Clive Davis is dead, and with him goes the last living link to a music industry that actually knew how to sell a record. The British obituaries are predictably gushing, calling him a “transatlantic icon” and swooning over his Midas touch. But let us be honest: Davis was a shark, a brilliant, ruthless specimen of the old school who understood that pop music was not art but product, and he manufactured it with the precision of a Detroit assembly line.
Born in Brooklyn in 1932 to a Jewish family of modest means, Davis clawed his way into Columbia Records by sheer force of intellect. He had the ears of a safecracker and the stomach of a loan shark. He signed Janis Joplin, then watched her overdose. He resurrected Aretha Franklin, then squeezed her dry. He discovered Whitney Houston, then guided her into the arms of Bobby Brown. His career is a museum of human wreckage and platinum sales.
And yet, the man had taste. That is the maddening thing. He saw the genius in a scruffy British band called the Grateful Dead? No, that was the Grateful Dead. He saw the genius in a raspy-voiced California singer named Rod Stewart. He turned a failed actor named Bruce Springsteen into a megastar. He took a 1970s boogie band called Earth, Wind & Fire and made them sound like gods. The man had a nose for talent that bordered on the supernatural.
But what does his death mean for music today? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. The industry he helped build is a hollowed-out corpse, run by digital autocrats who worship algorithms and data-mining. The idea of a record label boss nurturing an artist over a decade, the way Davis did with Whitney or Dionne Warwick, is as quaint as a bustle. Today, a hit lasts a fortnight, and artists are tossed aside like crumpled packaging.
Davis was also a master of the deal, a legend in the boardroom. He founded Jive Records, then sold it. He started Arista, then lost it. He became the only man to be fired from Columbia Records and then rehired by his successor. His career was a soap opera of power, betrayal, and impeccable timing. The British press will note his philanthropy, his AIDS activism, his annual pre-Grammy party. They will ignore the wreckage.
But let us not moralise. The music industry is not a charity. It is a bloodsport. Clive Davis played it better than anyone. He was the last mogul. The last man who could say, “I will make you a star,” and mean it. Now he is gone, and all we have left are Spotify playlists and TikTok challenges. God help us.
Rest in peace, Mr. Davis. You were a bastard, but you were our bastard. And you made damn good music.
