The music industry has lost its most formidable gangster. Clive Davis, the man who discovered more talent than most people have had hot dinners, has shuffled off this mortal coil at the ripe age of 94. He died not in a blaze of rock and roll glory, but presumably in a quiet room, possibly while listening to a demo of someone who would go on to sell 50 million records. That was his curse, his gift, his eternal burden.
Davis was not a musician. He was a predator of potential, a talent vampire who drained the lifeblood of countless singer-songwriters and turned it into gold. He signed Janis Joplin, gave us Whitney Houston, and resurrected Aretha Franklin. He also, let’s not forget, brought us the likes of Ace of Base and Barbra Streisand. For every masterpiece, there was a misdemeanour, but that’s the price of admission to the pantheon of pop.
His legacy is a mixed tape of triumphs and tragedies. He built J Records from the ashes of Arista, which he built from the ashes of CBS Records. He was the phoenix of the boardroom, the sphinx of the studio. Artists loved him, loathed him, and owed him their careers. He had an ear for a hit, a nose for a deal, and a stomach for the grotesque excesses of the music business.
But let’s not get misty-eyed. Davis was the man who popularised the concept of the corporate record label, turning art into a commodity. He was the godfather of the modern music industry, and we are all living in his long shadow. Every time you hear a formulaic pop song on the radio, pour one out for Clive. Every time a record exec screws over an artist, pour another one. He set the template.
He was also British, you see. A Londoner who understood the transatlantic game better than anyone. He knew that British cool sold American pop, and American soul sold British grit. He was the broker, the fixer, the man who made the phone call that changed everything.
Now he’s gone, and we are left with a world of Spotify playlists and TikTok hits. Davis was a dinosaur, a titan, a relic of an era when music was a physical object you held in your hands. The digital age has no place for such giants. They have algorithms now, not instincts.
So farewell, Clive Davis. You were a monster of commerce, a genius of greed, and the man who taught us that music is just another product. But what a product. What a glorious, transcendent product. Let the gin flow. Let the demos play on. The maestro has left the building.
