This story was originally published on Dec. 18, 1975, in “Rolling Stone.”
Clive Davis sits smiling and unruffled behind his 3’x8′ desk from which he directs the operations of Arista Records, the phoenix that brought him back from the ashes of virtual nonexistence. His smile fades when he is asked about those ashes, and he gets up to pace back and forth before large black-and-white blowups of Clive with Paul Simon and Miles Davis, Clive with Janis Joplin, Clive with …
“Just why,” he tosses over his shoulder, “am I so controversial, as you claim?”
Well, he is reminded, when he was fired on May 29, 1973, from his post as president of CBS Records Division, he was probably the most powerful man in the recording industry. Abruptly, he was stripped of power, escorted out by guards and — in Soviet style — was written out of Columbia’s history. He was edited out of a CBS talent showcase film that he had hosted. For alleged misuse of some $90,000 in company funds, he became a nonperson in the business. Rumors flew like poison darts: He was in the thick of payola and drugola; he would receive numerous indictments; he was washed up forever. He was dissected in various media reports. He was indicted this past June, but for alleged income-tax evasion, which, he quickly pointed out, canceled all those rumors about criminal wrongdoing.
Even so, a pocket of detractors lingers. Just the other day, he is told, a man, a middle-level executive at CBS, was talking about your return to power in the past year with Arista and he was scoffing: “If that man couldn’t take $10 million and turn around a company — well, anybody could do that.”
The color rises in Clive’s face: “Who said that?”
A man, he is told, who still is afraid enough of you not to allow his name to be printed.
The smile returns, but the tone is still heated: “Whoever the spokesman is, he is very stupid. There are companies with hundreds of millions at their disposal that are losing money. We haven’t had to draw on any of that money which is available to us from Columbia Pictures [not affiliated with CBS] because we’ve been operating in the black because we’ve been generating earnings from the beginning of Arista. I’m sure this spokesman does not speak for Columbia.”
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In general, he’s right. Davis’ successor, Irwin Segelstein, had a terse “No comment.” Walter Yetnikoff, the president of CBS Records Group, said, “I don’t know enough to make an intelligent comment. It looks very nice from what I read, but what more can I say? I really only know what I read in the newspaper.”
Davis’ return to prominence has generated remarks of respect from executives throughout the industry. Atlantic’s Ahmet Ertegun thinks he’s “doing a terrific job as he’s always done.” David Geffen of Asylum says, “He’s a fantastic record executive, and I wish the guy luck. I hope he becomes as big as his need.” Jerry Wexler “always knew he would smoke up a breeze.” Danny Goldberg of Swan Song: “He’s a megalomaniac, but I love him.”
And Patti Smith, the gamin-poet-singer who, with her first album just out, may be one of Arista’s brightest stars, assesses Clive this way: “He’s always dealt with outlaws — not outlaws — let’s say pirates. He dealt with Sly Stone, with Janis Joplin; he likes it. He’s an independent businessman, but he loves art.”
That’s very apparent in watching Davis at work; heavily used telephone to his left, papers needing immediate action in front of him, a stack of demo tapes and songs to the right and turntable or tape deck in constant use. He likes to keep his finger on the pulse of all phases of the company. But the music is what he likes, and he likes to tell about one of his bigger recent successes.
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“In the case of the Outlaws, Bob Feiden [director, Contemporary A&R] and I flew down to Columbus, Georgia, and found them. But once the album was out, Mike Klenfner [national promotion] took them under his wing and was excited about them. I require and want that same sense of dedication from the executives here. That’s all I ask, and I get it.”
Clive Davis’ return from the ashes was not a sudden one. After the firing in 1973, he had to nurse his wounds in silence, on orders of his attorney. He could not answer his critics. Instead, he turned to writing his autobiography, Clive, which, despite its pompous air, is an interesting account of his years at CBS and his genuine accomplishments in signing rock & roll artists. Columbia indeed became preeminent as a rock label, and he was the main reason, although the company does not like to admit it.
While he was writing the book, he began to receive offers from various companies. Alan Hirschfield, president of Columbia Pictures Inc., presented the most tempting feeler: the idea of setting up an independent company which would, in effect, grow out of that company’s faltering Bell Records. In the fall of 1974, Davis moved in as “consultant” and began weeding out Bell executives and artists. Meanwhile, Columbia Pictures put up $10 million in seed money.
At that time, Bell’s only real moneymaker was Tony Orlando and Dawn, who were already in the process of switching to Elektra. The remaining roster was unimpressive: the Partridge Family, Michel Legrand, Terry Jacks, Mary Stuart, the Fifth Dimension, Sergio Mendez, and David Cassidy. Davis kept only Barry Manilow and Melissa Manchester.
“Barry’s previous album had not sold well, and Melissa’s two albums had been only moderate sellers,” he says. “But they were people I was enthused about and felt empathy with.”
Davis’ confidence in Manilow soon paid off: “Mandy” became a Number One single on Jan. 18 of this year, and both put Arista on the map and served notice that Clive Davis was back.
Operating from a position of greater strength, Davis began to pick and choose his future signings. He could not afford to outbid the major companies in signing major performers, as he had done at CBS to sign such acts as Pink Floyd and Neil Diamond. Instead, he concentrated on building new talent and rescuing performers who had had only marginal success elsewhere. In the latter category, he took on Eric Andersen, Loudon Wainwright III, Eric Carmen (of the late Raspberries), Larry Coryell and the Eleventh House, Linda Lewis, and Martha Reeves. He gambled on the Outlaws and was rewarded with an album that became a success solely on the strength of FM airplay and word of mouth. At the same time, he began planning a strategy to corner the local market in progressive music — signing local street legend Patti Smith, Gil Scott-Heron, Anthony Braxton, the Brecker Brothers, the Headhunters, Larry Young, Harvey Mason, and others. With the added boost of the Tony Orlando catalog, the Funny Lady soundtrack and Monty Python, Arista showed a 600 percent increase — a rise of $3 million — in operating profit after eight months, and after one year posted its first $4 million-plus (in sales) month in October. Davis was saddled with one potential albatross in the American distributorship of the Bay City Rollers (from Bell in England).
He made it obvious that the Rollers would not have been his kind of signing but said, nonetheless: “I am thrilled with the sales, over 300,000 albums. They are a teen phenomenon, but they are not the Beatles, and I find such comparisons odious and wrong.”
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If he is not enthusiastic about the Rollers, he clearly welcomes their sales figures to bolster a fledgling company in the intensely competitive marketplace of popular music.
Two-and-one-half years after leaving Columbia, just over a year after starting Arista (“the word means ‘best’”), six months after being indicted, Clive Davis looks only to the future. “It is a large gamble every time, but you have to rebuild,” he says. “I think that the industry and artists and managers see that Arista has fulfilled every qualitative expectation. I find that there is a tremendous cross-pollination of the music going on now. That’s what we’re concentrating on, and I find that very exciting.”
