PART IV
In Clive We Trust
“It is important to remember that the
saccharin side of American pop music
has always been and always will be.
Although what the purpose of ‘Mandy’ by
Barry Manilow possibly could be remains
a mystery to me.”
–Rolling Stone writer PJ Rourke,
to VH1’s Behind the Music
Chapter Nineteen
Clive Davis was an unlikely figure to rise to a place of power in the music industry. He was not a musician, but a lawyer. Like Barry, he’d been raised in Brooklyn, though in a more prosperous area (relative to Williamsburg), supported by a more traditional family unit. “I was your basic, garden-variety, ambitious, upwardly mobile, hardworking Jewish boy from Brooklyn,” he later wrote. “I was bound – and so were the kids around me – to go beyond my parents. It was simply the way things were. Our parents had worked hard, but we had to work harder; we had to become doctors and lawyers, professional people, scholars, business executives.”
When his beloved parents, Joe and Flo Davis, died suddenly within a year of each other, 18-year-old Clive went to live with his sister and her husband in Bayside, Queens. He commuted each day into the city to attend classes at New York University. To help fill the void that had been left by his parents’ deaths, Davis threw himself into his studies and into campus politics. “The result,” he wrote, “was to be a full-tuition scholarship to Harvard Law School.”
During his time at Harvard, Davis took a copyright course that required him to read the entertainment industry daily trade paper Variety. “I just loved it,” he said, “and after the course ended I kept reading it.”
After graduating from Harvard in 1956, Davis began working for a small law firm that eventually had to cut back its staff, including Davis, who quickly landed a spot at a larger, more prestigious firm. After Davis had been there a couple of years, one of his colleagues, Harvey Schein, left the firm to take a job as General Attorney for Columbia Records, a division of CBS Entertainment. Columbia’s legal office was only a two-man operation at the time, and, when Schein’s fellow lawyer at Columbia vacated his position, Schein contacted Clive Davis to see if he might be interested in filling the vacancy. He definitely was. Clive joined Columbia as legal counsel in 1960 and, within seven years, had risen to the presidency of the Columbia Records Division.
Davis’s 1973 dismissal from Columbia was even more dramatic than his rise and tenure there had been. By the time he was ousted amid rumours, scandal, and accusations of wrongdoing (of which he was later cleared), he’d been instrumental in adding to Columbia’s roster of talent such best-selling pop artists as Bob Dylan, Paul Simon and Janis Joplin, to name but a few.
Almost before security officers had had a chance to escort Davis out of the Columbia building, rumours were racing through the entertainment world speculating on his comeback. “I kept reading press stories that I was about to take over this or that company, make a variety of deals to do other extraordinary things,” Davis wrote in his 1974 biography, Clive. “I was mentioned, for example, as the upcoming president of a new Sony, USA record company; of a new American Express-owned record company; and of RCA Records. Other stories said that I was forming a new company with Bob Dylan, The Beatles, and Simon & Garfunkel. Most of these stories were printed as fact. I never understood this; nobody bothered to check with me about them.”
Had anyone bothered to check, they might have found out that Davis was actually in negotiations to take over Bell Records, which would henceforth be known as Arista.5
Barry and Ron, in the midst of producing Barry’s second album, were understandably anxious about the sudden changes taking place at the top. Their champions at Bell, Larry Utall and Irv Biegel, were now out, as were many of Bell’s roster of talent. “Ninety-nine per cent of the artists on the label were let go,” says Ron Dante. “And I remember hearing stories about how Clive didn’t like Barry’s first album, and he wasn’t crazy about Barry in general.”
In an “it’s a small world” twist of irony, Schaefer Brewery – where Barry’s father and stepfather and (very briefly) Barry himself had toiled – sponsored a series of summer concerts in Central Park each year, and Barry played a date there during the summer of 1974, opening for Dionne Warwick. Melissa Manchester sang with Barry, and Barry’s friend, Lee Gurst, was their drummer. Clive Davis came down to the Wolman Skating Rink, converted into an outdoor amphitheatre during the summer months, to take a look at Barry in action. “He really loved what Barry had to do,” recalls Ron Dante. Indeed, Davis came backstage after the show and told Barry he was happy to have him on the Arista label.
