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      How ‘The Greatest Night in Pop’ Got the ’80s Right

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      The Netflix documentary revels in nostalgia. But the heart of the film spotlights the relationships between the pop superstars who recorded “We Are the World.”The title of Netflix’s new documentary “The Greatest Night in Pop,” which chronicles the recording of “We Are the World,” is a little mystifying. Pop music needs a big audience, but what happened inside A&M Studios in Los Angeles, in the vampire hours between 10 p.m. on Jan. 28, 1985, and 8 a.m. the next day, was seen by only 60 to 70 people in attendance, from Michael Jackson to a small film crew. The song that resulted in this frantic, logistically improbable session is stirring but callow, with a gospel-style chord progression that gives false weight to the platitudinous lyrics.Prince, who declined repeated entreaties to join the ensemble, sat it out because he thought the song was “horrible,” according to the guitarist Wendy Melvoin. It sold over 20 million copies, with some fans reportedly buying multiples less out of enthusiasm for the music, it seems, than a desire to donate money toward feeding Ethiopians, who were in the midst of a famine that reportedly killed as many as 700,000 people. The song won four Grammys, including song of the year, but almost 40 years later, it has all but vanished from view.But now, “We Are the World” and the private machinations that went into writing and recording it are up for reconsideration, thanks to the documentary, which was viewed 11.9 million times in its first week of release last month, topping Netflix’s list of English-language films. “The Greatest Night in Pop” earns its swaggering title in two ways. Until someone invents a time machine, it’s the greatest way to see what the mid-1980s were about, thanks to a parade of stylistic and technological hallmarks, and even anachronisms: big hair, cassette tapes, primary colors, satin baseball jackets, leather pants, leotards, fur coats, perms, walkie talkies, even a Rolodex. (Cassettes, unlike perms, have made a comeback.)It’s also a wonderful illustration of the old maxim that show business is about relationships. The “We Are the World” session brought together most of the singers who made 1984 “pop music’s greatest year,” as many have called it, and benefited from an unrepeatable set of variables. The chain of action that preceded that night was, the film shows, all about calling friends, calling in favors and cannily casting the song with a broad demographic appeal. Here’s a look at how a few accomplished musicians and one relentless manager organized a gala event in only four weeks.Harry Belafonte and Ken KragenThe actor and activist Harry Belafonte, left, approached Ken Kragen, the artist manager, with an idea for a benefit concert.Reed Saxon/Associated PressHarry Belafonte, the singer, actor and civil rights activist, wanted to draw attention to the famine in Africa, and he approached Ken Kragen, one of the industry’s most high-powered artist managers. Belafonte had seen how much money the Irish singer Bob Geldof was raising for famine relief with the “Do They Know It’s Christmas?” single, and proposed a benefit concert. Kragen had a different idea: “I said, ‘Harry, let’s just take the idea Bob already gave us. Let’s do it, but let’s get the greatest stars in America to do it,’” he recalls in one of the documentary’s archival interviews. (Kragen died in 2021.)We are having trouble retrieving the article content.Please enable JavaScript in your browser settings.Thank you for your patience while we verify access. If you are in Reader mode please exit and log into your Times account, or subscribe for all of The Times.Thank you for your patience while we verify access.Already a subscriber? Log in.Want all of The Times? Subscribe. More

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      ‘The Greatest Night in Pop’ Review: They Were the World

