The Congress of Racial Equality (C. O. R. E.) presented me with the Martin Luther King Award for “outstanding achievement” in 1996 for my work with at-risk youth through my foundation. It was a thrill to be given that recognition from a great civil rights organization, especially when the award was named after one of my heroes. That award is one of my most coveted because it involved trying to make a difference beyond my own field. Michael Ovitz once told me that we don’t have royalty in America, we have celebrity; and people can use celebrity as a form of currency by participating in charity events and raising important issues. I felt grateful that C. O. R. E.’s efforts to change society were aided in more subtle ways by another powerful catalyst for desegregation and mutual understanding between the races—music. Ignorance is the enemy of understanding. Racial attitudes began to shift when white kids of my generation began listening to “race music” in the form of Delta blues. Our mutual understanding and acceptance increased even more when we began attending concerts and enjoying live performances by black musicians while standing side by side with black teens.
When white kids couldn’t get enough of Ray Charles, Percy Sledge, Sam Cooke, Smokey Robinson, and the Motown artists and songs, social change wasn’t far behind. More than once, I’ve stood on the stage of the Apollo Theater in Harlem as the only Hebrew school dropout on the program. I’ve always been welcomed there, and I’ve never witnessed prejudice or racist talk on a concert stage or in a recording studio when black and white musicians work together.
I’m proud to be a part of that, but I can’t pretend to fully grasp the depth of the sacrifices made by those who brought down the walls of American apartheid. Coretta often shared with me the fears, disappointments, and eventual triumphs she experienced during the civil rights movement. She told me of her anguish when her husband was jailed repeatedly on false or trumped-up charges. In many of those instances, Mrs. King and her husband both feared that he might never get out of jail alive. She told me of her gratitude when then president John F. Kennedy and his brother Bobby intervened to release Reverend King from jail.
Coretta provided me with insights into what it was like for her as a young mother alone with her children while the world seemed to rage at her door. Death threats and hateful phone calls came at all hours of the day and night. She went to bed most nights without knowing when—or if—her husband would be coming home. Hearing these stories of her bravery and perseverance called to mind a powerful quote by Winston Churchill: “Courage is not the absence of fear, but action in the face of fear.”
Each day brought heart-wrenching reports of bombings, cars run off the road, shots fired, and civil rights workers simply disappearing. Those images were in my mind when I wrote a song honoring Coretta. I also drew inspiration from a beautiful photo in the book Mrs. King gave me, a portrait of her and Reverend King as a young couple. She was at his side, his pillar, his rock, the one person who truly understood all that he endured and the toll it took. I wanted to write of the powerful woman behind the powerful man—a woman who stepped up upon her husband’s death and kept his dream alive.
The song’s lyrics include a mention of “the endless mile,” which refers to the long and often never-ending journey undertaken by those who take a stand and fight for social change—or whatever the cause might be—based on their principles and sense of purpose. Many human rights activists dedicate themselves to their causes knowing that they will likely never live to see the change they seek take hold. In some cases, including that of Reverend King, they lose their lives because of their activism. Through my own advocacy for abused women and children, I’ve come to know many dedicated and talented individuals, including politicians, medical researchers, lawyers, teachers, social workers, police officers, firefighters, soldiers, and clergy—all of them determined to make the world a better place. I’ve never met one who didn’t list Reverend King and his wife among their heroes.
“The Courage in Your Eyes” is a song I wrote and performed for Coretta at the event in Atlanta, and just a short time later I sang it at the memorial service for Mrs. King upon her death in January 2006. Our audience of fifteen thousand that day included President George W. Bush and former presidents George H. W. Bush, Jimmy Carter, and Bill Clinton, whose wife, Senator Hillary Clinton, spoke that day as well. There were also three governors and three planeloads of Congress members, as well as many leading figures from the civil rights movement.
I was grateful for the opportunity to publicly show my respect for Coretta Scott King and her husband. Knowing Coretta Scott King was an honor that I will treasure all my life.
LESSONS IN LEADERSHIP
Coretta’s gift to me was perfectly timed, whether she intended it or not. It was like the hand of a trusted friend reaching out to me and reminding me that love is the only right answer. The book with photographs of her and her husband had an immediate impact on the otherwise wrenching day that marked the verdict of the jury trial for the Isley lawsuit. The Kings’ fight against racism put my own experiences with injustice into perspective. The struggles, sacrifices, and dangers faced by the Kings and all of their brave freedom fighters made my situation seem mundane in comparison.
Reading the book sent by Coretta calmed me in a time of turmoil. I decided to seek out other inspirational books. I am more partial to the ancient philosophers than the current ones. One of my favorites is the Roman philosopher Lucius Annaeus Seneca. I have him to thank for a quotation that has helped me immensely:
Other vices affect our judgment, anger affects our sanity: others come in mild attacks and grow unnoticed, but men’s minds plunge abruptly into anger. There is no passion that is more frantic, more destructive to its own self; it is arrogant if successful, and frantic if it fails. Even when defeated it does not grow weary, but if chance places its foe beyond its reach, it turns its teeth against itself. Its intensity is in no way regulated by its origin: for it rises to the greatest heights from the most trivial beginnings.