It was a relief for Barry to know that he still had a home at Bell, now Arista. Before Utall and Biegel’s ouster, with things going so well, and in anticipation of another tour, Barry had already hired a band, backup singers and a crew, putting himself in debt. Things would have been pretty bleak if Davis had decided to bounce Barry along with all the other artists he had cut from the Bell roster.
Lee Gurst had worked with Barry on and off since they had first met when Barry was hired as musical director for an ill-fated stage production called Now in the late Sixties. During his time at CBS, Barry had picked up work as musical director for the local TV show Callback! on which he had appeared a few times with Jeanne Lucas. Gurst remembers one instance when Barry had been able to cleverly get around the CBS brass in order to throw some work his friend’s way.
“After we did Now together, Barry wanted me to do Callback!,” says Gurst. “But CBS said no, we have our staff orchestra, and we pay them, and they’re going to do your show; Barry had worked with them before.” Barry had worked at CBS long enough to know that there was no arguing with executive minds with an eye on the bottom line. So, instead, he presented them with a dilemma. Says Gurst, “He said to the producers, ‘By the way, Sunday is the only day I can have the whole day free, so we have to tape on Sundays.’ And, what do you know! That was the day the CBS orchestra had to do the Sullivan show.” The executives had no choice but to use the musicians Barry had hired. “He actually set it up so that I could be on that show,” Gurst concludes.
At the end of Lee’s time working on Callback!, Barry sent Lee a note which said in part, “I feel like I’m writing a thank you note to my brother.” Barry went on to tell Lee that everyone who’d worked on Callback! thought highly of him and, if Barry had anything to say about it, he and Lee would be working together again soon. “So that was the beginning of life after Callback!,” says Gurst. “Barry thanked me for my contribution and said, we’ll do it again. And we did.”
In fact, during the ensuing years, Barry and Lee became close friends and worked together often. Lee had filled in on drums and percussion several times during Bette’s performances at the Continental Baths, and he’d also appeared in her shows at the Palace. Gurst had just returned from touring with Lorna Luft while Barry and Ron Dante were in the midst of putting together Barry’s second album. Gurst, a gifted photographer as well as musician, was happy to pitch in to help in any way he could with the album’s production.
“I went up to Barry’s and did [several] rolls of pictures,” Gurst recalls. “We were trying to get some publicity-type pictures.” Barry tried then to persuade Lee to go on his next tour with him, but the decision proved problematic. “I went to the auditions and watched him trying out people,” says Gurst. “We talked a few times. Initially I couldn’t afford to go – I mean he was just paying nothing. And then I said, gee I really want to do this, I mean I love the music. But then Miles said no, I don’t want you to have any friends on the road.”
Not only had Bette Midler’s personal relationship with Aaron Russo caused professional complications during her last two tours, but, at the same time, one of The Harlettes had gotten involved with one of the musicians, a relationship that went sour and caused additional tensions on the road. Miles had taken a lesson from that
experience and was now insisting that Barry, who’d worked with friends his entire professional life, keep his personal relationships entirely separate from his professional dealings.
“I took some other work,” says Gurst. “Then I went in one day to play drums for Barry when he was auditioning bass players.” In the midst of the auditions, Barry was called out of the room to take a phone call. When he came back, he put a piece of sheet music on the stand in front of Lee and said, “Here, you might as well go ahead and learn it, you’re going on the road with me.” The call had been from Alan Schwartzberg, the drummer Barry had hired in Lee’s stead.
Alan had been offered a spot playing for a Broadway show. He thought the show was a good one,6 and he really preferred staying in New York to going on the road. Schwartzberg asked Barry if he would consider releasing him from his commitment. “So,” says Gurst, “the following part of my career I owe to Alan Schwartzberg being a very good drummer who was offered a very good show.”
