Metro Pulse/Cover/Dan Culp

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Developers like Dan Culp juggle the demands of bankers, lawyers, residents, planners, and their own egos to leave their mark on the landscape.

by Mike Gibson

"Who are you, and what do you want?" Dan Culp barks hoarsely from a prone position, legs splayed on the burnished brown leather couch that greets visitors upon entering his roomy and well-appointed office in the Centre Square building downtown. Head slightly propped, he's sipping from a large tumbler of ice water, water that—come 6 p.m. or thereabouts—will probably be supplanted by premium vodka, perhaps Ketel One, appropriately flavored by any number more of the Winston Regulars he's currently inhaling, lighting a new smoke as soon as the previous fag reaches the filter.

The rudeness is only a put-on—sort of—a combination of ironic affectation and the naturally blunt open-handedness which seemingly permeates the 64-year-old Culp's every grizzled fiber. And it's a characteristic that's served him well in nearly 35 years in the wiggy, perilous world of development, a vocation that sees men like Culp (if, indeed, any such exist) simultaneously wear the hats of speculator, property owner, builder, lessor, salesman, manager—all in the name of commerce, public accommodation, progress. Progress and—as Culp himself will admit—the prospect of making a buck.

"Don't let this damn newspaper sumbitch see that," he growls good-naturedly at his secretary, Gail Brown, easing himself off the sofa and reaching for the blueprint that outlines his latest endeavor. The plan calls for new office buildings, purported to be quiet, attractively-designed affairs, located (and here's the rub) next to a residential neighborhood off Baum Drive currently zoned only for low-density housing.

Culp points to various accommodations that should make the development compatible with—and therefore palatable to—the neighboring homes and their owners; flood plain considerations, noise and time restrictions, building design specifications...

"I've thrown a raw land ball into the air, a leasing ball into the air, a zoning ball into the air..." Culp explains, flogging one of his favorite metaphors, that of developer as juggler. "Will there be parking next to the residential zone? Do we need a special loading area? I'm up to six balls into the air, and I'm not even started good. I can't tell someone about all of this in only 30 or 45 minutes."

Culp's eyes narrow and follow Brown as she rises from her generously-proportioned mahogany desk and walks into the room adjacent the front hall. "Now listen here; that's twice you've been out of here. You're going to the bathroom entirely too many times."

Then he turns, face etched with a conspiratorial grin, and whispers, "She's only been with me 22 years."

Developers, by trade, are a mysterious, much-maligned lot. Locally, they're often reproved for fomenting Knoxville's various aesthetic ailments—suburban sprawl, cookie-cutter design, an overabundance of strip-style plazas—yet infrequently lauded for those design contributions that flatter the local landscape. Their role is often misunderstood, or at least little understood, despite profligate public and media discourse on what, exactly, "developers" are doing.

Among the species, Dan Culp is both eminently representative, providing a clear and lively window from which to survey the whole, and anomalous, by virtue of his inimitable curmudgeonhood and role as a local development pioneer.

As Culp explains, the developer's role involves "everything that pertains to a real estate/development project." Says Michael Parish, president of FMP Real Estate and a development veteran of 22 years, "It's like being an orchestra leader; we bring together lots of elements, in concert, to create a larger whole. You have to know a little bit about mortgage banks, contracting, architecture...you have to have a vision; you have to know your market; how a city is developing; what the city's planning parameters are."

Culp points to his dog-eared Baum Drive blueprint and outlines in laborious detail the process of selecting and procuring "a piece of raw land, sitting vacant," assessing both its geographical and market potential, wrestling with zoning issues, designing to fit, securing finance, and leasing or selling the finished product. And that chain of responsibilities must be fused by any number of carefully-wrought links—engineering plans, surveying, soil and environmental tests.

"Broadly speaking, we build a project in three ways: physically, financially, and legally," says Walter Wise, president of Sun Constructors, a 24-year developer with a backwoodsy drawl and a genially creased face.

The series of events that would eventually culminate with Culp's emergence as a force in local development began early. An enterprising youngster, he was selling residential lots at age 15, and labored as a carpenter's helper during summer vacations from Nashville's Donelson High School. By the time he was a freshman student at the University of Tennessee, he was selling houses over semester breaks, an endeavor he continued on weekends after he graduated and went to work at Oak Ridge's Union Carbide, the prime contractor at that time for that city's three Department of Energy facilities. "Real estate was in my blood, I guess," he says.

