I was a kid who grew up obsessed with reading record liner notes and film and TV music credits—the musicians, singers, actors, producers, but mostly who the songwriters were. Which was why I knew the names of Alan and Marilyn Bergman from an early age—from Sinatra to Streisand, Maude to Good Times, Tootsie to The Way We Were. They were a thread that ran through my life, tying things together.
In 2004, when I was publishing Performing Songwriter magazine, I got a message from Marilyn Bergman inviting me to visit her at her home the next time I was in L.A. She was the President of ASCAP at the time and I’d sent a notice out about an issue I’d planned that focused on the upcoming presidential election, giving voice to the music community. When she heard about it she decided she wanted to meet me and find out more.
So a month or so later I went to her house in Beverly Hills, sank into the sofa in their upstairs writing room while Alan was off playing tennis, and spent the next couple of hours in heaven. I listened to Marilyn’s stories of their songs, her family, and her political and social activism (she even showed me her backyard where the Hollywood Political Action Committee she co-founded in the 80s with women including Jane Fonda and Barbra Streisand used to meet). I remember we were talking about her friend Joan Didion’s writing when the phone rang and it was Cy Coleman on the other end … it was THAT kind of surreal day. Then she said, “Tell me everything about yourself” and laughed. And I basically told her she’d been a part of my life forever.
After that first visit we somehow became friends, and I have to say it will always be one of the most precious and sacred relationships of my life. I would see her when I was in L.A., and she would take time to see me when she was in Nashville. She became a champion of mine, a fact I still find hard to comprehend. But she believed in me – I think it was that simple.
She knew how much I loved the American Songbook writers, and whenever I was at an event with her she would make a point to introduce me to them as her ‘dear friend,’ and include me in their conversations … Johnny Mandel, Hal David, Jimmy Webb, Paul Williams. She requested that I be the moderator of a panel at an event where I would interview her, Alan, Jerry Leiber & Mike Stoller – still a highlight of my life. She invited me to be her guest in 2007 at the Bergman’s 50th anniversary celebration at Lincoln Center, where I was seated next to Billie Jean King. And at the after party she held my hand as she introduced me to Lucie Arnaz and Sen. Barbara Boxer, and then handed me off to Alan who ended up including me in a conversation around a pub table with he and Tony Bennett. Honestly, I still can’t believe the experiences she so generously gave me, and not one second of them will ever be lost on me.
But it was her friendship outside of the business that I will treasure most. She had been a confidante over the years of the magazine, of my struggles, and was one of the first calls I made in 2009 when I decided to fold it, scared and feeling like I had failed. She told me how proud she was of me, and that I had accomplished so much more than I could imagine. I talked to her about Mom—who was born the same year as Marilyn—and the agony over my decision to move her to Nashville in 2015. I was worried and overwhelmed, and she listened and was so supportive, always asking about Mom (which delighted Mary Lou to no end).
And Marilyn was an old-fashioned letter writer, which I loved, so for years we kept in touch that way. I’ve saved every one she ever sent me. As she got older, nearing the 90 mark, we weren’t able to correspond or see each other anymore and it was a monumental loss I grieved deeply. In the end I just sent word on her birthday each year to pass along the message that someone in Tennessee was thinking about her and loved her very much.
Marilyn was the steel spine behind those of us in her orbit—she was the quiet and mighty force that gave courage to countless women in the music business, political arena, and creative world. She had our backs, and fought tirelessly for social justice, progressivism and women’s rights. She was not only a brilliant songwriter herself, but stood up for the rights of all creators. And she was one of the smartest people in any room, a leader respected by the men whose world she inhabited. My god, how lucky this world was to have had her.
When I got the news that Marilyn had left this earth yesterday morning I spent the day in gratitude for the time I got to share with her. I went for a long walk holding Alan in my heart, and sending prayers of comfort up for him, their daughter and granddaughter, and all the people who loved her. And I thought about the epic love and life she had with Alan, and his generosity in sharing her with all of us.
On my walk I remembered one particular moment when they were in Nashville years ago, and I went to their hotel to visit with Marilyn. It was a rainy, cold, late afternoon and she and I were sitting in the hotel restaurant, alone, drinking hot tea and catching up on life. At one point Alan walked in and handed her the key to their room, saying she forgot to bring it with her when she came downstairs and thought she’d need it. They called each other ‘darling,’ and as he was leaving he paused and looked back at her, and I watched as the two of them smiled and held each others’ gaze for an extra few beats before he turned and walked out of sight. Being witness to that moment moved me to tears, and I told her that their love affair was such an extraordinary one. She smiled at me and said, “And oh, my dear, it goes by so fast.”
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