Since he was definitely going to be travelling with Barry, Lee was now glad that he’d been around for the auditions for backup singers, held previously, when Lee still thought he wouldn’t be going on the tour. Among the singers auditioned had been a dark-haired beauty named Lorraine Mazzola, who performed under the stage name Reparata. “I kind of put my vote in for Reparata,” says Lee slyly, “because, I figured, well, you know, maybe I’ll show up on the road and want to take pictures or something, and it would be nice if there was somebody to try to hit on.” Barry did, in fact, hire Reparata, undoubtedly more for her singing ability than Lee’s leering assessment of her date-ability. But it would still turn out to be a professional decision on Barry’s part that would end up having a dramatic affect on Lee’s personal life before too long.
Lee’s relationship with Barry had grown close over the years, a fact which, Lee felt, caused some concern with others working with Barry at that time, including Ron Dante. “Ron and I weren’t buddies,” says Lee. “I had a personal relationship with Barry that some people, whether they should have or not, perceived as a threat to them.” While Lee understood the concern, he didn’t feel it was warranted. “Ron didn’t know it, but Barry was not going to take a step without him at that stage,” says Gurst. “Barry wouldn’t take a step without Ron there by his side in terms of studios or a television show where Ron would be there next to the mixer making sure it came out right, things like that. Ron didn’t have to worry.” Lee noted that Barry had similar feelings about Miles Lourie.
“But,” says Gurst, “Barry and I had a comfort and a musical communication and a shared sense of humour; we just connected. And Miles and Ron, for two, kind of didn’t like that.” Miles, says Lee, was overt in his dislike of Lee’s personal relationship with Barry, while Lee and Ron tended to simply steer clear of each other. “We had different territories, if you will,” says Gurst. “I liked him well enough, but we just didn’t click, we weren’t buddies, we didn’t hang out together.”
Ron had taken special care with the production of this second album, and he was justifiably proud of his efforts. With years of recording experience behind him, between his own records and scores of commercial recordings, Ron had become acquainted with the best singers, musicians, engineers, and arrangers New York had to offer, as well as the best recording venues. “I knew there were one or two studios in town that you could get a great vocal sound in,” says Dante. “And I knew Media Sound, which was a converted chapel in Manhattan, would be a great place to record Barry.”
Media Sound was located in what used to be a church, and it had a 60-foot cathedral ceiling. “You put a microphone in the middle of that room and you put a vocalist in there,” says Dante, “and for some reason, the room sound carries into the vocal sound and makes it just a beautiful, angelic sound. It just helps the sound enormously. There are only a few places in the country you get a sound like that. Barry was ecstatic.” To serve as engineer, Ron brought in Michael DeLugg, with whom he’d worked on numerous commercial recordings. “Out of the hundreds of people I’d worked with,” says Ron, “he was the guy.”
So, after all the care and attention they’d put into the production of this second album, it was with understandable pride and enthusiasm that Barry and Ron went to see Clive Davis to discuss the album as it neared completion. The pair were optimistic about the record’s commercial chances, certain that the Manilow/Panzer-penned ‘It’s A Miracle’ could well be a hit single. Davis, however, wasn’t so sure.
By the time they left Clive’s office, Barry had received a crash course in Hitmaking 101. Music was a business, Clive explained. It wasn’t enough for Barry to produce songs, or even to produce good songs. He needed to produce hit songs, songs that would sell records. A successful album needed a hit single, something highly commercial, to make it sell. Without that, it didn’t matter how good the album was musically – no one would hear it. “If you have a big hit single record, your career is made,” Davis told Barry.
From the time Barry received his first transistor radio, he’d never been interested in the popular music of the day. With Bette, the songs she sang seemed almost incidental to the way she communicated them to her audiences. Now Barry was being told that it wasn’t the quality of his music that would make him successful, but the quantity of it he could sell. “So I turned on my radio and listened to what the kids were buying,” he later wrote, “and I started writing.”
As it turned out he needn’t have worried about writing a song that would fill Clive’s commercial expectations. Instead, Clive brought the song to Barry.