In 1959, young adult Dan Culp began selling houses full-time. The West Hills subdivision had just been completed in Knoxville, and Culp sold homes on one-acre lots therein. In a matter of months, he came to understand that "the man who was making the money wasn't the man who was selling the land, but the developer. So I became one."

Culp explains that in that era, locally-renowned builder-speculator Morgan Schubert was the de facto guru of residential real estate development. Dubbed the "land baron" by competitors and associates, Schubert bought up old farms in what was at the time a sparsely developed West Knoxville, cut the properties into home-sized lots, but left tracts of land adjacent to main thoroughfares clear for potential commercial development.

Culp recognized an opportunity and seized it. When the market study he commissioned revealed "a latent, pent-up demand for office space, particularly in the suburbs," Culp conceived and engineered construction of the city's first suburban office building, Northshore Center (now called Landmark), two adjoining eight-story monoliths on a lot that had formerly played host to some 50 cookie-cutter '50s-era suburban "cracker boxes" (industry slang for cheaply-erected three-bedroom homes.)

Designed and built in the late '60s, the offices answered a plentiful demand at the outset. But in the '70s, with interest rates climbing to a towering peak of 23 percent, the demand for space unceremoniously dropped off the cliff. His project burdened by high overheads and unattractively high rents, Culp would eventually salvage Northshore, but only after extensively lobbying outside investors, and selling 80 percent of his interest in another project, downtown's $30 million TVA towers.

"There were many times I woke up at night in a cold sweat," Culp remembers, after a wistful pause and a heavy sigh. "I damn near lost it. There are times in this business when you can really smell the brimstone.

"In this area, it is a constant struggle to get that bottom line number to where it ought to be," he expounds. "It's difficult in and of itself getting all of your successive costs into line—my land costs, my building costs, all of the expenses incurred along the way—getting all of those costs in line so you can charge a marketable rent. If anything goes wrong in construction or if anyone backs out of a deal, you're probably screwed. But on top of that, you have the mentality of the market here. There's a notion on the part of the leasing public that things ought to be cheaper here than they are someplace else."

All of which serves to underline the reality that development is a quintessentially precarious, feast-or-famine proposition.

Nick Cazana, the slim, chicly-coifed proprietor of his own West Knoxville firm, points out that developers have already incurred considerable expenses before commencing loans or other initial funding is sought. "If it's a $1 million project, you've probably already spent $100,000 by the time you approach the bank," he says. "And if the people involved decide to walk away at any time, you eat it. There's a terrific risk-to-reward ratio; you can make a bundle, or you can lose your ass."

A developer for 25 years, having shepherded some seven acquisition-and-construction projects in the last three years alone, Cazana is intimately familiar with the ethereal, neon-lit highs and jet-black lows of the profession. "I used to fly around in my own $1 million plane," he relates. "Now I fly in a $50 million plane; but it says 'Delta' on the side."

The '70s interest rate debacle wasn't the only crisis of Dan Culp's long and storied career; the early-'80s failure of two Butcher family banks left him instantly liable for some $70 million. He notes with obstinate pride that he eventually paid the debts in full, staunchly disavowing the refuge of bankruptcy.

"I had to sell a very expensive and luxurious home and move into a smaller residence," he says. "You grit your teeth and do what you have to do. You learn to tell the truth, to walk up to a man eyeball to eyeball and say, 'I owe you money and I can't pay. What can we work out?'"

Culp admits, however, that such risks are balanced by often-plentiful rewards. In his three-and-a-half decades as a developer, he has overseen the nativity of more than two-and-a-half million square feet of office space, worth more than $250 million, and has leased some 15 million square feet when re-leasing is factored in.

"You live comfortably. You get to travel, enjoy life, smoke cigarettes and drink whiskey," says Culp, a regular bar guest at Bearden's Orangery restaurant.

