Last week, the papers were full of stories and obituaries for Clive Davis, 94, the legendary leader of Columbia Records, later renamed Sony Records, and eventfully his own incredibly successful record label, Arista Records.
They called him the Kingmaker and Queenmaker of music. He signed and sold so many top stars’ records, steered mainly by what he called, “Keep the music first!” And connecting the right singers with the right material and right producers. Davis took over Columbia in 1967 when it was mostly known for Broadway cast albums — “My Fair Lady,” “Camelot,” etc. — and Mitch Miller’s corny “Sing-along-with-Mitch” records. He quickly added Janis Joplin, Carlos Santana, Big Brother and the Holding Company, Billy Joel, Bruce Springsteen, Neil Diamond, Chicago, Laura Nyro (a one-time Gloucester resident) and Aerosmith to the label. Columbia egan printing money, as the saying goes, selling millions of records.
Then, just as Sony was circling to buy Columbia, in a money dispute with corporate, Clive broke away on his own and launched Arista Records. Along came Aretha Franklin, Barry Manilow, Lou Reed, Patti Smith, The Kinks, Gil Scott-Heron and Melissa Manchester, hitmakers all. His label took off, but hit the stratosphere when he signed Dionne Warwick and her cousin Whitney Houston whose first album ”Whitney” was one of the biggest sellers of all time. The New York Times remarked that “his Grammy parties remained highlights of each season, attended by music stars and political and movie celebrities alike.”
But it was one of these Grammy parties that anchors this story and grants me my own official historical artifact.
In 1992, the Grammys returned to New York City from Los Angeles for the first time in 10 years. By then Musician Magazine was humming along and had been bought by Billboard Magazine 11 years earlier. We were a player in the music journalism world and especially valued by record execs. The party was at the Plaza Hotel in the main ballroom. Everyone was anxiously waiting for Whitney Houston to show up, who was rumored to be singing at the party. I was talking to a record ad exec from Arista when Clive sidled up and said hello. He loved Musician and even complimented an article in our new issue, which was great right in front of the ad guy. But suddenly, there was a great commotion at the top of the main staircase entrance of the room. All head’s turned.
Was it Whitney? It was not. Instead stood this perfect image of fashion and power in a completely sheer pink dress that she was “spilling out of,” so to speak, with the biggest pink diamond on her finger ever worn by a human. It was the one and only Marla Maples, right out of the tabloids and floating down into our party. Moments later, the 46-year-old new owner of The Plaza descended the corkscrew staircase behind his second wife. It was Donald Trump, looking very much like the cat who’d just eaten the canary. He came directly over to greet Clive. Marla followed and stood right across from me in the circle. He talked golf for a minute with one of the Arista execs. No one was talking to Marla so I introduced myself, sure to look her in the eye and nowhere else. Clive then said to the Donald, “this is Gordon Baird, the publisher of Musician Magazine,” and the future president shook my hand. That’s when it happened. A “piece of history” dropped into my lap. Trump said, “Oh yeah, Musician, one of my favorite magazines. I read it every week.” Then he nodded, turned to Marla and off they went to the celebrity-jammed food table, every eye following her.
Now I knew he was lying and was sure he’d probably never seen nor heard of the magazine. And I didn’t give it another thought. Clive was bigger game for me and his comment was what I treasured. But 30 years later, it dawned on me that I had been given a historical artifact of collector’s value. My own custom-made Donald Trump lie! It rolled out of him as easily as the ones I’d later see on TV, but this was my own personal lie, improvised just for me! And all thanks to Clive Davis and golf.
Whitney arrived later through a back door and went right to a private suite. It was rumored that she was three sheets to the wind on something stronger than alcohol.
So she never sang. She was surrounded by bodyguards so you could barely get a glimpse of her. Ahhh, the good old days.
It all came back to me this morning when I read Clive Davis’s obit. My story wasn’t in there. Nor was my lie. But it’s my little piece of history — like a signed baseball from a player or a dent in your fender put there by a famous movie star. It wouldn’t have happened without Clive, so I salute him. We’ll miss you, big fella. And, thanks.