Bruce Springsteen quipped that Clive Davis was “the most humble man in the music business” — before describing him as “big, and bombastic, and brave, and full of ideas” at the legendary record executive’s funeral Monday, June 29.
In the final eulogy of
the service, Springsteen recalled the day he auditioned for Davis, who offered him a contract with Columbia Records on the spot. “On that day, Clive showed a 22-year-old nobody the same warmth, the same kindness, the same respect that he would show me after all my success for the next 50 years,” Springsteen said.
Even after they stopped working together, Davis remained a devoted fan and friend, who attended every New York City-area show Springsteen played (including a gig in Newark, New Jersey just a few months ago). “He guided the listening public towards so much powerful and inspiring music,” Springsteen said. “And he not only loved music, Clive actually loved the people who made the music, no matter how much of a pain in the ass they were. And he loved those people deeply and permanently. With his loyalty, he let me know that that was always the way he felt about me, and I loved him back.”
Springsteen was one of several big names to speak at Davis’ funeral, along with Dionne Warwick, Barry Manilow, and Alicia Keys. The service also featured performances from Kenny G and Jennifer Hudson. You can read Springsteen’s full eulogy below.
Clive Davis was the most humble man in the music business [laughs].
Not really.
Clive was big, and bombastic, and brave, and full of ideas, and just believed, believed, believed, believed. He dressed like a king, and he was born to run… everything.
So it was 1972. I was a 22-year-old musician-slash-beach bum, arriving in New York on the Lincoln Transit bus out of Asbury Park. Now, two weeks earlier, I’d auditioned for the legendary John Hammond, and I’d been incredibly, unbelievably, and enthusiastically received. But he told me, “You have to play for Clive.” John told me, quote, “I’ve had my successes, I’ve had my failures, and Clive makes the final decisions.”
So, OK. I come two weeks later, late one morning, walk into Clive’s elegant office with John, with nothing but my whole world to lose. Was I nervous? A little bit. But I tried to judo myself on the way up in the elevator by saying, “Well, I’ve got nothing. The worst I can come out with is nothing, so I’ll still have what I went in with.” It almost worked, but not quite. We walked into Clive’s elegant office, and the minute I walked in, Clive came around the desk, and he took my hand in his, and he said, “John has told me so much about you. I can’t wait to hear you.” He was very kind and welcoming.
So I sat down, I tentatively strummed my guitar. I think I played him “Growin’ Up” and “Saint in the City,” songs that would end up predominantly placed on my first album. And when I finished, Clive, smiling, simply said, “Welcome to Columbia Records.” And in those few words, he changed my life forever. Forever. Nothing’s been the same since that day.
On that day, Clive showed a 22-year-old nobody the same warmth, the same kindness, the same respect that he would show me after all my success for the next 50 years. Nothing ever changed. At Columbia, Clive became my champion, encouraging me and promoting me, getting the company to support me in every way that he knew how. He had a good critical eye. I handed in my first record. He handed it back to me. “There’s nothing anybody can play on the radio! You want to be on the radio, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I do want to be on the radio.” I did.
So he sent me home. In my dingy boho beach apartment, I wrote “Spirit in the Night” and then “Blinded by the Light,” two songs that totally changed the profile and the perception of that album. Clive then filmed himself reciting the lyrics to “Blinded by the Light,” like it was some kind of New Jersey Shakespeare. It was a little embarrassing, but he insisted on sending it to every Columbia office around the country. It was hilarious.
For the rest of his long life, after we had any kind of business connection, Clive didn’t miss a single New York performance I gave. Just about every meaningful event that occurred in my long work life, Clive made sure he was there. As recently as a few months ago, Clive attended my Land of Hope and Dreams tour in Newark. He’s 94-years-old. He’s standing up for a three hour show! Whenever I saw him, he always reminded me of that golden moment. It’s the moment, you know, the one where, if you’re talented, if you’re lucky enough, an artist comes but once in your life, just once — if the right man is listening to you from across that big desk. For me now and forever, Clive Davis was that right man.
The world that Clive was such a wonderful representative of has now vanished completely with his passing. It was the world of the great record man: Berry Gordy, Ahmet Ertegun, Mo Ostin, Jerry Wexler, John Hammond, Jac Holzman — men who defined, loved, and sustained the record business from their viewpoint at the top desk on down. Clive changed so many artists’ and performers’ lives, so many. There isn’t a day when I don’t sit on my big front porch, in my big house, surrounded by my big cars, with my big family, looking out over my big yard that Clive doesn’t come somewhere whistling around the top of my brain.
He guided the listening public towards so much powerful and inspiring music. And he not only loved music, Clive actually loved the people who made the music, no matter how much of a pain in the ass they were. And he loved those people deeply and permanently. With his loyalty, he let me know that that was always the way he felt about me, and I loved him back. I never felt nothing but love coming from Clive.
So, can a kid with a guitar, walk off the streets of New York into an office and into music history today? I don’t know. I don’t know if those times still exist. But as somebody who’s made that journey, it was an incredible, indescribable, and wonderful miracle. And for me that miracle will always be named Clive Davis. Nothing but love, Clive. Thank you.
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