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      This documentary shows the highlights of the recording session for the charity song “We Are the World,” which assembled a who’s who of pop celebrities.In late 1984 the singer and activist Harry Belafonte was both impressed and perturbed by “Do They Know It’s Christmas?,” a British charity single featuring a cast of pop stars. The proceeds from the project went to Ethiopian famine relief. Belafonte complained to the music manager Ken Kragen, “We have white folks saving Black folks and we don’t have Black folks saving Black folks.”Such was the spur for the 1985 song “We Are the World.” The creative nucleus was Black: its writers, Lionel Richie and Michael Jackson; Stevie Wonder (who didn’t get a writing credit but, as relayed in the film, was invaluable to the whole creative process); and the producer-arranger Quincy Jones. How the project turned into a one-night-only superstar fest — “If a bomb lands on this place,” a droll Paul Simon quipped while surveying the room, “John Denver’s back on top” — is chronicled in “The Greatest Night in Pop,” directed by Bao Nguyen.While the making of the song was partially detailed in its long-form video, there’s plenty of new, engaging, and sometimes eyebrow-raising anecdotal material here. Wonder’s impromptu notion of singing a phrase in Swahili (which was squelched when it was pointed out that Swahili isn’t spoken in Ethiopia) compelled the country star Waylon Jennings to walk out of the session. A nervous Cyndi Lauper was almost dissuaded from participating by her (unnamed) then-boyfriend, who thought the record would flop. And a few interviewees relay that Al Jarreau was tipsy throughout.Bob Dylan did not sit for a present-day interview, but Bruce Springsteen did. One of the handful of rock stars who’d also make an excellent rock critic, he’s a vivid docent and apologist for the song: “Steve Perry can sing! He’s got that great voice. Up in that Sam Cooke territory.” As the assembled room pays tribute to Belafonte, a salty joke improvised in song by Stevie Wonder is worth the price of a Netflix subscription.The Greatest Night in PopNot rated. Running time: 1 hour 36 minutes. Watch on Netflix. More

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      Don Lewis, Unsung Pioneer of Electronic Music, Dies at 81

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      He invented the first system for integrating multiple instruments using a single control panel, predating the MIDI controller by years.It was 1974, and Don Lewis was getting tired of hauling around so many keyboards. One day he would be in a studio in Los Angeles, working alongside Quincy Jones. A week later, he might be on tour as a member of the Beach Boys’ backup band. Or he might be performing his own gigs, shuffling up and down the West Coast with an ever-growing assortment of keyboards and other equipment.He could have just taken his trusty Hammond Concorde organ, itself not a small item. But Mr. Lewis was an aural explorer, constantly on the hunt for new sounds. If he found a keyboard with a particular tone to it, he had to add it to his collection. He was a one-man band; he aspired to be a one-man orchestra.His problem was about more than sheer weight. Each instrument had to be controlled separately, and there was no industry standard for integrating them. An electrical engineer by training, he decided to strip them down for parts and build something new.It took him three years of designing and fund-raising, but in 1977 he finalized the Live Electronic Orchestra, commonly known as the LEO.This musical Frankenstein’s monster brought together pieces from three keyboards, a slew of synthesizers, control panels and a drum machine into a set of plexiglass modules. Mr. Lewis sat in the middle, like a musical air traffic controller. His design allowed him not only to choose the sounds he wanted, but also to mix them in real time.Mr. Lewis, 81, died on Nov. 6 at his home in Pleasanton, Calif. His wife, Julie Lewis, said the cause was cancer.These days, people are used to the idea that they can produce virtually any sound they want on a laptop. That was far from the case in the 1970s, but Mr. Lewis found a way to create a symphony of sound at his fingertips.The LEO cost more than $100,000, and he never made another. Still, it was a hit. He played six nights a week in a packed bar along Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco. Among