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Today, The Second Disc remembers Clive Davis.  Mike kicks things off…

It was not entirely hubris that spurred Clive Davis to title his second memoir The Soundtrack of My Life in 2013 (which, in turn, inspired the career-spanning documentary on him to be named The Soundtrack of Our Lives). Here was a man who, with very few peers, was the sort of self-styled “record men” that fueled phases of incredible music industry growth in the back half of the 20th century. Next to perhaps only Berry Gordy, Davis’ label tenures at Columbia, Arista and J Records was in some way tied to the discovery, signing, mainstreaming or commercial reviving of a shocking amount of commercial and critical juggernauts: Donovan, Janis Joplin, Santana, Laura Nyro, Chicago, Earth, Wind & Fire; Blood, Sweat & Tears; Aerosmith, Pink Floyd, Bruce Springsteen, Billy Joel, Barry Manilow, Dionne Warwick, Patti Smith, Melissa Manchester, Aretha Franklin, Eric Carmen, Air Supply, Carly Simon, Whitney Houston, Kenny G, Milli Vanilli, Alicia Keys, Luther Vandross and more. The soundtrack of our lives, indeed!

How did Mr. Davis, who died yesterday (June 22) at the age of 94, manage to do it all? The astounding and perhaps frustrating answer is no one will truly know. The Brooklyn boy bounced back from the incredible loss of both parents before graduating high school and was an honors student at New York University, guaranteeing himself a full ride to Harvard Law School. He practiced law for a firm that counted CBS as a client, and was soon offered a position as Columbia Records’ legal counsel. He was all of 28 then, and by 35, became the label’s president – and despite his youthfulness compared to CBS elders like Goddard Lieberson and Mitch Miller, surely stuck out like a sore thumb on the grounds of the Monterey Pop Festival in 1967, where – enchanted by the groundbreaking sounds heard on stage, he got to signing. Sure, Columbia had its share of iconoclasts like Bob Dylan and Johnny Cash, but the post-psychedelia, Summer of Love-era acts who joined the label’s roster represented less of a wave of trends to chase and more of Mr. Davis’ simple belief that if he, a man of seemingly untrained ears, could hear greatness in the notes and songs, then so could anyone.

His gifts were that of loyalty in the individual and belief in the power of songs to transcend the dollars and sense of the business. When John Hammond came to the CBS offices at Black Rock convinced that a wily New Jersey troubadour could stand tall against the mystical, socially-aware poetry of Bob Dylan, Mr. Davis said yes to Bruce Springsteen. A British psychedelic rock group adrift from the loss of its original, irreplaceable frontman could be a worthy signee in America, and turn in a record that would spend hundreds of unbroken weeks on the Billboard chart. A band with a killer horn section could fuse jazz and rock or galvanize the sound of mystic rhythm and blues.

And that‘s just his tenure at CBS; when it ended amidst accusations of misappropriating company funds for family use – a charge Mr. Davis steadfastly denied – his mystique was such that Columbia Pictures could call on him to revitalize their flagging Bell Records label. In 1974, he transformed Bell into Arista (named for New York City’s high school honor society, of which Mr. Davis was a proud member) and further morphed into a showman and pitchman of sorts. His confident, impassioned proclamations on variety and talk shows of signees like Manilow (who still plays Mr. Davis’ Midnight Special pitch on large video screens at his concert before duetting with his younger self on his chart-topping “Mandy”) or Houston (whose appearance on The Merv Griffin Show, two years before a single piece of vinyl bearing her name was sent to press, offered a showcase in what virtues the next few generations of pop fans would center in their listening habits). Arista became a haven for Dionne Warwick after a period of not working with Burt Bacharach, or a bewildered-by-disco Aretha Franklin. Both became sustained hitmakers again in the third decades of their careers – a feat that seemed impossible until you regard how he did it for Santana or Vandross in ways that seemed mind-bending but were once again anchored by solid songcraft. While Mr. Davis was by his own admission stymied by hip-hop and evolutions of modern R&B, he didn’t let that confusion get in the way of good work done by subsidiaries and joint ventures like L.A. Reid and Kenneth “Babyface” Edmonds’ Arista subsidiary LaFace (home of TLC, OutKast, Toni Braxton, Usher and P!nk) or Sean “Diddy” Combs’ Bad Boy Records (whose signee The Notorious B.I.G. is considered one of rap’s greatest emcees).

Remarkably, Mr. Davis’ influence extended into the 21st century, too. No one could figure out what to do with young singer Alicia Keys – so he made her a six-time Grammy winner off her belated debut with his next label, J Records. A believer in bands – he extolled the virtues of failed country rock outfit Funky Kings long after members Jack Tempchin and Jules Shear proved their worth as songwriters – J took a California money pit changing their style from frothy power-pop to white-boy soul and broke Maroon 5, one of the last self-contained commercially successful bands in the industry, into the mainstream. In a fitting double-shot of poetic irony, Mr. Davis saw J Records roll into BMG (the parent company of Arista, which let him go due to a policy regarding employees’ ages); BMG in turn merged with Columbia’s owner Sony Music, who appointed him their chief creative officer in 2008. It was a position he enjoyed in his twilight years, which never ceased being interesting – whether holding his annual pre-Grammy party that’s still one of the industry’s hottest tickets, or opening up about his bisexuality not long after turning 80, in the hope of reducing stigmas around queer identity.

