Dionne Warwick: Driving in Style Down the Middle of the Road

Dionne Warwick posed in Hyde Park, London in 1965. Photo : David Redfern/Redferns

‘You cannot separate the voice from the heart. Dionne’s music inspired people to see and look forward to the best part of themselves.’
Stevie Wonder

I recently watched an entertaining documentary about the career of sublime singer Dionne Warwick. (‘Don’t Make Me Over’, directed by Dave Wooley and David Heilbroner, 2021)

'Years ago I learned to be totally responsible for Dionne Warwick. I will not wait for opportunities. I will create them.’

Through the ‘60s and ‘70s Warwick performed peerless versions of Bacharach & David songs - classics like ‘Don't Make Me Over’, ‘Anyone Who Had a Heart’ and ’Walk On By’; ‘Alfie’, ‘A House Is Not a Home’ and ‘Do You Know the Way to San Jose.’ In the ‘80s she successfully re-launched her career, scoring more hits and winning countless awards. And she went on to be an effective activist and campaigner.

‘They’re not gonna tell me what to do.’

Warwick was the mistress of a particular form of American popular song. Achieving sustained mainstream success is deceptively difficult. She teaches us how it can be done with style and grace.

'Anyone who ever loved
Could look at me
And know that I love you.
Anyone who ever dreamed
Could look at me
And know I dream of you,
Knowing I love you so.
Anyone who had a heart
Would take me in his arms and love me too.
You couldn't really have a heart
And hurt me like you hurt me,
And be so untrue.
What am I to do?’
‘Anyone Who Had a Heart’ (B Bacharach / H David)

Born in 1940, Marie Dionne Warrick was raised in a middle-class neighbourhood in East Orange, New Jersey. Her mother worked in an electrical factory and her father was a Pullman porter.

'My parents gave me stability and a belief in myself and in all the possibilities life has to offer. I was told the only limitations I would ever face were those I placed upon myself.’

Music was central to Warrick’s life from the start. Her mother, Lee Drinkard, managed a gospel group. Accomplished vocalist Cissy Houston (mother of Whitney) was her aunt and lived in the same family home. Legendary opera singer Leontyne Price was a cousin.

'I come from a singing family, and, as is said, 'the apple does not fall far from the tree.'’

Warrick sang in church where her grandfather was a minister. At the age of 6, when she was invited to stand on some books to perform ‘Jesus Loves Me,’ she received her first standing ovation. At the age of 17 she took the stage at the famously challenging Amateur Night at the Apollo Theater Harlem.

‘If you think it, you can do it.’

Dionne Warwick and Burt Bacharach at Pye studios in London. 29th November 1964. (Photo by Bela Zola/Daily Mirror/Mirrorpix via Getty Images)

After finishing High School in 1959, Warrick studied at the Hartt College of Music in West Hartford, Connecticut. There she learned to read, play and write music, a technical education that would sustain her throughout her career. At the same time she found work singing backing vocals for recording sessions in New York City.

In 1962 Warrick was spotted at one of these sessions by songwriter Burt Bacharach, and hired to record demos of songs he had written with lyricist Hal David.

‘As long as it doesn’t interfere with my education – because my mother would kill you, and me too.’

Warrick hoped that one of the demos, ‘Make It Easy on Yourself,’ would become her first single release. When she discovered Bacharach & David had given the song to another artist, Jerry Butler, she was not happy.

‘That didn’t sit too well with me. So when I got to New York I kind of let them know: ‘Ahah. You don’t do that to me. One thing I want you both to understand is there’s something you can never do to Dionne – that’s try to make her over. So don’t even think it.’’

Bacharach & David apologised and were inspired by Warrick’s rebuke to write her first hit, 1962’s ‘Don't Make Me Over.’ Warrick's name was misspelled Warwick on the record label and she adopted the new construction thereafter.

