| May 25, 2002
Competition,
changing culture force private clubs to shake up tradition
By REBECCA COOK
Associated Press Writer
SEATTLE (AP) _ The banquet room boasts a fireplace big enough to hold an SUV. Hallways are decorated with sepia-toned prints by the renowned
photographer Edward Curtis, who used them to pay his membership bills a
century ago. Even the sunlight filtering through the tall windows seems
elegant and refined.
You
know you've made it in Seattle society when you're invited to join the
exclusive Rainier Club. Local legend says more business deals have been
struck behind the club's stately brick walls than in any office in the
city.
So,
the pony in the lobby stuck out a bit.
This spring's Easter egg hunt required some special entertainment for
the children, and that's why a pony was brought in.
"And everything that comes with a pony," Michael Troyer, chief operating
officer of the 114-year-old club said, arching one eyebrow.
The
scene would have been unthinkable 30 years ago, when children and barn
animals were equally unwelcome there.
But
changes are brewing at America's posh private city clubs, the urban
cousins of country clubs in the suburbs. Struggling to stay alive in a
business-casual world, exclusive city clubs are loosening their ties,
slashing fees and shaking up traditions.
"It
took a while for a lot of clubs to wake up that they really need to be
competitive," said James Burns, general manager of the Union Club of
Boston.
"Membership just sort of happened" in the old days, Burns said. "Now
it's a whole different ballgame."
Private city clubs offer fine dining in luxurious settings to those who
can afford the $1,000 to $2,000 initiation fee, plus hundreds of dollars
in monthly dues, plus meal expenses. Most importantly, they offer
members the warm feeling of belonging to an exclusive club where the
staff always knows who you are, what you drink and how you like your
steak.
About 500,000 people are members at city clubs, according to the Club
Managers Association of America.
But
despite the perks they offer, city clubs are losing 12 percent of
members annually, according to Dallas-based club consultant Rick Coyne.
Older members are dying off, and prospective new members often forgo
city club membership in favor of country clubs, expensive vacations or a
host of other amusements.
"Young people today don't see private clubs the same way their fathers
did, or certainly as their grandfathers did," Coyne said.
Clubs still want to preserve traditions, he said, "But unless you listen
to what the market is telling you, you're not going to be around."
___
These days, clubs know they must provide fun for the whole family if
they want to keep dues-payers happy. Which explains the pony in Seattle.
"That's the kind of thing that seems to click these days _ everyone's so
busy," explained Rainier Club President Jay Rockey, a member for 30
years.
Change started knocking on private club doors during the 1970s, when
lawsuits challenged long-standing policies that prevented many people
from joining. Many clubs excluded women and nonwhites from membership.
The doors opened for good in 1988, when the U.S. Supreme Court upheld a
New York city law banning discrimination by private clubs. (Though no
industry group offers race and gender breakdowns, observers say clubs
remain largely white and male.)
Club managers recall the 1980s fondly. Business was good, and the
opulent image of private clubs meshed with the style of the
status-conscious decade. City club fortunes reversed in the 1990s. Even
as the surging popularity of golf boosted private country club
membership in the last decade (1.4 million people are golf and country
club members), city clubs suffered one blow after another.
Tax
laws changed in the mid-1990s so that club dues and many club expenses
are no longer tax-deductible. At the same time, companies cut back on
club memberships. Corporations paid for most club memberships two
decades ago, but now only 20 percent of memberships are corporate-held,
according to Kathy O'Neal, senior vice president of Dallas-based Club
Corp., which owns 200 private clubs worldwide.
Now
that members are spending their own money, clubs must work harder than
ever to woo and keep them.
That's why R.J. Ballanca, manager of San Francisco's City Club, tracks
his members with a computer database _ women business leaders, wine
buffs, architecture aficionados _ and he tailors events accordingly.
"I hit all my little target groups," Ballanca said.
After Sept. 11, he waived the usual $1,000 initiation fee in favor of a
$100 donation to charity _ one of many clubs offering similar deals. Ballanca said his biggest obstacle in recruiting new members is
overcoming the "martini-swilling, cigar-smoking geezers" image left over
from the club's previous incarnation as the old Pacific Stock Exchange
Lunch Club.
Some clubs have taken radical steps to shed their old-geezer image.
When Dave Rosen became general manager of the downtown Denver Club in
1998, employees usually outnumbered members in the dining room. The club
dumped its formal dining rooms and ballrooms and reopened as a
stripped-down, yet still posh, athletic club.
"The days of the 48-ounce porterhouse and Caesar salad for lunch are
gone," Rosen declared. "I don't think people do business the same way
they did 15 years ago."
Of
course, some things never change. To join the Denver Club, you must be
nominated and seconded by a member, provide stellar references, and win
the board's approval.
"We're not a Bally's or a 24-Hour Fitness," Rosen sniffed. "That's the
way it's worked for 120 years."
___
Executives can get fine dining, swanky decor and fawning service at
dozens of restaurants in any major city, so why pay good money just for
the privilege of eating at a private club?
This question keeps club managers up at night.
"We
have a lot of good restaurants in town and we're fighting for that same
money," said Mark Schwab, general manager of the University and Whist
Club in Wilmington, Del. He regularly quizzes younger members on what
they want from the club, and offers gourmet takeout meals for busy
members.
"The club is an extension of our members' homes," Schwab said. "They go
somewhere else and they're just another customer, no one special."
The
allure of being someone special is what keeps private clubs in business,
despite the setbacks.
"It's kind of like 'Cheers,' where you go and they know your name,"
explained O'Neal of Club Corp. "You know it's a safe haven."
But
even the standards of exclusivity are flexible. Clubs now have Web sites
and membership directors who will gladly open the door to most anyone
who can afford the fees and dues.
At
Atlanta's Commerce Club, where top executives from Georgia Pacific, UPS
and Coca-Cola sit on the board, you need a sponsor and two letters of
recommendation to join.
"But if you're new to Atlanta and don't know a soul, all you have to do
is call the membership director and we can easily arrange for you to
meet two members over lunch," said communications director Mary Gilbreath.
___
Even as traditional clubs scramble for members, a handful of spunky
upstarts are nipping at their heels.
In
Seattle, a private club called The Ruins operates out of a fabulously
refurbished old warehouse in an unfashionable section of town. The
owners, who created the club as an outgrowth of their high-end catering
business, expressed their eclectic tastes in the decor: One dining room
features a life-sized model elephant rescued from a defunct department
store.
The
attraction remains the same whether the club is old and stodgy or young
and hip.
"In
a world that can be chaotic, this is fun, easy, and a level of elegance
that I like," said member Marge Levy, who brought two ferocious little
Yorkshire terriers to The Ruins' popular annual doggie luncheon. "They
call me by my first name, they serve me what I like."
After lunch _ hamburgers in doggie bowls for the human members, gourmet
biscuits on silver trays for their canine guests _ a local hip-hop dance
troupe performed, bumping and grinding to Britney Spears and Janet
Jackson. Levy and her friends screamed with delight as their well-bred
dogs howled in harmony.
Definitely not your grandfather's private club. |