The trial was an excruciating experience. For me it was a travesty of justice beyond my imagination—and yet it was nothing compared to what would come hurtling at me next.
After the Supreme Court refused to consider my appeal and left the devastating jury verdict standing, I received notice that the insurance company that I’d thought was covering me in the case was instead coming after me for the full financial judgment plus interest, as well as all costs related to the case and all of the appeals.
But it got worse, much worse.
I suddenly found myself alone on the battlefield facing off against a gigantic insurance company and feeling left behind by both my record label and my music publishing company—who, combined, were reaping millions from my work. I had believed we were a team throughout this traumatic litigation, but that was not the case. The insurance company that I thought had my back was now throwing knives, swords, and axes into it. It brought a lawsuit against me in England, trying to force me to pay them millions upon millions of dollars, including the label’s share of the judgment. The label that had profited from my work, in the meantime, had an insurer covering its back.
The overwhelming part was that in a worst-case scenario, I would have had another long and protracted trial in London, and if I lost that case, the rules there would have forced me to pay all the opposition’s legal fees on top of the judgment, which had grown exponentially with interest.
I talked about this intense situation one day with a dear friend, Carol Genis, whom I’d known socially for years. She is a highly regarded entertainment lawyer based in Chicago.
Carol, whom I soon hired as my general counsel, dug deeply into the case. I became aware that I had yet another fight ahead of me. After a decade of battling the Isley lawsuit, I now found myself not only at war with the insurance company but also feeling obligated to bring my own legal action against one of the lawyers who represented me in the Isley litigation. This was especially painful to me given how much trust I had placed in them.
; I brought in a new team of lawyers to represent me in London, where the insurance company lawsuit was filed, and new actions were filed in New York, Connecticut, and Los Angeles. So I had four cases going on at once. My legal team included Carol, David Golub, Kathy Emmett, and Doug Capuder, who were experienced in legal malpractice.
At one point in this extended and painful battle, a member of the team pulled me aside and told me what I understood to mean, “We can’t get your song back for you. We can’t undo what has happened to you.” That proved true. Yet I survived, and fortunately there were several settlements and I avoided a financial catastrophe, but my ability to trust has been permanently… altered.
Carol, who remains my lawyer and my friend, recently offered, “We saved the patient, but he will never be the same.”
How could I be the same after spending a decade and a half discovering so many things that made me feel betrayed or abandoned by some of those closest to me? I inevitably became a more guarded person. On one level, I had to implement strict methods of denying unsolicited material. This means not being able to listen to or accept outside music, whether from friends or aspiring artists. I also have never been able to look at a piece of paper in the same way. The term indemnification in a contract carries a very different weight and meaning for me now. Even letters and e-mails are potentially binding chains of communication. I believe there is some greater wisdom in this awareness. But in the much bigger picture, your ability to trust is hugely impaired. My perception of absolutely everything changed. The ones you’re supposed to be able to put the most trust in are the ones that you start to scrutinize the most.
It was during this time that I sought guidance from my friend Bill, who was deep into his own major undertaking, writing his life’s story. We met in his warm Dutch Colonial home in Chappaqua, New York, for a lunch of small, neatly cut sandwiches. At the other end of the dining table were thick stacks of paper, his manuscript awaiting edits for a looming deadline.
Out the window, amid a small forest of evergreens and maple trees, I could see sentries from the Secret Service team that had escorted me up the drive and onto the porch. They drove a convoy of American muscle cars, which seemed oddly fitting. The former president of the United States, whose triumphs and trials far exceeded mine in intensity, asked how I was doing. I told him of the issue weighing on my mind. I told him that I was in the middle of some litigation and if it went all the way to trial the worst-case scenario could be catastrophic because the matter was being heard in London, and over there if you lose you have to pay all of the opposition’s legal costs on top of whatever the damages may be—and this dispute could have gone on and on and on.
When I had finished explaining the situation, Bill peered into my eyes with a knowing and compassionate look and said, “That could mean losing everything you ever worked for.”
I realized he’d been in exactly the same position. I’d long respected him for his enormous intellect and phenomenal sweeping grasp of so many American, global, and human issues, but this was another Clinton moment for me. For the first time I felt the power of his empathy for other human beings. Fortunately, soon after our conversation about this matter, the other side agreed to settle.
I first met Governor Bill Clinton when I performed at a rally for his initial presidential campaign in Chicago. Dan Adler, a friend who worked for Michael Ovitz at CAA, came to me with a request from the Clinton camp to perform at the Chicago event. After the Chicago rally I went home and there was a knock on the door. My office manager told me that a presidential campaign staffer for Governor Clinton wanted to know if I could be ready for a call from the candidate in twenty minutes. I wondered what this call could be about. Exactly on time the phone rang and it was Governor Bill Clinton. He thanked me for coming to Chicago and told me that his one last big televised push was an event at the Meadowlands in New Jersey.