'Don't make me over
Now that I'd do anything for you.
Don't make me over
Now that you know how I adore you.
Don't pick on the things I say, the things I do,
Just love me with all my faults
The way that I love you.
I'm begging you.’
‘Don’t Make Me Over’ (B Bacharach / H David)

Touring on the Chitlin’ Circuit in the American South, Warwick experienced the indignities of racism – only being allowed to use Black hotels, restaurants and toilets; not feeling safe to stay in certain towns; performing to segregated audiences.

At one such gig Sam Cooke advised her before she went on stage: ‘Do not turn your back on the white folk.’

Young Warwick wasn’t willing to comply.

‘First thing I did when I went out there, I walked straight to the band and turned my back and played to the ones that looked like me.’

On another occasion Warwick made a point of adapting the lyrics to Ray Charles’ ‘What I Say’.

'Tell your mama, tell your pa, we're gonna integrate Arkansas.'

She was warned by the police that she had minutes to get out of town.

'I refuse to allow prejudice to defeat me.’

Bigotry couldn’t stop Warwick’s progress. She scored hit after hit in the US and abroad, touring Europe to great acclaim. Marlene Dietrich announced her on stage at the Paris Olympia and introduced her to the world of couture.

‘She took me shopping, much to the chagrin of my accountants.’

Warwick was not a raw-voiced R&B or gospel artist in the traditional sense. Rather her singing was light and elegant. Her voice floated above and around the instrumentation. It could be delicate, soft, and then startlingly robust. It was always under complete control.

Warwick’s technical skills enabled her to navigate Bacharach’s complex compositions. Indeed she inspired him to write more challenging tunes.

‘To sing Bacharach’s melodies you almost had to have a music education, just to read what he wrote – different registers, time signatures. The man marched to his own drummer. If you wanted to be part of that, you had to march with him.’

With her high cheekbones and elegantly arched eyebrows; with her immaculate hair and chic wardrobe, Warwick was a class act. Her success took her to places that few Black performers had been before – to Vegas and prime time TV shows, hosted by the likes of Ed Sullivan, Perry Como and Danny Kaye. Some critics responded to her sweet voice, clear articulation and pop material by labelling her crossover or middle-of-the-road. Some underestimated her talent.

What strikes me about the Warwick story is that, while it’s relatively easy to stay niche and narrow in your appeal, it is incredibly hard to succeed in the mainstream. She demonstrates that to drive in the middle of the road, you need a rare combination of talent, technique and tenacity. Yes, she sang with poise and grace. But she was precise and meticulous in her delivery, strong and resolute in her engagement with the industry.

'I am an outspoken person. I believe in what I say.’

The mental toughness that helped get Warwick to the top was also very much evident in her later career.

With the chart dominance of disco in the late ‘70s, Warwick considered retirement. She was persuaded back to the recording studio by Clive Davis at Arista.

'You may be ready to give the business up, but the business is not ready to give you up.'
Clive Davis

There followed another string of hits, including ‘I’ll Never Love This Way Again’ and ‘Heartbreaker.’

‘I’m a messenger and I’m carrying messages of love and hope.’

Warwick was one of the first voices in the music business to speak out about the AIDS crisis, recording the benefit single 'That's What Friends Are For' for the American Foundation for AIDS Research (AmFAR) (alongside Gladys Knight, Elton John and Stevie Wonder). Appointed a health ambassador by Ronald Reagan, she prompted him to say the word AIDS in public for the first time.

‘My guide is the bible. Everybody is your brother’s keeper. Everybody. I don’t care who you are – white, black, green, orange and different. You can be striped and you’re still my sister or brother – by the rules of god. And I’ve got to do what is right to help you.’

Warwick subsequently addressed the issue of misogynist lyrics in gangster rap, taking to task the likes of Snoop Dogg, Tupac and Death Row Records’ Suge Knight.

‘You don’t call me out of my name. You don’t know me that well.’

In a 60-year career Dionne Warwick has sold over 100 million records, she has had 56 chart hits and won 6 Grammy Awards. She has been a model of mainstream success – tender, technical and tough. No one dared make her over.

