"Are You Hungry?" What Working for Clive Davis Taught Me About Drive, Excellence, and Earning Your Place

Long before I became an author, I was a 22-year old college dropout running through the halls of J Records trying desperately not to disappoint my boss, Clive Davis.

After my semester-long internship at the label, where I was responsible for writing fan newsletters for Alicia Keys, Busta Rhymes, and Rod Stewart, I dropped out of college because I couldn’t wait to go to work in the music industry. I took a job as the front desk receptionist at the newly formed J Records, and was immediately placed in training to become the second executive assistant to Clive’s main EA. She needed backup and I was hungry to immerse myself in any and all areas of the business.

Music was my life. I started my own music magazine from my Brooklyn bedroom in 1997 with my best friend, Jen. We’d flip our CDs over and get the names of the record labels of our favorite bands, then find their phone numbers and cold call the receptionists, praying we’d get transferred to the PR department so we could shoot our shot and try to score backstage passes and interviews with those artists.

And it worked.

Honeyspider fanzine (of which I made myself the CEO and Editor-in-Chief) went on to interview bands like Blink 182, Metallica, Matthew Sweet, and others. Here’s a longer post on that if you’re in the mood for a rabbit hole.

I worked the front desk at J Records from 9 AM - 5:30 PM, answering phones and greeting artists and employees. Then at 5:30 PM, I’d head back to Clive’s office (Mr. Davis, as the assistants called him). I did everything from taking dictation (he never used a computer, so every email began with him sitting at his giant mahogany desk and reciting it aloud while I scribbled furiously in a yellow legal pad), to booking his travel, running his errands, making his dinner reservations, and transferring phone calls from legends like Whitney Houston and Aretha Franklin.

I often worked in that office until 11 PM. It was so late that the label would send me home from the city in a private car service.

Eventually, I was promoted to his office full time.

Mr. Davis did not accept mediocrity. Dropping the ball was not an option. Excellence was the name of the game and I spent many nights crying at my desk after he reminded me that I was, more often than not, failing at my job.

But I worked relentlessly to meet those impossible standards. And soon, I began to nail them. I learned to anticipate his needs. I said yes to anything that was asked of me. And he began to trust me.

I did my job well and I did it with pride. It was not lost on me that at 22 years old, I had the opportunity of a lifetime. And I was not going to fuck it up.

Mr. Davis and I were both from Brooklyn. I knew he was a mogul before I got the job, but once I began working for him, I became fascinated by his story. I’d watch his television interviews from the couch in my little Brooklyn apartment with my mother and then return to the office the next morning with one of his quotes rattling around in my head.

In a CBS interview, he recalled asking a young Bruce Springsteen a simple question before signing him:

“Are you hungry?”

I never forgot it. At 22 years old, I wasn’t just hungry. I was starving.

Although I was only in that role for a year, it changed me forever. I learned that preparation, discipline, and a relentless work ethic are what separates the good from the extraordinary. And I wanted to be extraordinary. For Mr. Davis, but most importantly, for myself.

Now, over twenty years later, when people ask me how I’ve managed to publish ten books, launch a publishing imprint, build multiple businesses and pick myself back up after every failure, I can tell you that part of the answer lives in that young girl with a yellow legal pad, determined to prove she belonged in rooms she had no business being in.

Refusing to fail. Hellbent on becoming extraordinary.

Mr. Davis, I am eternally grateful for you.

May you rest in peace.