Burt Bacharach

Based on Wikipedia: Burt Bacharach

The Man Who Made Pop Music Complicated (In the Best Way)

Here's a wild fact: if you've ever caught yourself humming along to a song from the 1960s or 70s and thought "why does this melody feel so unexpected?"—there's a decent chance Burt Bacharach wrote it. The man composed over fifty American Top 40 hits, and more than a thousand different artists have recorded his songs. But what made Bacharach special wasn't just prolificacy. It was that he smuggled jazz complexity into three-minute pop songs and made it sound effortless.

Most pop songwriters of his era stuck to predictable chord progressions and steady four-four time signatures. Bacharach did something different. He'd change time signatures mid-song, the musical equivalent of switching lanes without signaling—except somehow it worked. He'd use chord progressions that jazz musicians would recognize but pop audiences had never heard on the radio. And he'd score these songs for unusual combinations of instruments, treating even a simple love song like a miniature symphony.

From Kansas City to 52nd Street

Bacharach was born in Kansas City, Missouri, in 1928, but grew up in Forest Hills, Queens. His father was a syndicated newspaper columnist, and his mother—an amateur painter and songwriter herself—pushed young Burt toward classical training. Piano, drums, cello. The works.

He hated it.

What Bacharach loved was jazz. As a teenager, he'd sneak into Manhattan's legendary 52nd Street clubs using a fake ID. This wasn't just youthful rebellion—it was a musical education. He got to hear bebop pioneers like Dizzy Gillespie and Charlie Parker live, musicians who were reinventing what jazz could be. Their sophisticated harmonies and unexpected rhythmic twists would become the secret ingredients in his pop songwriting decades later.

Eventually, Bacharach did get serious about formal education. He studied at McGill University in Montreal, the Mannes School of Music in New York, and the Music Academy of the West in California. His composition teachers included some heavyweights: Darius Milhaud, Henry Cowell, and Bohuslav Martinů—all influential 20th-century composers who encouraged experimentation. Bacharach later called Milhaud his greatest influence, crediting him with helping shape his early instrumental compositions.

The Army, Dance Bands, and Marlene Dietrich

In the late 1940s, the Army drafted Bacharach. He spent two years in uniform, but instead of combat, he found himself playing piano in officers' clubs in Germany, at Fort Dix, and on Governors Island. It was during this time that he met Vic Damone, another soldier who happened to be a popular singer.

After his discharge, Bacharach spent three years as Damone's pianist and conductor. Damone later recalled that Bacharach was "clearly bound to go out on his own" and had "very clear ideas on the musicality of songs." This pattern continued—Bacharach worked as an accompanist for singers like Polly Bergen, Steve Lawrence, and the Ames Brothers. When he couldn't find better gigs, he played at resorts in the Catskill Mountains, backing performers like a young Joel Grey.

The breakthrough came in 1956, when composer Peter Matz recommended Bacharach to Marlene Dietrich. She needed an arranger and conductor for her nightclub act.

Dietrich wasn't just any singer. She was a genuine international movie star from Hollywood's golden age, glamorous and sophisticated. Working with her gave Bacharach credibility and visibility he couldn't have gotten any other way. They toured together on and off until the early 1960s—Russia, Poland, Edinburgh, Paris, Scandinavia, Israel. In her autobiography, Dietrich wrote that Bacharach particularly loved the Eastern European tours because he thought so highly of the violinists there.

Their collaboration eventually ended when Bacharach told Dietrich he wanted to focus on songwriting full-time. She was heartbroken. In her memoir, she described her time with him as "seventh heaven" and called him everything a woman could wish for. Whether their relationship extended beyond the professional remains a matter of speculation, but her words suggest deep attachment.

The Brill Building and Hal David

While touring with Dietrich, Bacharach had been writing songs on the side. His most important partnership began in 1956 when he started collaborating with lyricist Hal David.

Both men worked in the Brill Building, a Manhattan office tower that functioned as a kind of hit-song factory. Throughout the late 1950s and 1960s, the Brill Building and nearby offices housed dozens of songwriting teams churning out pop hits in assembly-line fashion. Think of it as the Motown of Tin Pan Alley—highly structured, competitive, and enormously productive.

Bacharach and David's first co-written songs in 1956 included "The Morning Mail" and the memorably titled "Peggy's In The Pantry." Their breakthrough came the following year when Marty Robbins recorded "The Story of My Life," which hit number one on the Billboard Country Chart. Almost immediately, Perry Como recorded "Magic Moments," which reached number four.