'If you see me walking down the street
And I start to cry each time we meet,
Walk on by, walk on by.
Make believe
That you don't see the tears,
Just let me grieve
In private, because each time I see you
I break down and cry,
And walk on by.’
‘Walk On By’ (B Bacharach / H David)

No. 416

Complaining v Moaning: An Uncomfortable Experience at Downtown Records



Picture by Nikki A. Rae at Record Store Day 2016

On most Saturdays of my youth I would take the bus into Romford Town Centre. I’d look around WH Smith and check out the stationery, books and board games; perhaps inspect the latest fashion at Mr Byrites; pause for a while by the concrete cubist fountain at the centre of the precinct; take in the bustle of the fruit and veg market. And I’d always pop into Downtown Records. 

Downtown provided the only suggestion of counter-culture in Romford’s bland and boring consumerist world. It was a timeless melting pot of punk and soul, rock and prog. It was a magnet for outsiders. It was here that I learned to stand at the racks flicking through the plastic-wrapped sleeves in quick tempo. It was here that I mastered how to decode a record’s content by means of art direction, typography, session players and song titles. It was here that I plotted my own particular path through popular music.

Of course, I never felt entirely comfortable. I was too much of an awkward geek for that. And however essential the album I handed over to the biker-jacketed assistant - ‘Hot Buttered Soul’, ‘After the Goldrush,’ ‘Crocodiles’ - he always remained aloof, impassive, indifferent. 

But still I felt at the centre of the world.

A common concern in the late ‘70s and early ‘80s was warped or scratched LPs. It was like corked wine, and became even more of an issue when they started importing cheaper, thinner vinyl from Portugal. I particularly recall my disappointment when my new copy of the Shalamar ‘Friends’ album fell foul of this problem: the needle could barely stay in the grooves as it rode the topsy-turvy disc. ‘Gonna make this a night to remem…ber!’

The following Saturday I returned to the store with the offending LP still in its red and white Downtown plastic bag – just to reinforce the fact that I’d purchased it from them. (The bag had a graphic of a woman with permed hair, which even then seemed anachronistic.) I marched uneasily to the desk at the back, without pausing to check out the latest releases - heart pumping, nerves jangling. I handed over the disc to the hirsute assistant. 

‘I bought this record from you last week and I’m afraid it’s warped.’

He was singularly unimpressed and stared me straight in the eye.

‘Really?’

He nonchalantly slipped the vinyl out of its sleeve to see if I was telling the truth. I felt small minded, rude, petty and ungrateful; a time waster, an irritating annoyance, an ersatz music fan. I realised the crushing truth: it’s so uncool to complain.

Of course, I left with a new record. But it took me the whole of the bus-ride home to get over the experience, and I waited a couple of weeks before I returned to Downtown.

I have never been comfortable complaining. Complaining is awkward and confrontational. It conflicts with my natural instinct to make the most of things, to look on the bright side, to be optimistic. 

And yet I’m well aware that complaining is an important cog in the wheels of capitalism. It holds businesses to account, it encourages improvement, it serves the interests of other customers. Sometimes complaining is just the right thing to do.

I recently came across this quote from John Lanchester, writing in The New Yorker.

'Visitors to Britain are rarely able to grasp – sometimes after decades of residency – the vital distinction its inhabitants make between complaining and moaning. The two activities seem similar, but there is a profound philosophical and practical difference. To complain about something is to express dissatisfaction to someone whom you hold responsible for an unsatisfactory state of affairs; to moan is to express the same thing to someone other than the person responsible. The British are powerfully embarrassed by complaining, and experience an almost physical recoil from people who do it in public. They do love to moan though.'

It’s true. Despite my deeply felt aversion to complaining, I am partial to a bit of moaning: about people that eat on the tube or rustle in the theatre; about entitled posh folk who push into queues and say ‘guys’; about autotune and cursing; about the music in the restaurant being too loud and the voices on the telly being too quiet; about minted peas and over-strong artisanal ales; about masculine hugs and imprecise stapling practice.

I know I’m not alone in this.

The thing about moaning is that it comes without conflict or embarrassment. No one challenges you or answers you back. And it can be curiously cathartic.

