I Wrote That One, Too . . .

by Steve Dorff

  When I ever cared for anyone but you.

  When he finished his dramatic recital of “Through the Years,” I had tears streaming down my face, and I think I ripped the lyric out of his hands and immediately went to the piano to finish the song. Most of the melody was magically being written in my head as I was listening to him read it for the first time. By the time I had the sheet of paper in my hands and on my piano, it was just a matter of adjusting a couple of chord substitutions and wrestling with a few phrases of the three different choruses.

  Marty didn’t make it easy for me to remember the words to this song. Each of the three choruses is completely different, lyrically, which of course is one of the reasons why the song is so great. I’ve been singing this song now for thirty years and I still have to look at a cheat sheet when I perform it. God only knows how Kenny Rogers has remembered it, night after night. Maybe he has a teleprompter? I’ll have to ask him.

  Nancy’s Italian stuffed shells were fabulous. In the fifteen minutes it took to get dinner on the table, Marty and I had already baked “Through the Years.”

  Now that we had this big ballad written that we felt could be a huge hit for someone, the work of finding it a home was about to begin. We decided to do a simple piano/vocal demo of the song. I couldn’t get the vocalist I wanted because he was out of town, so I ended up singing the guide vocal, thinking it would be only temporary until I could get someone really good on it.

  The demo was okay. It was just one of those songs that we felt didn’t need elaborate production because it was truly about the story and what was said between two people that were committed to loving each other through any challenge they might face.

  I asked Marty if he would consider sending it to Barry Manilow, knowing that it might be a bit of an awkward situation, since Barry only recorded songs of Marty’s that he had written the music for. Marty didn’t think it was a good idea. But I knew this was a hit song.

  Take one.

  I sent it to Clive Davis. Clive had recorded several of my songs with Dionne Warwick, Melissa Manchester, and a few other acts. He was a great song man who had always been receptive to anything I sent him, so I thought I’d take a shot.

  As Clive would often do, he wrote a brief critique about why he was “passing” on a song. Usually he would do this in the margin of the lyric sheet that accompanied the demo. I still have the “Through the Years” rejection note from Clive somewhere in my file cabinet. He passed because he didn’t think it met his criteria for it “to be a hit.” Fair enough. I have the utmost respect for Clive, and he certainly knows what he likes and what he doesn’t.

  Take two.

  I got a call from Stan Schneider, who in addition to being my business manager at the time was also the longtime business manager for Glen Campbell. Stan told me that Glen was looking for a special song he could sing for a Bob Hope Tribute Special: The 50th Anniversary of Bob Hope on NBC.

  I thought “Through the Years” would be the perfect song for that kind of anniversary event. Stan arranged for me to go to Glen’s house and play him the song live. I had recently worked with Glen, having had a Top 10 record with him singing “Any Which Way You Can,” a song I cowrote with Milton so I felt relatively comfortable going to see him.

  Feeling confident that he was going to love the song, I drove up to the top of Kings Road in the Hollywood Hills, trying to find Glen’s house. It was a pretty massive place, tucked away in the canyons. I was simultaneously nervous and excited as I reached the front door and rang the bell. As I was getting myself together, I heard screaming coming from the house. The shouts were loud but indecipherable and I wasn’t sure what to do.

  After ringing the doorbell three or four more times, I was about to turn and just get the hell out of there when the door opened and there was Glen Campbell, looking quite flustered and disheveled.

  “Is this not a good time?”

  Just as I asked, a hairdryer came flying across the doorway. I dodged it just in time to not get brained. Apparently, my arrival had coincided with the ending of a lover’s quarrel between Glen and Tanya Tucker.

  As I entered the house, I realized that it probably wasn’t the best time to be playing a quintessential love song about long-lasting commitment. It also wasn’t a great time for me to say hi to Tanya and ask her how she was doing.

  Glen quickly ushered me to a beautiful white grand piano sitting in the living room. Despite the enormous tension in the room, I sat down to play. Almost as quickly as he had ushered me in, he stopped me in the middle of the first chorus. He apologized and told me he didn’t think the song was right for him, and escorted me out, thanking me for coming by.