And beyond material rewards, there's a palpable sense of gratification, of a creator's sated longing for actualization, in Culp's earnestly childlike allusions to his projects—to fashioning carefully-imagined entities of wood, steel, and concrete on unsullied real estate. "There's a lot of personal fulfillment, creating something from a piece of raw dirt, a living, breathing structure on top of it."

Fellow developer Nick Cazana puts it perhaps most simply when he notes, "If this wasn't fun, no one would put up with the grief."

The pay-offs, financial and otherwise, have carried Culp through a near-endless chain of higher education-related expenses (for his three daughters), a divorce or two ("rarely an inexpensive proposition"), and have funded a lifestyle of not-inconsiderable perks for him and his wife of 15 years, Teresa, owner of record of the family development enterprise, Terra Management Inc. ("She's my right arm and my right leg," Culp says in a rare moment of bald-faced humility. "She's every damn thing; she helps me in everything I do.")

The two enjoy frequent sojourns to far-flung locales—Argentina, South Africa, Montana, Tanzania—in pursuit of their pricey passions: fishing and exotic bird hunting. "We've gone on a couple of African safaris, with a camera," Culp relates. "We're after the feather and the fin. We don't kill anything with four legs."

And by most accounts, Culp's rewards are largely well-deserved. According to former local newspaper columnist/rant specialist extraordinaire Jim Dykes, a Culp associate of some 30 years, notable for his own brand of bluff cheekiness (Dykes says the two men met "in some low tavern, somewhere"), his friendship with Culp helped alter his opinion of the breed. "I've not changed my stubbornly anti-progress ideas, but I've changed my perspective toward developers," says Dykes. "Dan doesn't use sandy concrete or busted two-by-fours; what he builds is good. He's trusted about as much as anybody in the business community, and if he gives you his word, he'll keep it."

"Mr. Culp has a good reputation, and I think his projects back that reputation up," says Norman Whitaker, executive director of the Metropolitan Planning Commission. "The Centre Square building downtown, for instance, is extremely well-designed, in scale, something I think everyone appreciates."

It's 1:30 p.m. in the main assembly hall of the City County Building, and a standing-room-only crowd has gathered for the monthly convening of Knoxville's Metropolitan Planning Commission, the body charged with assimilating public input and making recommendations to City Council and County Commission on all matters pertaining to local development. Whitaker leafs through a weighty agenda, reading a list of one dozen or more projects slated for postponement, and 40 or so more that may be postponed pending MPC consideration.

Culp, dressed with casual decorum in a tie-less white button down and khakis, rises stiffly from his front-row corner seat and, looking unflappably bored, makes a leaden, deliberate path to the lobby. Perhaps by his own choosing, he misses the portion of the meeting when, after Whitaker reads his two Baum Drive projects from the list of potential postponements, a middle-aged gent seated in the middle of the auditorium's lower section stands and requests that the plans be reviewed rather than postponed.

Seated on a wooden bench just outside the building, smoking another in the day's endless chain of Winstons, Culp frankly assesses his prospects at today's meeting. "I'll lose," he intones bluntly. "But I hope to win when the issue is heard at Council."

Told of the Baum Drive area resident's request, he says, "Someone will object to every damn thing I say. He wants to get the item heard while all his people are here. I'd like to postpone and split 'em up. It's all a game of chess."

And with that, Culp rises again, ambles back inside and reseats himself at his post just below the auditorium riser and the commission's desks. His instinct for ending the smoke break mere moments before his item is called is uncanny, and he's soon on his feet again, erecting a tripod and accompanying visuals at a center point in front of the commission roundtable. It rapidly becomes evident that a sizable portion of the meeting's voluminous attendance is attributable to the presence of Culp's projects on the commission agenda.

Culp's attorney, Arthur Seymour, addresses the body from the central audience microphone, beginning with a brief tribute to his client's accomplishments and well-regarded history as a developer. Then he launches into a litany of provisions that would presumably justify rezoning of the residential area to allow commercial development: "...a decorative fence in place of chain link, design restrictions...aesthetically pleasing...less noise and pollution based on restrictive covenants...negotiated restrictions..."

Then the outpouring begins, as resident after concerned resident steps to the podium and expresses dissent. Several of the objectors laud Culp as a "fine developer," but the overall message is clear: not in their back yard, an upscale residential neighborhood with already-copious traffic yet a dearth, to date, of commercial intrusion.