You’ll notice that through this remembrance, Clive Davis has received the New York Times-style “Mr.” honorarium. That’s not an accident. During my time as an employee of Sony Music from 2012 to 2020, it was not uncommon to know of Mr. Davis’ presence in meetings or presentations – particularly the catalogue affairs of his much-missed Whitney Houston. And that’s how he was known through the halls of 550 and later 25 Madison. There was always an electricity when he entered a room, never clad in anything less than a pinstriped dark suit with colorful ties and pocket squares, intense but kind eyes peering from behind tinted lenses as his voice warbled a fond memory or impassioned musical declaration with unbridled conviction. Many of the colleagues I consider my closest friends to this day are those with whom I bonded over the artists whose careers were jump-started off Mr. Davis’ batteries.

The same can be said of my evolving appreciation for Manilow, whose music was something I resisted in my mom’s minivan tape deck, came to ironically appreciate and will see in concert with my mom for at least the dozenth, and perhaps one of the last times, this Friday at Newark, New Jersey’s Prudential Center. Manilow’s new album What a Time yielded an adult contemporary-charting cover of Peter Allen’s “Once Before I Go” – a song Davis recommended Barry sing pro bono. It is almost certain he will play it, and I will certainly feel a mix of innate sadness that he’s gone and joy that he and his beloved artists were – and are – there for us, in the loud, long and boisterous soundtracks of our lives.

And now, a few words from Joe…

Without a doubt, Clive Davis was the first “man behind the music” of whom I was aware. He was a music-biz answer to Wonderful World of Disney-era Walt Disney, a public-facing executive who rose to fame along with the artists whom he championed. Mr. Davis was a ubiquitous presence on television alongside those remarkable talents, and it’s difficult to remember a time when I wasn’t familiar with his personage – both larger-than-life and understated at the same time.

The past 24 hours have brought a flurry of remembrances about this one-of-a-kind man who changed the music industry landscape forever. His legacy was a complex one, for sure, beginning with his earliest days at Columbia Records in which he embraced the youth culture arguably at the expense of the “old guard” at the label. (There’s a great story about him playing Janis Joplin’s rendition of Rodgers and Hart’s “Little Girl Blue” to Richard Rodgers himself. Davis succinctly recalled the eminent composer’s response: “Yes. He hated it.”)  Yet it was this buttoned-up former lawyer’s determination to reshape Columbia Records that allowed the label to become for rock and soul what it had long been for classical, jazz, and Broadway.

Breaking boundaries of sound, genre, gender, and ethnicity, Janis Joplin, Santana, and Sly & The Family Stone were among the artists to join Bob Dylan, Simon & Garfunkel, and Paul Revere and The Raiders on the Columbia roster. Under Davis’ aegis, the label struck a deal with Kenneth Gamble and Leon Huff to bring The Sound of Philadelphia to the mainstream record-buying public, paving the way for the rise of disco and the ascendance of the once-underground dance sound. There were clashes along the way; late producers Thom Bell and Jerry Fuller both shared with me their frustrations in conforming to Davis’ vision for their music. Yet for all of the affectionate “meddling” on Mr. Davis’ part – driving artists like Johnny Mathis and Andy Williams away from original music and towards cover versions of younger-skewing hits – there was a genuine love of music, belief in the artists he signed, and keen ear for both artistic and commercial success.

Founding Arista Records from the ashes of the Bell label, Mr. Davis brought with him a select few artists whom he correctly intuited would have timeless appeal, among them Barry Manilow, The 5th Dimension, Tony Orlando and Dawn, and Melissa Manchester. A hands-on executive, he encouraged Patti Smith to follow her muse, gave Lou Reed the means for a successful comeback, and pursued bands such as the Grateful Dead, The Kinks, and Aerosmith with promises (fulfilled) of creative freedom. As Steven Tyler memorably sang in Aerosmith’s “No Surprize,” “Old Clive Davis said he’s surely gonna make us a star / I’m gonna make you a star, just the way you are.”  (The same year, Billy Joel’s “Just the Way You Are” took home two Grammy Awards. Though Davis had departed Columbia by the time of its release, he was instrumental in Joel’s early years, too.) No wonder Bob Weir used to change the lyrics of the Dead’s “Jack Straw” in concert: “We used to play for acid, now we play for Clive.”

Clive Davis never lost his passion for the artists who created the soundtrack of his life, and ours. When, in 2022, I approached Mr. Davis for an interview in conjunction with the liner notes for Second Disc Records and Real Gone Music’s release of Melissa Manchester’s Live ’77 – which had sat in the Arista vaults for over four decades – he answered every one of my questions with candor, authority, and a youthful enthusiasm. His support of the release meant the world, and still does. Without Clive Davis, this kid who wore out copy after copy of Barry Manilow’s Arista LPs and countless Dionne Warwick singles likely wouldn’t be writing these words.  Thank you for the music and the kindness, Mr. Davis.  This one’s for you.