  It was the epitome of “bad timing.” Finding a home for this song was looking pretty challenging at this point.

  Take three.

  Now, I’m not really quite sure of the true story, as I’ve heard several different versions from the principal players involved, but somehow Lionel Richie had heard my demo version of “Through the Years” and was thinking about recording it. How he got it is still a mystery to me. Jim Mazza, the president of EMI Records, claimed that he got it to both Lionel and Kenny. I also heard a version that MaryAnn Rogers, Kenny’s wife at the time, had heard Kenny playing the song and told him, “You’ve got to cut that song.”

  Whatever story is the factual one, both Kenny and Lionel wanted to cut the song. Maybe they arm-wrestled for it. Kenny must have won! They compromised and Lionel produced it.

  Gene Page, the fabulous arranger who did the string arrangements on Kenny’s record, once told me that it was he who found the song and played it for Lionel and Kenny. Whatever and whoever steered that song into Lionel’s and Kenny’s life, they did Marty and me the favor of a lifetime.

  Lionel had just produced “Lady” for Kenny, who at that time was one of the biggest-selling artists in the world. They were in the middle of recording the Share Your Love album and were still looking for songs.

  Every songwriter on the planet wanted Kenny Rogers to record a song because he was a great artist who loved singing other people’s songs. Whenever he was doing a new record, every publisher in town would send him material. It was almost impossible to get to him. So I was stunned when I got a call from EMI:

  “Kenny wants to put your song on hold.”

  “Kenny who?” I asked in all seriousness.

  “Rogers.”

  “Which song?”

  “‘Through the Years.’”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah. He’s intending to record it, but no guarantee.”

  It was no secret that Kenny would take a lot of songs that he liked into a session to see what worked for him and what didn’t.

  I had no idea when this was actually happening; I just knew my song was on hold, no guarantee. So I was pleasantly surprised when I got a call from my friend Joe Chemay, who happened to have played bass on the session.

  “Kenny just cut your song.”

  Two minutes later, the great Gene Page, who arranged it, called me as well.

  “Beautiful song, Steve. Just wait until you hear it.”

  I hung up, ecstatic. I rushed to the office and danced around.

  “We got a Kenny Rogers cut!”

  Snuff—never one to disappoint with his ability to suck the air from any balloon of joy which didn’t involve him 100 percent—said, “I guess I’ll just sit by the phone and wait for them to ask me for half the publishing, and I’m telling you right now, I’m going to tell them to go fuck themselves when they do.”

  I looked at him in shock. My stomach turned.

  He rolled his eyes.

  “Don’t be naive, Steve. It’s like Elvis. They’ll cut your song and say, ‘We want half the publishing or we won’t put it on the album.’”

  Days later, before I had time to fall down the rabbit hole of Snuff’s paranoia
, I got a call from Don Grierson, the head of A&R for Liberty Records, Kenny’s label.

  “You wanna hear your song?” he asked. “Kenny said you guys can go over to the studio.”

  I called Marty and we raced over to Lion Share Recording Studios in the heart of Hollywood.

  At this point, Don Grierson decided to share his opinion.

  “This song still sounds like a Barry Manilow reject to me.”

  “Thanks, Don.”

  “Gotta be honest. Hey, it’s lucky you’re even on the album—doubtful you’ll ever get a single.”

  Marty and I arrived at the studio and listened to the song. It sounded good—great, even. I was pleased, but when I looked over at Marty, his face turned red. He was sputtering.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked. “It sounds pretty great?”

  Marty’s face was so twisted I thought he was going to have an aneurysm.

  “Kenny is missing five lines of the lyric . . . maybe more . . . and the opening line makes no fucking sense.”

  “Wait? What?”

  I listened again. It still sounded great.

  Marty was now apoplectic.

  “Listen, Steve. It’s a double negative. He’s singing a double negative. Plus, he’s ruined the best line of the song. It should be, ‘I’ve learned what love’s about by loving you.’ He sang ‘I’ve learned what life’s about by loving you.’ No. No. Absolutely not. It’s cliché, trite.”