Nonetheless I have come to appreciate that my moaning gets me nowhere. It’s pointless, self-defeating, time consuming and ultimately pretty boring. To tell the truth, my moaning gets me down.

I have resolved to moan a little less and complain a little more. Henceforth my negativity will be channelled towards positive ends.

And yet I read that a number of retailers have recently removed the option to complain by email from their website, or have stopped responding to email complaints altogether (7 March, The Times). And customers who want to register an issue are increasingly encouraged to have a conversation with an automated chatbot.

Perhaps I’ll only properly appreciate the right to complain when they’ve finally taken it away from me. Ain’t that always the way.

'Raindrops keep falling on my head.
But that doesn't mean my eyes will soon be turning red.
Crying's not for me.
'Cause I'm never gonna stop the rain by complaining.
Because I'm free.
Nothing's worrying me.’

BJ Thomas (B Bacharach / H David)

No. 279

‘Sorry Seems To Be the Hardest Word’: We Need Nice People for Nasty Times

Passersby by Lantian D

At the gym the bloke with the next locker silently moves his kit out of my way without looking up at me. At the shop a woman talks on her mobile as she pays. Down the pub a guy checks his phone as he pisses. A man on a bike shouts at me as he turns a corner. Someone’s eating a bacon sandwich on the tube. He’s sat next to a ‘manspreader.’ There are kids cursing on the top deck of the bus. There’s pizza packaging on the pavement. Queueing seems to be the hardest concept. And sorry seems to be the hardest word.

‘What do I do to make you want me?
What have I got to do to be heard?
What do I do when it’s all over,
And sorry seems to be the hardest word?

It’s sad, so sad.
It’s a sad, sad situation.
And it’s getting more and more absurd.’

‘Sorry Seems To Be the Hardest Word,’ Elton John (Elton John & Bernie Taupin)

Of course, I’m just a grumpy old man. And I live in London. But it seems sometimes that we’ve lost our sense of civic pride; of community; of togetherness. We’re all sharp elbows and hard stares; hoodies and headphones. We’ve become anti-social media addicts, selfie narcissists, smartphone lemmings. Oh, for the cordial and considerate, the kind and courteous. Oh, for the gentle smile, the nod of recognition, the quiet word. If only we could remember that shyness is nice; politeness is precious; and ‘manners maketh man.’

It seems to me we need nice people for nasty times.

To get a job at my former Agency, BBH, it was stipulated that you had to be ‘good and nice.’ This was an elegantly simple recruitment policy. And critically it recognized that an employee’s impact on culture is as important as his or her impact on clients - because culture builds companies; and the foundations of culture are day-to-day civility, mutual respect and thoughtfulness.

I particularly like the use of the word ‘nice’ in this context. It sounds soft. It suggests the candidate must be gentle and genial, amiable and agreeable. ‘Nice’ seems alien to the hard-nosed, cut-throat world of commerce. Surely ‘nice guys finish last.’ But, on the contrary, today’s networked age is all about team, partnership, collaboration and cooperation. Empathy, emotional intelligence and listening skills are commercially critical. We need to get along if we want to get on. Nowadays nice guys finish first.

Perhaps marketers too should be mindful of ‘nice.’ So many modern brands celebrate their high-minded Purpose. They’re ‘passionate’ about people and the planet; ‘in love’ with customers and the category. They’re ‘fanatical’ about good service. But maybe they should calm down a bit. I don’t want my brands to be passionate or fanatical; I’d rather they were polite and well mannered. I don’t want my brands to love me; I just want them to be nice.

I was once given a signed copy of Harry Redknapp‘s autobiography. The erstwhile West Ham player and manager was a wily tactician and loveable rogue. He had signed the book with a simple message for me: ‘Nice one!’

Exactly.

‘What’s it all about, Alfie?
Is it just for the moment we live?
What’s it all about when you sort it out, Alfie?
Are we meant to take more than we give,
Or are we meant to be kind?’

Alfie, Dionne Warwick (Burt Bacharach, Hal David)

No. 133