned to the musical instruments everyone used to play in their younger years. McCarthy reminisced about Octopus. Partner Jeff Sinclair told stories of being in an a cappella singing group. By the end of the evening, several got up to jam with the band. At the next party, a predecessor to the James O band made its debut, with the performers singing songs spoofing life at the company. The group gathered occasionally to play at office events.
"It's a way to completely purge your brain of any kind of stress from work," says Sinclair, 43, one of the band's three cofounders and managing partner of the Cleveland office. "It's fun to be able to do something where the results aren't bad — it's totally relaxing and different from the day-to-day life on the road."

One day, David Shute, an associate partner, sent an e-mail to McCarthy and Sinclair, suggesting they form "a real band." Shute, who left McKinsey in 1997 to join CSC's Healthcare Group, recalls that the band's first real gig was a New Year's Eve party on Dec. 31, 1995, hosted by McCarthy's wife, Gina Schatz McCarthy. But already the young band had gotten into a bind. Their lead singer, another McKinsey consultant, had been called away to a client in India two weeks before the show.
"We approached Gina and said, This is your party, you're a singer and you're it," says her husband, chuckling. "She knew none of the words. She had to do some quick studying."
Gina's pinch-hitting earned her a permanent offer.
As they started to get better and there was more of a demand for them, the consultants began to treat their hobby more seriously. McCarthy and Sinclair — originally the only two partners — split the cost on the sound system, while the McCarthys renovated their basement and set up a rehearsal studio.
"When they began, I'd call them a garage band," says Deutsch, who was managing partner of the Cleveland office and sort of watched them grow up. He hired them for some office functions and even for some of his private parties. "In true McKinsey fashion, they took this very seriously, and despite the challenges of work demands, they really got into it. I loved it because it was one more thing we could say was cool about Cleveland."
Word about the band began to spread. The members were called on by friends and colleagues to play at their private parties. They have also performed in the Flats — a section of Cleveland known for its restaurants and night clubs. But about half of James O's shows are for firm functions such as recruiting and cultivation events.
Eric Roegner, 30, a McKinsey partner who joined the group two years ago after stints in Sweden and Germany, says that the jitters of entertaining colleagues never completely go away. This past spring, the group played in front of their largest audience at a McKinsey black-tie affair held at the Cleveland Browns stadium. About 300 people, including McKinsey alumni, were there. James O, one of the featured acts, was onstage after dinner.
"The thought running at the back of my mind was, Do they think we really suck?" says Roegner, who convinced his brother-in-law, Tim Daley, an MBA student at Case Western Reserve University, to join earlier this year. "But they weren't throwing tomatoes."

Keep the brass players coming

Over the years, as James O grew from a five-piece to an eight-piece band and as members left, its sound changed. In the beginning, younger members tilted the balance toward alternative music. "As we evolved, we moved towards more classic rock-and-roll, R&B, and Motown. That's what people like to dance to," says Sinclair.
Since the band was formed, about a dozen players have come and gone, leaving three original members — McCarthy, Sinclair, and Shute. Keyboardist Julie Given, a friend of Sinclair and a stay-at-home mother, joined last year when a former McKinsey partner dropped out to spend more time with his young children. Kevin Coyne, 45, a senior partner in the Atlanta office and the band's guest member, started jamming with the band this past year. He plays guitar and bass more regularly with a professional band based in Atlanta.
The band has talked about adding a trumpet or a trombone to make a brass section. "When new people join the office, we'll do a quick check of their resumes and find out if they play an instrument. If they do, we'll check them out quickly and find out if they are any good," McCarthy says.

The one who got away

Often, colleagues, friends, and clients inquire about band openings, and if the fit is right, they'll join the group. But once, McCarthy recalls, it was a client who got some bad news.
"He said, 'I play a really mean accordion. I'd love to come play with you.' He didn't fully understand what we're like. We're a rock-and-roll band!" McCarthy says. "We had to politely tell him we didn't have room for him."
Currently, the band can play about 40 songs — enough to do three sets of music and carry an evening. They try to do about 10 gigs a year. So far, their tally is up to 30 gigs, traveling as far as Aspen, Phoenix, and San Antonio to play.
James O is run like a client engagement. The different jobs — contacting the client, choosing someone to run the specific show, arranging the music, the logistics, the setting up and the sound check — are shared out and rotated among the members. The most complicated task, managing the band calendar, would impress the most organized person. A sophisticated system of e-mails, voice-mails and faxes kicks into gear at the notice of a potential gig.

Taking a page out of their management theory book, conflicts are handled in the same way. "There are inevitably some organizational issues or differences of opinion," McCarthy says. "So what we do is have reasonably regular band meeting where we get together and having organizing discussions — a bit like how we do our client teams."
How do eight people with varied tastes that range from Christian music to blues decide what they will play? It's easy, says Sinclair. "Any band member can propose a song, and any other band member can veto it, no questions asked. If nobody vetoes it, we throw it in, and give it a try."
You'll like our rates
But when it comes to their fee, they sound decidedly unconsultant-like. "We're not that expensive," says Sinclair. "We just ask people to cover our costs. We're not making any money here. It's a labor of love."
Typically, they charge between $500 and $700 for a gig. Most of it goes to renting a truck to haul their gear around and to hire a couple of teenagers — usually children of colleagues — to be their roadies.
By the end of a show, the performers may be out a couple hundred of dollars. "A number of our clients have joked that if we actually charged our per diem, that would rule us out of playing any gig," Roegner says. At one point, the members found themselves sinking so much money into their hobby that their internal name for the group was Capital Intensity.
Unfortunately, with five consultants on board, making time for the music sometimes becomes a logistics feat. As a result, they usually require a couple of months' advance notice for a gig.
 "We used to have evening rehearsals, and we ended up largely doing away with those because we found that flights would run late, or people would be out of town or called away on client meetings. It was quite disruptive," McCarthy says.
Now, practice takes place at 8 a.m., Saturday mornings, in the rehearsal studio in his basement. "It's the only time we know that we are all available. We do still occasionally have some evening rehearsals, so we have pizzas and beers and a social evening as well."
The topic of work is avoided as much as possible at the practice sessions. "I can't say we never talked work," says Roegner. "There is an occasional thing that comes up, and you'll pull one of the guys aside for five minutes. If it's more burning than that, you would have gotten in touch with the person in the office anyway. We do keep that time sacrosanct."

A Day in the Life of a Rock-and-Rolling Consultant

It was after midnight at the mostly quiet Cleveland Browns football stadium. In the cavernous tunnels underground, two men raced each other on pallet trucks. Rambunctious football fans? No, it was Eric Roegner and his brother-in-law, Tim Daley.
"I felt like a 12-year-old kid," says Roegner, who is actually 30. He and Daley, both members of the James O band, were breaking down their set and moving their music equipment after a successful gig at the stadium this past March.
While the two were having some fun inside, it started to snow outside. By 1:30 a.m., at least four inches of snow awaited Roegner, who came out to retrieve the rented U-Haul. It was parked at the top of a steep hill. "I finally scraped off the snow, took the brake off, and put it into gear to get it going," Roegner says. "I wasn't getting any traction on this hill, and I started to slide backward."
He started to panic. Julian McCarthy's BMW was parked at the bottom — and Roegner was heading right for it. "Somehow, I managed to get this thing stopped, and I was literally 2 millimeters away," Roegner says. "We measured!"

Leave it to a consultant to do some quantitative analysis during times of crisis.