‘Brandy’ had been a minor success in the United Kingdom in 1971 for British singer-songwriter Scott English, who had written the song with partner Richard Kerr. It was a harmless song, a paean to a rather sad girl who came and gave, yet neither demanded nor received anything in return except, apparently, a song to commemorate the coming and the giving. It was a sweet enough tune, though English’s voice was a bit harsh and grating. As he listened to the recording Clive had sent over to him, as a producer and arranger, Barry could hear the song’s possibilities. As a performer and a songwriter, however, he wasn’t sure that he was ready to take the path down which he was certain this song would lead. Barry’s most frequent songwriting partner, Marty Panzer, later wrote of Barry’s struggle over the song, “Barry thought that if he recorded the song, none of his friends would ever speak to him again. I told him if he changed the song title to ‘Mindy’, as was suggested, I for one would certainly never speak to him again.”
It was the same struggle artists had faced from the beginning of time: stay true to your creative integrity and risk obscurity, or compromise those creative impulses just enough to gain a foothold on that slippery ladder to success. “The truth was,” Barry wrote of the outcome of his own personal struggle, “that I needed Clive Davis’s support, and I reasoned that if I recorded something he was excited about, I’d get it.” So Ron and Barry went into the studio and began trying to faithfully recreate the sound of Scott English’s single, just as Clive wanted them to.
But when Clive dropped by the studio late that night to check on their progress, he hated what he heard. “It’s exactly like the record you sent me,” Barry told Davis. “Well,” Davis replied, “it’s all wrong. I hate it.”
Tired and a bit desperate, plagued by nagging doubts about his choice to record the song in the first place, Barry asked Clive to come out of the control booth and join him at the piano. “You know, Clive, this afternoon, while I was learning the song at home, I played it as a ballad.” Clive closed his eyes and listened to Barry play and sing a ballad version of the more upbeat English-Kerr tune, and he smiled. “That’s it.”
When the song had reached the top ten charts in England in 1971, Scott English had been the brief focus of intense media attention. During that time, English was summoned out of bed early one morning by a reporter phoning, wanting to know just who “Brandy” was. Sleepy and annoyed by the intrusion, English had blurted out, “
It was a dog like Lassie and I had sent her away. Now you go away!” and hung up on the hapless journalist. Ever since English’s sarcastic comment, though, the song has been dogged, so to speak, by the story that it was, indeed, written for a dog. “I guess I’ll have to live with that story,” says English.
A name change did seem in order for the song, though for different reasons. In 1971 Clive Davis, who was then head of Columbia Records, dropped by a New York City bar to watch the band Looking Glass perform after the group had sent him a demo tape. Among the songs in their set that night was one called ‘Brandy’. Davis liked what he heard, and signed the group to Columbia’s subsidiary, Epic Records. ‘Brandy’ had not been Epic’s first choice of song to release as a single from Looking Glass’s first album, but the tune had caught the attention of a Washington DC deejay whose constant on-air promotion had built up a strong local demand. It took a while, but ‘Brandy’, or ‘Brandy (You’re A Fine Girl)’ to give it its full title, finally peaked at number one on the charts in August 1972.
Now, with the English-Kerr song, as recreated by Barry Manilow, Davis was facing another hit ‘Brandy’, which could prove confusing. “We decided to change the name from ‘Brandy’ to ‘Mandy’ right then,” said Barry.
“So we did ‘Mandy’ during those sessions,” says Ron Dante. “And I remember Barry saying to me, after we’d completed that album, ‘I’m not sure I want to go in this direction.’ I said, well, this is what you do very well. I don’t know what else you want to do.”
*
Perhaps even Barry no longer knew just what it was he wanted to do. But as 1974 turned into 1975 and ‘Mandy’ began racing its way up the charts, it seemed that the time had arrived for him to figure out just where he would go from here. ‘Mandy’ still came, and she still gave. But maybe this time, for Barry Manilow, the coming and the giving would no longer be without a price.
Barry Manilow Page 13