“I know you’re just home for a few days and you are trying to spend time with your girls, but this would mean a lot to us,” he said in requesting that I perform.
“Count me in,” I said.
Then I stumbled because I wasn’t sure how to address him after such a call. So I asked, “What should I call you?”
“Call me Bill,” he said. And “Bill” it’s been ever since—even when he was Mr. President.
My daughter Taryn and her best friend, Gwen, accompanied me to the Meadowlands event along with Louis Levin. They’d been to this venue only to see concerts by Jon Bon Jovi or Bruce Springsteen, so it was a different world backstage at a political event. This was my first full-on exposure to the storied Clinton charisma. I would witness many Clinton moments that boggle the mind. The atmosphere was not unlike many of the political gatherings I attended as a child with my father in Connecticut—just magnified to the tenth power.
My first impression was that we were lucky to have such a gifted leader seeking the presidency. This was not one of the backslapping, stiff-smiling pols I’d come to hold in contempt. Clinton displayed a gift for instant rapport beyond any I had ever witnessed. As he greeted one supporter after another, the Arkansas governor conversed on topics that ranged from the children and dogs of the person before him to the state of global economics and key figures in the history of rhythm and blues.
I became fast friends with Hillary and her saxophonist husband, whose wealth of interests includes a love of jazz, soul, R & B, and Motown. After one of my first performances for the Clintons, Bill made a comment about wanting to join me onstage with his saxophone someday. I laughed about that. Later, Hillary slipped me a note that said, “He really does want to play in your band.”
So far, Bill hasn’t had an opportunity to do that, but recently he was being honored at a USO fund-raising event where I performed, and I was impressed with his knowledge of his chosen instrument. The former president spent a lot of time in deep “sax-speak” with my amazing sax player, Michael Lington, a native of Denmark and an international recording artist who never dreamed he’d be discussing where to find the best German-made mouthpieces with the former commander in chief and leader of the free world. Bill’s breadth and depth of knowledge never ceases to amaze me.
The Clintons are the most engaging, down-to-earth, and incredibly smart couple I’ve ever known. After I performed at the Meadowlands event, which was on the eve of the election, Al Gore spoke and offered up a surprise: “Imagine the day of the election. You wake up to the smell of fresh coffee in the kitchen. Michael Bolton is on the radio, and Bill Clinton is president of the United States!”
Thousands cheered for Bill, maybe one or two for the fresh coffee, and even some for me on the radio. After the Meadowlands event, I flew to Norway to promote a new collection of songs. When I finally trudged into my hotel room the next evening, I turned on CNN and turned down the volume before falling asleep. When I woke up, my new friend Bill Clinton was president of the United States.
My work on behalf of his campaign resulted in many invitations to perform at the White House or to simply attend events there. I was surprised to be invited to a reception for officials from the Ukrainian government. My surprise turned to stunned gratitude when Hillary hugged me and said, “We thought you’d enjoy this one, Michael, because we remembered your grandfather was from the Ukraine.”
My love and respect for Hillary’s keen mind, incredible strength, and poise grew exponentially at another meeting in Washington in January 1998. She’d been scheduled to take part in an event for an organization I’ve been active in as honorary chairman for many years: Prevent Child Abuse America. When the day of the event arrived, I was not certain Hillary would attend given her busy schedule, but she showed up, smiling, composed, looking great, and ready to speak with compassion and wisdom on specific and complex issues relating to this topic. Time after time, I observed her inquiring about the needs and desires of those around her. Her powerful speech that day sent a surge of energy through the organization that drove its members to new heights of achievement. I admire the Clint
ons and their determined resilience and all they have accomplished and continue to accomplish.
I flashed back to a moment just six months or so after the Clintons moved into the White House in 1993. I was in Washington for some more advocacy work. I spoke with the first lady only briefly. I asked how things were going so far because I knew she and the president were very sincere in their desire to make a big difference in the lives of people across America. Hillary didn’t come out and say it, but I could tell from her tone and expressions that they were experiencing how extremely challenging it can be to get things done in Washington, D.C.
I would discover firsthand during my many visits that there are so many well-funded and deeply entrenched special interest groups as well as powerful individuals and lobbyists, to deal with that you have to wonder how anything ever gets done. I’ve witnessed this in my own efforts as an advocate for protecting women and children. On one trip to D.C. I met with Pennsylvania senator Arlen Specter, who was then a Republican but later became a Democrat before retiring in 2011 after thirty years. It was my understanding that Senator Specter was leaning toward supporting legislation offering protections that I supported. But this master of the political process pointed out, in a very friendly and helpful way, that some aspects of the proposed legislation as it was then written were likely to attract opposition from certain special interests.
He also suggested some solutions to potential problems. It was very enlightening for me to hear Senator Specter’s perspective on how the system works and doesn’t work. Just sitting in his office and watching the constant flow of people coming through to seek his advice, ask for his assistance, and present their own issues was like getting a master class in government and politics.
The Soul of It All Page 22
