Clive Davis and Rob Thomas during The 44th Annual GRAMMY Awards. L. Busacca/WireImage Rob Thomas was fresh off the success of Matchbox Twenty’s debut album, Yourself or Someone Like You, when he was brought on to work on “Smooth,” his smash collaboration with Carlos Santana. The chart topper remains one of his most recognizable hits, but it’s the two key relationships formed behind the scenes that would prove monumental for Thomas — with Santana and with music executive Clive Davis, who Santana was working with at the time. In the three decades since, Davis became a key mentor, friend, adviser and confidante. Here, in his own words, as told to writer Leena Tailor, Thomas pays tribute to Davis and his unparalleled legacy.
I remember arriving at my first Clive Davis Memorial Day party and the host was like, “Clive’s been talking about you coming all week! I’ve got you seated right here because he wants to sit next to you.” That was when I realized we went from work friends to regular friends. He had giants of the music industry at these parties, but every year, I was seated next to Clive. This guy launched Alicia Keys and Aretha Franklin and helped Springsteen and Barry Manilow, yet when he turned his attention to you, you felt like the most important person in his universe.
When mom wrote to me that he had passed, I cried. I messaged my wife Mari who was upstairs and she came down with tears in her eyes and we talked about how bummed we were we didn’t make his last Memorial Day party. When you have a 94-year-old friend, you know they’re running out of time, but I also know 70-year-olds who don’t have the energy and focus Clive had. I thought, “Clive’s getting up there, but he’s never gonna die!”
I first met Clive because my late manager, Michael Lippman, worked for him, but our first time working together was after I did the demo for “Smooth” and we were sitting in his office debating whether George Michael or [Jon] Bon Jovi should sing it. But Carlos [Santana] was like, “I like this guy’s voice,” and Clive loved the idea of getting this older generation guitar player together with newer generations.
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After “Smooth,” he would call and ask, “Do you have any songs? We’re doing another Carlos record,” which is how I ended up writing for Seal, Musiq Soulchild, Mary J. Blige, and Big Boi. Whenever I’d head to his office, he would use me as a sounding board for anything else he was working on. He played me “The Game of Love” with Tina Turner singing on it, before Michelle Branch came on. Only Clive would get the magic of Tina Turner on a track then have the wherewithal to say, “I’m not sure this is the right look for Carlos.” Or he’d go, “This is Maroon 5!” then hit play and close his eyes. Everyone knew they weren’t allowed to speak once he hit play.
Ever since “Smooth,” I played him every solo record I did, then we’d go to dinner and he’d give me advice. I remember sitting downtown arguing because I had a song I wrote with Benny Blanco on Chip Tooth Smile, which I thought was a good song but didn’t think was a good first single. He said, “If you have a hit on the table, you have to go with the hit!” and I was like, “I don’t know if that’s a hit. It’s just a hit writer with me.” Things got pretty loud in this restaurant! But in a friendly way.
We would also talk about books, movies, and balancing work with your personal life. Although I’m not sure there was a delineation between his personal life and work since he always had 17 projects!
Losing Clive is the end of an era. There were a handful of people like him, people like Ahmet Ertegun — the last ones who weren’t weren’t all about the algorithm. There are fewer and fewer people running labels today who are COMPLETELY guided by their own taste meter. If you come to a label or a management company today they present you with a five-page report on your fan base, how they skew, and what brands they buy. I’m sure Clive was aware of those things, but they never informed what he did. Even if everybody around him said, “I don’t get it,” he would say, “You don’t have to get it.”
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It’s like the old DJs, who were only beholden to instinct. He built this entire empire based on what he thought would turn the world on. That was his superpower. It wasn’t about breaking an artist — it was about being a conduit that took art which made him feel a certain way and getting it to people he knew would appreciate it. The reason he was Clive Davis was because he never let anybody drown out that drive. If what his heart was telling him ran contrary to advice he was getting, he ran with his heart.
After my first solo record, I wanted to make another Matchbox [Twenty] record and everybody went, “Bad idea! You have a Number One solo record. Do another solo record!” It was Clive who told me to go where my heart was. He understood what I was building and Matchbox was part of my legacy as much as my solo music, so I couldn’t let that slip by.
Although I wasn’t on his label, he remained my greatest advocate. The day after I played him Chip Tooth Smile, he sent a letter to Craig Kallman [then chairman and CEO] at Atlantic Records [who is now Chief Music Officer of Warner Music Group] saying how beautiful it was and urging them not to drop the ball on it. At his parties, he’d give speeches that were like soliloquies for whichever artist he was presenting and he said unbelievably superfluous, wonderful things, like how I’m one of the greatest writers of our generation. I’d think, “Wow. I hope I’m half of how Clive Davis describes me to a room full of people.”
I last saw him two weeks ago when Mari and I went to watch our friend Jim Parsons in the Titaníque premiere. Getting out was a shit show and his partner Greg was helping him because he wasn’t moving fast — although he was very spry for Ninety-fucking-four! Greg goes, “Look, it’s Rob,” and Clive bee-lined over to give me a hug. He said, “Rob! Wasn’t the play wonderful?”