  I reminded Marty that Kenny Rogers is the biggest star in the world, and our song’s going to sell eight bazillion records, but Marty didn’t care.

  “We’ve got to tell him. He has to fix it,” Marty insisted.

  So we walked down the hall to the big studio where Lionel and Kenny were working. Lionel asked us what we thought.

  Marty took a deep breath and said, “The opening line is wrong.”

  This perked Kenny up. He quietly asked Marty to explain.

  Marty tried to be calm. He spelled it out.

  “You sang ‘when I didn’t care.’ It’s a double negative. The line should be, ‘I can’t remember when you weren’t there, when I EVER cared for anyone but you.’ But, instead of singing ‘when I ever cared,’ you sang ‘when I didn’t care.’ It doesn’t work. It’s a double negative.” Marty was on a roll. “You also sang, ‘I’ve learned what life’s about by loving you.’ It should be, ‘I’ve learned what love’s about.’ Not ‘life.’ ‘Love.’”

  Satisfied, Marty finally stopped talking and waited for Kenny’s response.

  Kenny closed his eyes for what seemed like twenty minutes, reviewing the song in his head. Finally, he opened his eyes.

  “Let me give it some thought.”

  The tension was thick. Kenny was steadfast and Marty was still sputtering.

  Lionel tried to break the friction.

  “How about them Dodgers?”

  No one spoke.

  Finally, Lionel Richie realized what had happened.

  “Guys, it’s my fault. Blame me. My wife took down the lyrics off the demo. She must have taken them down wrong.”

  Only I knew what was going on in Marty’s head. Later, after we had left the studio, he would insult Brenda Richie, but in that moment, he was just cursing under his breath. Kenny then smiled and said that he would consider resinging those few lines.

  I could see Marty start to bristle at the word “consider,” so I grabbed him by the back of his neck and snarled, “My kids need new shoes. Do. Not. Fuck. This. Up.”

  We left, and Marty just said, over and over, “I learned what life’s about by loving you.”

  “Maybe he’ll change it,” I said.

  Marty then dragged me to Greenblatt’s Deli, where we bought the biggest magnum of champagne they had, a $450 Dom Pérignon, and wrote the following card:

  Dear Kenny and Lionel,

  We’ve never been so proud.

  Love, Steve and Marty.

  We drove back to the studio and Marty hand-delivered it. It’s probably why we still made the album.

  Liberty put “Through the Years” on the B-side of Kenny’s fourth single from the Share Your Love album, “Blaze of Glory.” “Blaze of Glory” was not getting any traction at radio. It’s rare for an album to have four hit singles from it. But then something happened.

  Two radio stations in Charlottesville, West Virginia, and Buffalo, New York, started playing “Through the Years,” and phones started to light up.

  Within a few weeks, “Through the Years” finally got a shot at radio as the fifth single released from the album. Since then, it has become a modern standard, thanks to Kenny and Lionel and all of the people behind the scenes that made it possible. Along with “The Gambler,” it became one of Kenny’s all-time greatest hits. It’s had over five million broadcast performances with BMI, and is considered one of the top wedding and anniversary songs of modern times.

  When the sheet music was printed, I said to Marty, “At least we can get the lyric printed correctly in the sheet music.” But we couldn’t. According to our contract with the record companies and publishers, they had to print it exactly as it had been recorded. Perhaps Kenny considered redoing it; in the end, however, he did not resing any of the lines.

  To this day, the only person who sings the song the way it was originally written is me. Kenny’s record was magical, and the truth is, he could have sung a few other lines differently and it still would have been the standard that it’s become.

  Thank you, Kenny, for your masterful performance, and for the other six songs of mine you’ve recorded—forgive the pun—through the years.

  Marty and I have written a total of only thirteen songs together to date. I have to say, percentage-wise, we’ve almost batted a thousand. Nine of them have been recorded by the likes of Jermaine Jackson, Michael Crawford, Kenny Rogers, Davis Gaines, Bettye LaVette, and Dolly Parton, among others.

