Clive Davis gave LGBTQ+ people the soundtrack of our lives and a place in music

About twenty-five years ago, through a long-lost friend, I went to a party celebrating the establishment of the Clive Davis Department of Recorded Music at NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts.

Sadly, I don’t remember much about that evening, but one thing really stands out. When Clive Davis walked in, it was like Moses parting the Red Sea. He was like a deity. I have to admit to being awestruck. I was too scared to approach him, and that would not happen today, for sure.

One thing that I’ve done throughout my life is that when I meet someone of incredible stature, I read a book about them, whether a biography or memoir. For example, I’ve read about former Defense Secretary Clark Clifford, Katharine Graham, the former chairman of The Washington Post Company, and actors Burt Lancaster and Jimmy Stewart. Those are just a few examples.

After reading those tomes, I feel like I know the person better. The same holds true for Davis. So when they die, I feel their loss more profoundly.

The music industry lost perhaps its most consequential titan when Davis, at 94, died on Monday. He wasn’t just a legend; he was called the “man with the golden ears.” Besides that, I really do feel that we’ve lost a cornerstone of our cultural history.

Related: Clive Davis, bisexual star-maker who changed American pop music, dies at 94

That’s because music undoubtedly plays such a pivotal role in our lives. Songs make us happy, sad, transport us to a place and time, or bear witness to an evolving memory. And chances are that a song you love wouldn’t have existed if it weren’t for Davis.

And I say that without exaggeration.

He was the metaphorical maestro behind Whitney Houston, Barry Manilow, Janis Joplin, Aretha Franklin, Bruce Springsteen, Alicia Keys, Rod Stewart, Jennifer Hudson, and on and on. There simply isn’t room to list them all.

He was the only non-performer ever inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Some would argue that the institution wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for Davis.

But to our community, his legacy runs far deeper. Clive was one of us. Personally and professionally, he helped lift the careers of many queer performers.

When he published his memoir, The Soundtrack of My Life, in 2013, he did something absolutely remarkable, at least to me and many others. As an octogenarian, he came out as bisexual. For someone from his generation to do that, it couldn’t have been easy.

In the book, Davis revealed that he first came to understand his attraction to men in his 50s, following an encounter at Studio 54 in the 1970s. He was clear that his two prior marriages had been entirely genuine.

Related: For First Time, Music Icon Clive Davis Talks Publicly About Being Bisexual

After his second marriage ended in 1985, he navigated relationships with both men and women before settling into long-term monogamous relationships with men. He was honest about the personal costs, including a difficult year-long adjustment for his son, Mitchell.

And he was adamant that he was simply a man whose attractions were based on the individual, not the gender.

I’ll admit to shaking my head because I came of age when the cultural trope and recurring joke in LGBTQ+ circles was that bisexuality was a sort of pit stop. For gay men of a certain age, coming out as bisexual first was a way to soften the blow for family, friends, or society before later coming out as fully gay.

But in this case, I think Davis was crystal clear about bisexuality being real to him. “To call me anything other than bisexual would be inaccurate,” he wrote.

His stature became, in that moment, a validation for one of the most misunderstood segments of our community: the B in LGBTQ+.

But long before he articulated his own truth publicly, Davis was already building sanctuaries for queer artists, and doing so at a time when being queer could end a career overnight.

It was during the era of “bisexual first,” when corporations were often straight and homophobic. But Davis wasn’t going there. His focus remained singular: pure talent and nothing else. He championed another bisexual, Janis Joplin, and Lou Reed’s gender-bending narratives.

He famously catapulted Barry Manilow to superstardom when Manilow’s sexuality was an open secret that the industry preferred to keep buried. He backed artists who didn’t fit the mold, like Patti Smith, precisely because they didn’t fit the mold.

Related: Barry Manilow: Coming Out Has Been a 'Beautiful Experience'

His list of queer performers included Jermaine Stewart, Taylor Dayne, and Melissa Manchester. I mention them because they are names from that same “bisexual first” era I lived through when being out and queer was precarious.

And then there is his AIDS legacy. Davis began his tireless work in the fight against AIDS in 1985, at a moment when much of the entertainment industry was looking away. In 1998, that commitment was formally recognized when the American Foundation for AIDS Research (amfAR) bestowed its prestigious Humanitarian Award upon him.

Most famously, as president of Arista Records in 1985, Davis coordinated the release of the iconic charity single “That’s What Friends Are For,” featuring Dionne Warwick, Elton John, Gladys Knight, and Stevie Wonder. Davis committed Arista Records to donating all distribution profits and single proceeds to HIV and AIDS research.

The song was released in October 1985 and became Billboard’s best-selling single of 1986, generating more than $3 million from U.S. sales alone.

In March 1990, he leveraged his entire roster of Arista talent to transform the company’s 15th anniversary celebration into a star-studded AIDS fundraiser at Radio City Music Hall, famously calling it “a party with a purpose.”

These examples came during the height of the AIDS crisis, and again, for those of us of a certain age, “That’s What Friends Are For” remains an emotional touchstone to a haunting time.

We will almost certainly never see another figure like him. The monolithic record labels that once shaped global culture have fractured under the weight of streaming algorithms and a hyper-segmented media landscape, where songs come at you from a plethora of directions.

The proverbial “music man,” the executive like Davis who could spot talent a mile away and guide artists to superstar status over decades, no longer exists. YouTube clicks, and TikTok reels unearth talent long before they’re spotted in a dive bar or chorus line.

I could kick myself for not crossing that room twenty-five years ago. But I know what I would have said, probably quoting a line from “That’s What Friends Are For,” sung by Stevie Wonder: “Well, you came and opened me. And now there’s so much more I see. And so, by the way, I thank you.”

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