Alicia Keys Honors Clive Davis at Funeral: ‘You Didn’t Just Sign an Artist. You Recognized the Soul’

By Jon Blistein

Jon Blistein

At Clive Davis’ funeral Monday, Alicia Keys paid tribute to the late, legendary record executive with a eulogy she titled, “A Letter to the Man Who Believed First.”

The emotional speech found Keys recalling her first audition for Davis and expounding upon the endless support and friendship he offered her during their years working together. “You didn’t just sign an artist. You recognized the soul,” Keys said. “You saw not just the music I’d already made, but the music that was still sweeping inside of me, waiting for someone with the wisdom and the courage to call it forward. You called it forward. You called me forward.”

Davis was one of Keys’ earliest champions. While still heading up Arista Records, he bought out her contract at Columbia, and then made sure to bring her to his new label, J Records, after his ouster from Arista. J Records released Keys’ blockbuster breakthrough debut Songs in A Minor, in June 2001.

Keys was one of several big names to speak at Davis’ funeral, along with Dionne Warwick, Barry Manilow, and Bruce Springsteen. The service also featured performances from Kenny G and Jennifer Hudson. You can read Keys’ full eulogy — which followed Hudson’s rendition of Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah” — below. 

I’m actually not a crier, so I’m in a strange place. That was so beautiful, Jennifer [Hudson]. Thank you so, so much. 

This is called, “A Letter to the Man Who Believed First.” 

Dear Clive, there are moments in life that feel like they were written before you ever lived them, like the universe conspired quietly in the background, arranging people and places and timing, so that something extraordinary could be born.

Meeting you was one of those moments for me.

I was 15 years old, and I remember running down the street, 54th Street, in a leather jacket that I always wore in the winter, and I was late to meet Clive Davis. My manager was livid. I couldn’t do anything about it. The train had messed up, I couldn’t fix it. And so I was 15 when I first sat down at a piano in front of you; 15, my son’s age. Still becoming, still unfolding, and yet you saw something in me that I was only just beginning to see in myself. And that’s a gift I’ll never fully be able to repay, only honor. 

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You didn’t just sign an artist, you recognized the soul. You saw not just the music I’d already made, but the music that was still sweeping inside of me, waiting for someone with the wisdom and the courage to call it forward. You called it forward. You called me forward. I think about the way you always spoke about music with such reverence, like it was sacred, like it mattered, like it meant something in a world that so often reduces art to commerce and genius to product. You held the line. You reminded me again and again that what we were doing was about truth, and legacy, and about the human heart reaching out to another human heart and saying, “You’re not alone.”

When we first met, you told me that you would treat me like Joni Mitchell, and I was like, “Woah.” You said, “I’ll treat you like Joni Mitchell, because Joni Mitchell tells me when she’s done, and when she’s done, then it’s time.” And that was the belief he had in me. And that belief created Songs in A Minor. And because of your guidance, I found the courage to be completely and unapologetically myself at a time when the industry wanted me to be something smaller, something easier, something safer.

You never asked me to shrink. You always asked me to expand. You gave me my first real stage — not just a spotlight, but a stage. And we always joked that the first time you asked me to perform, you said, “I have good news and I have bad news.” You said, “The good news is you’re going to perform at my Grammy party. It’s going to be the first time I’m introducing a new artist.” I was like, “Wow.” 

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“Bad news. You’re gonna have to follow Gladys Knight.” 

That’s pretty bad news [laughs].

You gave me a place to stand, and to speak, and to sing, and to be heard, and to write, and to produce, and to create. And I’ve tried every single day since then to be worthy of that stage, because I know how important that is. And I know what it cost you to bet on a young girl from Hell’s Kitchen, who believed a piano could change the world. 

Clive, you are woven into the fabric of who I am. Not just as an artist, as a woman. You showed me what it looks like to move through with integrity and intention. You showed me that excellence is not an accident, it’s a devotion, a daily, relentless, beautiful devotion, and I carry that with me everywhere I go.

To your family: Thank you for loving me just as much as he does; and always know that the man you love and cherish has poured something immeasurable into the lives of artists who might otherwise have never found their voices. The music that has moved us and comforted us, and we celebrate with so much of it, exists because Clive Davis believed it could and should. And that legacy will outlast all of us, and it will live in every song, in every concert hall, in every quiet room where someone puts on a record and finally feels understood.

I honor you, and I love you. I am because you believed that I could be. Thank you for the music, for the vision, for the encouragement for the friendship. Really every single time, every single time.

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