A Dream in the Making: Producing for Luther Vandross

The year was 2000, and the music industry was in the throes of transformation. Millennium fever had just passed, leaving behind a world eager for reinvention. The airwaves were dominated by the likes of Eminem’s “Slim Shady” and Next’s “Wifey,” but behind the scenes, seismic shifts were reshaping the business. One of the biggest stories was Clive Davis, the legendary mogul who had been unceremoniously ousted from his own empire at Arista Records. At 68 years old, Davis had been deemed "too old" to run the label, a clause buried deep within his contract. But if anyone thought Clive Davis would fade quietly into retirement, they didn’t know the man.

Instead of licking his wounds, Davis launched J Records, a new label with a war chest of $150 million from BMG. It was a fresh start for him—a phoenix rising from the ashes of corporate politics. And it was this very man who wanted to meet me. The call came from my manager, Francesca Spero, one late August day. Her voice crackled with excitement over the phone: “Clive Davis wants to meet you. He’s starting a new label and thinks you’d be a great fit.”

“Word? Clive Davis?” I said, trying to sound cool while my pulse quickened. “Alright, set it up.”

The meeting was arranged at none other than the Waldorf Astoria in Midtown Manhattan—a fittingly grand setting for one of music’s most powerful figures. At that time, J Records didn’t even have an official office yet, so Clive had transformed the penthouse suite into his makeshift headquarters. Driving into Manhattan that day felt different; there was an electric charge in the air. I parked my car and walked into the Waldorf’s opulent lobby, its marble floors gleaming under crystal chandeliers. Everything about this place screamed power and prestige.

The elevator ride to the top floor felt like ascending into another world. When I reached the suite and rang the bell, I was greeted by one of Clive’s assistants and ushered inside. My jaw nearly dropped—it wasn’t just a hotel room; it was a fully operational record label crammed into a penthouse. Desks were piled high with contracts and demo CDs, phones rang off the hook, and assistants darted around like worker bees in a hive.

And there he was: Clive Davis himself, seated behind an enormous desk that looked more like a throne than office furniture. His presence was magnetic—he exuded authority without saying a word. His A&R dream team surrounded him: Keith Naftaly, Larry Jackson, Ron Gillyard and Peter Edge, all poised like knights at the round table, with sharp suits and sharper eyes, ready to pounce on any opportunity.

I sat across from him in a chair that felt miles away from his desk but still close enough to feel his energy. Clive wasted no time getting down to business; he wanted a track I had co-produced with Mark Batson, originally recorded by Carl Thomas called “Cold Cold World.” The instrumental had made its way to Jimmy Cozier, an artist Clive had recently signed to J Records. Jimmy had rewritten the song entirely and demoed new vocals over it—a version Clive adored so much that he signed Jimmy based on that track alone.

Clive made me an offer: he wanted the “Cold Cold World” track for Jimmy Cozier’s debut album but promised me something extraordinary in return—the opportunity to produce for any artist on J Records’ burgeoning roster. He rattled off some names: Olivia, Alicia Keys (a young prodigy I’d worked with on her demos), and Luther Vandross.

Luther Vandross.

The name hit me like a thunderclap. Luther wasn’t just any artist; he was *the* artist—an icon whose voice could melt hearts and whose music defined generations. Producing for him would be nothing short of a dream come true.

“I’ll take Luther,” I said without hesitation.

Clive smiled knowingly—he understood exactly what that meant.

The moment I left the Waldorf Astoria that day, I went straight home and got to work on creating something worthy of Luther Vandross. After constructing a track, I called Brook Richardson, an up-and-coming songwriter who hadn’t yet broken into the major-label world but whose talent I believed in deeply. Together, we crafted what we hoped would be magic—a song that could stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Luther’s legendary catalog. We titled it, **How Do I Tell Her.**

Once we finished demoing it, I handed it off to Francesca Spero at Bad Boy Entertainment (where she handled producer management) and waited anxiously for feedback. Days later came the call that changed everything: Luther loved it.

“Luther Vandross wants to talk to you,” Francesca said casually over the phone as if she weren’t delivering life-altering news.

“Wait…what?” My voice cracked with disbelief.

Ten minutes later, my phone rang again, and there it was—that unmistakable voice on the other end of the line: smooth as silk yet commanding as thunder.

“Hello,” he said warmly but formally, “may I speak to Ron Lawrence?”

“This is he,” I stammered.

“Ron,” Luther began with genuine enthusiasm, “I love this song.”

We spoke about setting up a recording session at Manhattan’s famed Hit Factory studio—the date locked in for December 27th, 2000. It felt like Christmas came twice for me that year; first on December 25th and then again two days later when I would walk into that studio.

On December 27, 2000, I stepped into The Hit Factory in Manhattan—a temple of music where legends like Stevie Wonder and Michael Jackson had recorded. There he was: Luther Vandross, surrounded by his impeccable backup singers: legendary Cissy Houston (yes, Whitney’s mother), Tawatha Agee (lead singer for the group, Mtume), and Fonzi Thornton(Luther’s best friend)—each one a legend in their own right.

“Ron,” he said warmly, “I don’t usually let producers stay while I record. But I’m making an exception for you.”

Watching him work was a masterclass in artistry. He was meticulous, crafting harmonies with precision and emotion. When it came time for his lead vocals, he asked me to step out. “I’ll call you when I’m ready,” he said.

Two days later, I returned to hear the finished vocals. They were stunning, but I couldn’t ignore a few discrepancies from the original demo. I offered my feedback

Luther paused mid-session and gave me a look that could stop time itself—the kind of look that said: *Do you know who you’re talking to?* But instead of brushing me off, he nodded thoughtfully and agreed to try my suggestion. That moment felt like earning a badge of honor. I worked my magic and had him re-record a few lines.

During breaks, we joked around—Luther poking fun at himself about his weight struggles while eating homemade SlimFast pasta (yes, really). He even laughed when I imitated his famous vibrato riff but quickly shut me down with an exaggerated “Oh child…please!” followed by booming laughter.

I brought along my 35mm camera hoping to capture this once-in-a-lifetime moment but botched loading the film—a rookie mistake that still haunts me today.

Before I left, Luther gave me his home number and told me to stay in touch. I called him a few days later to wish him a happy New Year, but life got in the way, and we never spoke again.

Weeks later came the mixing session with the recording engineer, Prince Charles Alexander at Quad Studios while Clive’s A&R team gave their final input before sending it off for mastering.

The album *Luther Vandross* dropped on June 19th, 2001—a triumphant return for Luther after years away from center stage. Seeing him perform live months later solidified what everyone already knew: he was untouchable. The album debuted at No. 6 on the Billboard 200 and climbed to No. 2 on the R&B/Hip-Hop Albums chart. It featured hits like "Take You Out" and "I'd Rather," which resonated with fans and critics alike. The project earned Luther two Grammy Awards in 2004, solidifying his comeback and reaffirming his status as one of the most celebrated voices in music history.

But life has its cruel twists. In April 2003 Luther suffered a stroke that left him incapacitated until his passing on July 1st, 2005—a loss so profound it felt like music itself had gone silent.

Looking back now feels surreal—like stepping into another era where legends roamed among us and dreams felt tangible if you dared chase them hard enough. That chapter of my life wasn’t just about making music; it was about witnessing greatness firsthand—and being part of it for just one fleeting moment in time.

By Ron Lawrence

Listen to the song here: How Do I Tell Her