  Marty, you’re as good as it gets!

  As much as I loved having big-time recording stars starting to record my songs and help me start to carve out my own identity, I still had to go to the office every day at 6255 Sunset Boulevard and work for someone else, which was beginning to get progressively difficult to do.

  14

  From Snuff to Warners

  6255 Sunset Boulevard was one of the central hubs to most of the record business: Motown, Polygram, Warner/Chappell, the Welk Group, Michael Jackson, Jim Ed Norman, and many other prominent producers and entertainment attorneys were all located in the building. Columbia, Capitol, and RCA Records were just down the street, as well as some of the hottest smaller studios at the time. Not a day went by when you wouldn’t have some kind of interaction with a person who might be looking for a hit song for someone they were working with.

  Sometimes, it happened in the elevator.

  Being at the right place at the right time can definitely be the catalyst for good things to happen in the music business. I had just finished a morning demo session at Criterion of a new song I had written with Milton Brown. It had a kind of light R&B feel to it, and I was happy with the way it had turned out. Robbie Nevil had sung the demo for me, and he sounded a lot like Michael Jackson. I was going back up to the office and got into one of the six elevators in the lobby, when my friend Eddie Lambert jumped in behind me just before the doors closed.

  Eddie was a VP of A&R for Motown, and his office was two floors above mine. We made a little chit chat, and he asked me if I had anything that might be good for DeBarge.

  “Wow, that’s crazy, I just finished a song that could be great for them,” I said. “The demo is thirty minutes old.”

  Eddie said to get it to him right away as they were having a song meeting that afternoon for their new album. I got to the office and immediately had a tape made and delivered upstairs to him.

  At about 5 p.m. the phone rang. It was Eddie.<
br />
  “How’d we do?” I asked.

  “DeBarge passed. It just wasn’t right for them. Great song though!”

  “Yeah, thanks,” I said, rather disappointedly.

  Eddie went on to tell me that it wasn’t all bad news. After DeBarge had left the meeting, Eddie was playing our song again when there was a knock on his door. The guy at the door asked, “What’s that song you’re playing? I want a copy of it. That demo is cool.”

  It was Smokey Robinson.

  Smokey’s office was right down the hall from Eddie’s, and Eddie told me that Smokey was in the middle of doing his new album and was still looking for a few songs.

  “Let’s keep our fingers crossed,” I said.

  The next morning, Eddie called me and asked if I owned the demo track. I did.

  “Smokey took the song home and wore the demo out. Rather than recut it, he’d like you to produce him on your track for his album.”

  “Reeeaaally?”

  This was a bit too good to be true . . . but a guy’s gotta do what a guy’s gotta do.

  I met with Smokey that afternoon. He was amazing! We decided that since the track was perfect for him, we’d go in the next day, put his vocal on, and mix it. Not only did the song end up on Smokey’s Essar album, Snuff also played it for Burt Reynolds, and Burt ended up using it in his movie Stick.

  All because Eddie and I happened to get in an elevator at the same time.

  When I wasn’t working in my office or making connections in elevators, lunch was the best place to work, connect, and schmooze. Lunch was also the prime meeting time for me and several of my friends in the business who were close by. Jim David, who was Hal David’s son and ran Hal’s publishing company, and Bo Goldson, who ran Criterion Music with his dad Mickey Goldson, were two of my closest friends. Jim, Bo, and I would have lunch together at least twice a week.

  Sometimes, Jim would talk about his father’s older brother, Mack David, a legendary lyricist himself with eight Academy Award nominations, including “Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo” from Cinderella and the title songs from It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World and Walk on the Wild Side. Mack also had several hit songs, including the Shirelles’ “Baby It’s You” and Duke Ellington’s “I’m Just a Lucky So-and-So.” I had heard the stories of how Hal and Mack had not spoken for years, and the fairly complicated history of them both being award-winning lyricists sometimes working with the same composers, and the conflicts that arose from those certain situations.