his many fans was an engineer named Ikutaro Kakehashi, who was so inspired by Mr. Lewis’s invention that he went on to develop, with Dave Smith, the musical instrument digital interface, known as MIDI, the protocol that makes modern music production possible. (Mr. Smith died at 72 in June.)A big part of Mr. Lewis’s success as a live musician was getting audiences to listen to him and not gawk at his keyboard rig. His technology was so clever, so seamless, that most people soon forgot about it entirely and allowed the music he created to sweep them away. He was an unsung pioneer of electronic music who paved the way for a billion beeps, boops and oonz-oonzes to come.He wasn’t without his critics, who said that he was not a musician at all but a mere button-pusher. In the mid-1980s, members of the musicians’ union protested his performances, claiming that he would drive them out of business. He challenged their right to picket him before the National Labor Relations Board. He lost.The prospect of having to cross a picket line just to do his job was too much. He stored the LEO in his garage and tried to put the whole experience behind him. Several years later, the government re-examined his case, and this time decided in his favor — and even gave him a settlement.He didn’t bring back the LEO, though. He donated it to the Museum of Making Music in Carlsbad, Calif., where it sits on display today.He was a one-man band who with his invention, the LEO system, aspired to be a one-man orchestra. Mr. Lewis in 1971.Denver Post, via Getty ImagesDonald Richard Lewis Jr. was born on March 26, 1941, in Dayton, Ohio. His father worked odd jobs, and his mother, Wanda (Peacock) Lewis, was a cosmetologist. They divorced when Don was very young, and he rarely saw his father again until decades later.He grew up in a religious home, attending church at least once a week. Early on he became obsessed with the organ, and with the sounds that the church organist was able to draw out of it.One night he had a dream that he had replaced the organist on the bench.“I woke up and told my grandmother and grandfather, ‘I’ve got to learn the keyboard, because the feeling I had in that dream was something I hadn’t felt in my whole life,’” he recalled in the documentary “Don Lewis and the Live Electronic Orchestra,” scheduled to air on PBS in February.He enrolled at the Tuskegee Institute in 1959 to study electrical engineering. He sang in the school chorus and even performed at a rally for the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.He stayed only two years. As tensions with the Soviet Union began to heat up, the Army was expanding the draft, and Black college students, unlike most white students, were often not exempt.Mr. Lewis enlisted in the Air Force. He received training as a nuclear weapons specialist and served for nearly four years in Colorado and New Mexico.After receiving an honorable discharge in 1965, he moved to Denver, where he was hired as an engineer for Honeywell, ran a church music program and worked part-time in a music store. Soon he was getting booked as a nightclub act, and eventually made enough to quit his day job.Mr. Lewis spent the next several years on the road, often as a demonstration musician for Hammond, the organ company. He was already tweaking his instruments and equipment, looking for ways to eke out new sounds. He was also making his name as a studio engineer and musician, working with musicians like Mr. Jones and Marvin Hamlisch, especially after he settled in Los Angeles in the early 1970s.Along with his wife, he is survived by his sister, Rita Bain Merrick; his sons, Marc, Paul and Donald; his daughters, Andrea Fear and Alicia Jackson; and five grandchildren.After putting the LEO in storage, Mr. Lewis worked as a consulting engineer for companies like Yamaha and Roland. He was on the team that developed the sounds for Yamaha’s revolutionary DX7 — the instrument that defined 1980s synth pop — and the team behind Roland’s TR-808, perhaps the most popular drum machine ever made.He taught at Stanford, Berkeley and San Jose State, and with his wife ran a program to bring music into elementary schools.“I think music is more than entertainment,” Mr. Lewis said in the documentary. “I think it has a stronger and more meaningful purpose in our lives. And I think what we’re here to do as individuals is help people unlock and find those things that are dormant.” More