"Mr. Culp's office building simply does not belong in our neighborhood," concludes a stubby, balding fellow in jeans and a collared shirt. His oratory draws a small round of applause.

MPC advisors echo the sentiments, recommending that the full body deny rezoning. The motion passes unanimously, drawing an even larger ovation.

The process is repeated, almost verbatim, with Culp's second tract in the area. In the aftermath of another maelstrom of objection, the commission again moves to deny. Perhaps 15 to 20 percent of the audience commences a noisy exodus from the auditorium, most of the refugees smiling as they leave. Culp resignedly disassembles his tripod.

The whole affair is illustrative of the unyielding and contentious three-way tussle among the developers' interests, market demand and public opinion. It also points to some of the issues that shape a city's growth, beyond commercial greed and self-interest.

"Sometimes, there is relatively little connection between planning and actual development," says James A. Spencer, professor in the University of Tennessee's graduate school of planning. "There's a fair amount of conservatism in this area. Developers are going to do what's been successful here in the past—single-family detached housing and low density."

According to Spencer, the suburban sprawl and overabundance of commercial "strip" developments that afflict the Knoxville area are in large part that product of resistance to modern planning concepts. "The way of the future will be mixed-use commercial and residential zones with higher densities, but careful, high quality design," Spencer says. "I'm not sure we're doing a good job of getting developments on land best suited for them. We tend to allow them in areas where there's not enough objection to keep them out.

"Developers are not dumb or ignorant. They're trying to anticipate a combination of what the market will want and what they can get approved. These barriers do limit their choices."

Perhaps indicative of Spencer's point, one of Culp's endless daily stream of cell phone communications, on the afternoon of his initial audience with a Metro Pulse reporter, is punctuated by a vehement display of frustration.

"At least A___ has a brain; B___ doesn't have much of a brain," he roars into the cell, excoriating the parties involved in some unspecified endeavor. Then he turns, breathes heavily, and grumbles to no one in particular, "This...community. I was afraid that one was going to be a bust. There's no creative thinking, no willingness to change."

It's early afternoon at Terra Management's Bearden Hill outpost, and Dan Culp is apparently surrendering the whole of his attentions to one of his favorite pastimes—playing online bridge. But while he may appear dormant, Culp is in the midst of a particularly trying and hectic round of hurry-up-and-wait; fielding phone calls, waiting for a less-than-punctual architect to arrive with plans, anticipating two more meetings later in the day—one with a group of residents from the Baum Drive area. His rezoning request, burdened by the albatross of an MPC rejection, will be heard by City Council in September. In four days, he will meet with a larger gathering of residents and attempt to sway their thinking with the series of color blow-ups the tardy architect has yet to deliver.

"All my life people have asked me what I do," says Culp. "And most of what I have to do is to remember to keep riding people's butts to get them to do what they say they will do. It's like an abacus—you've got to keep moving those beads across the damn wire."

Another cell phone interruption ensues. "They moved my meeting back to 8:30 tonight," Culp complains, flicking cigarette ashes into a rocks glass half-full of water. "I hate to meet that late; it cuts into a man's drinking. I may have to get my wife back in the closet and sneak me a drink beforehand."

And so his afternoon continues, with several visitors and many more phone calls ("You're talking to who? I've heard of that big fat bastard! Figure me into the deal.") before the wayward 'tect finally arrives carrying four 2- by 3-foot renderings. He's profusely apologetic as he reviews the plans, his measured tones contrasting sharply with Culp's blunt, bellowing drawl.

"It seems like a quiet afternoon, but I've gotten accomplished what I wanted to accomplish," Culp declares upon the architect's departure. He says he's not looking forward to the upcoming presentations of the aforementioned plans; besides disrupting his cocktail schedule and his assimilation of "Who Wants To Be a Millionaire," the meetings hold little promise of headway.

"I've had people spit on me at these meetings; they can be ugly," he says. He then stretches out on his expansively luxuriant executive leather recliner, and adds knowingly, with a characteristic half-grin, "The biggest thing you have to handle in my business is adversity. You are either the master of adversity, or it is the master of you. If it's the master of you, you're in deep shit."