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      Ken Kragen, a Force Behind ‘We Are the World,’ Dies at 85

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      Michael Jackson, Lionel Richie and Quincy Jones were among the public faces of that 1985 fund-raising record. But behind the scenes, Mr. Kragen made it all happen.The entertainer and humanitarian Harry Belafonte was so inspired by “Do They Know It’s Christmas?,” the record released by an all-star lineup of British and Irish musicians in late 1984 to raise money for famine relief in Africa, that he wanted to do something similar with American musicians. But Mr. Belafonte, in his late 50s at the time, knew he had to recruit current stars to pull off the idea.“I needed a younger generation of artists,” he wrote in his memoir, “My Song” (2011), “the ones at the top of the charts right now: Michael Jackson, Lionel Richie, Kenny Rogers and Cyndi Lauper. When I looked at the management of most of these artists, I kept seeing the same name: Ken Kragen.”Mr. Kragen, after some persuading, latched onto Mr. Belafonte’s vision and became a pivotal behind-the-scenes force in creating “We Are the World,” the collaborative song recorded by a dizzying array of stars (including Mr. Belafonte) and released in March 1985. The song became a worldwide hit and, along with an album of the same name, raised millions of dollars for hunger relief in Africa and elsewhere.Among the participants in the recording of “We Are the World” were, clockwise from left, Mr. Richie, Daryl Hall, Mr. Jones, Paul Simon and Stevie Wonder.Associated Press“When Belafonte called me, the first call I made was to Kenny Rogers,” who was one of his clients, Mr. Kragen recalled in a 1994 interview with Larry King on CNN. “Then I called Lionel Richie. Then I called Quincy Jones. Lionel called Stevie Wonder. Within 24 hours, we had six or seven of the biggest names in the industry.”Soon “six or seven” had snowballed into dozens, with Paul Simon, Bette Midler, Bob Dylan, Stevie Wonder, Ray Charles, Tina Turner, Willie Nelson and Diana Ross among them. Mr. Jackson and Mr. Richie wrote the song; Mr. Jones conducted the recording session in January 1985, a gathering that became the stuff of music legend.Mr. Kragen, who went on to organize or help organize other formidable fund-raising projects, including Hands Across America in 1986, died on Tuesday at his home in Los Angeles. He was 85. His daughter, Emma Kragen, confirmed the death. No cause was specified.As Mr. Kragen often told the story later, his goal at first on the “We Are the World” project was to recruit two new stars a day. But soon recruiting wasn’t his problem.“Lionel Richie had this line — he says, ‘You are who you hug,’” he told Mr. King, “and the thing is that everybody wanted to hug somebody who was hipper or somebody who was more successful. So the day that I got Bruce Springsteen, the floodgates opened, because he was the hottest artist in America.”At that point, Mr. Kragen went from dialing the phone to answering it — a lot.“I started to get calls from everybody,” he told The Los Angeles Times in 1985, just after the recording session. “I tried hard to cut it off at 28 — to this day I don’t know how it got to be 46. Still, we turned down almost 50 artists.”Mr. Kragen was the founding president of USA for Africa, the foundation set up to administer the aid money raised by “We Are the World,” which continues today. According to its website, it has raised more than $100 million to alleviate poverty.Kenneth Allan Kragen was born on Nov. 24, 1936, in Berkeley, Calif. His father, Adrian, was a lawyer who later taught law at the University of California, Berkeley; his mother, Billie, was a violinist.While studying engineering at Berkeley, Mr. Kragen began frequenting local nightclubs and soon became friendly with the Kingston Trio, a fledgling group at the time that often played at the Purple Onion in San Francisco. He began booking the trio at colleges, and when he graduated in 1958, he was asked to manage them; instead he went to Harvard’s graduate school of business. Before starting there, he took a trip to Europe with his parents; when he came home, a new group was getting a lot of buzz nationally: the Kingston Trio.“I just wanted to die,” Mr. Kragen told The New York Times in 1986. “I thought I’d blown the chance of a lifetime.”But once he earned his graduate degree in 1960, he found new opportunities as a talent manager and promoter. He managed the folk group the Limeliters and then picked up the Smothers Brothers in 1964. He and his business partner at the time, Kenneth Fritz, were executive producers of “The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour,” which during its three-season run, from 1967 to 1969, was one of the most talked-about shows on television because of its battles with censors.In 1975, he went to work for Jerry Weintraub, a talent manager with a formidable roster that included John Denver, Led Zeppelin and the Moody Blues. (Mr. Weintraub soon became a noted film and television producer.) Mr. Kragen started his own company in 1979, attracting clients like the Bee Gees, Olivia Newton-John and Trisha Yearwood.Mr. Kragen helped organize the fund-raising event Hands Across America and participated in it at Battery Park in Lower Manhattan in May 1986, along with Jean Sherwood and her daughter, Amy.David Bookstaver/Associated PressMr. Kragen produced television movies featuring Mr. Rogers, as well as TV specials for the singer Linda Eder and others. One of his fund-raising efforts was Hands Across America, whose goal was to create a chain of people holding hands that stretched from coast to coast. The event took place in May 1986. The coast-to-coast chain didn’t quite materialize — there were gaps in various places — and though the event raised millions of dollars for hunger and homelessness, it fell short of its $50 million goal. But some five million people participated, including President Ronald Reagan.Mr. Kragen married the actress Cathy Worthington in 1978. In addition to her and his daughter, he is survived by a sister, Robin Merritt.In 2019, Buzzfeed asked Mr. Kragen if he could envision a reprise of Hands Across America. He couldn’t. People, he said, would be too busy documenting their participation with selfies to actually hold hands. More