Here's an unusual distinction: these two songs became the first singles by a songwriting duo to reach back-to-back number one positions in the United Kingdom. Between 1956 and their partnership's dissolution in the mid-1970s, Bacharach and David wrote over 230 songs together.

Dionne Warwick and the Sound of Sophistication

In 1961, Bacharach discovered a backup singer named Dionne Warwick working a session. Something about her voice clicked with his musical sensibility. He and David were so excited by her potential that they formed their own production company, Blue JAC Productions, specifically to write for her and produce her recordings.

This was unusual. Most songwriters in that era handed their compositions off to artists and record labels, then moved on. Bacharach wanted control over the entire process—how the song was arranged, how it was recorded, how it sounded. With Warwick, he got it.

The partnership became one of the most successful in pop music history. Over twenty years, Warwick's recordings of Bacharach and David songs sold more than twelve million copies. Thirty-eight of her singles made the charts, with twenty-two reaching the Top 40. The hits included "Walk On By," "Anyone Who Had a Heart," "I Say a Little Prayer," and "Do You Know the Way to San Jose."

What made these songs distinctive wasn't just the melodies or David's lyrics—it was how Bacharach recorded them. He used orchestral arrangements that pop music rarely attempted, with unusual instrument combinations and sophisticated harmonies that rewarded close listening. The songs sounded accessible on the radio but revealed new layers the more you paid attention.

Beyond Pop: Jazz, Rock, and Film

Though Bacharach wrote primarily for the pop market, his songs attracted musicians from other genres. The composition "My Little Red Book," originally recorded by Manfred Mann for a film soundtrack, was later covered by the psychedelic rock band Love and became their first single. It reached number 52 on the Billboard Hot 100 and is now considered a 1960s rock classic—despite being written by a composer best known for romantic ballads.

Jazz musicians also took notice. In 1968, tenor saxophonist Stan Getz recorded an entire album of Bacharach and David songs. Bacharach expressed both delight and surprise at this, noting that he sometimes felt his songs were "restrictive for a jazz artist" because of their unusual structures. Other jazz artists who adapted his work included guitarist Grant Green, vibraphonist Cal Tjader, and the legendary pianist Bill Evans.

Film work brought additional recognition. Bacharach scored the 1966 heist comedy "After the Fox" and, more significantly, the 1967 James Bond parody "Casino Royale." That soundtrack included "The Look of Love," performed by Dusty Springfield, and an instrumental title theme that became a Top 40 hit for Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass. The "Casino Royale" soundtrack album gained a reputation among audio enthusiasts as one of the finest-engineered vinyl recordings ever made—a testament to Bacharach's perfectionism in the studio.

Broadway, Television, and Peak Fame

In 1968, Bacharach and David tried their hand at Broadway with "Promises, Promises," a musical produced by David Merrick. It yielded two hit songs, including the title tune and "I'll Never Fall in Love Again."

The story behind that second song became famous. During production, Merrick realized the show desperately needed another number before its opening the next night. Bacharach had just been released from the hospital after a bout of pneumonia. Still sick, he worked through the night with David's lyrics to create the song. It was performed the next evening and later became a hit when Warwick recorded it.

Also in 1968, Herb Alpert—better known as a trumpet player and bandleader than a vocalist—recorded "This Guy's in Love with You." It became the first number one hit for both Alpert and his label, A&M Records.

Then came 1969, arguably the peak year of the Bacharach-David partnership. They wrote "Raindrops Keep Fallin' on My Head" for "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid." The song won an Academy Award. They also won a Grammy for Best Cast Album for "Promises, Promises."

Bacharach became a genuine celebrity, not just a behind-the-scenes composer. Between November 1969 and January 1974, he appeared in nine network television specials—five on NBC, three on ABC, and one on CBS. Newsweek put him on their cover with a profile titled "The Music Man 1970." In 1971, Barbra Streisand appeared on one of his specials, where they discussed their careers and performed together.

The Falling Out

Everything fell apart in 1973.

Bacharach and David had been hired to write songs for "Lost Horizon," a musical remake of the 1937 adventure film. A conflict emerged over money. Bacharach was providing not just the songs but also the underscore—the background music that plays during scenes. He felt he wasn't being fairly compensated for this additional work and asked David for a larger share of the profits.

David refused to renegotiate.

The film bombed spectacularly, losing an estimated nine million dollars. But by then, the damage to the partnership was done. Bacharach refused to work on additional projects with David.

This had consequences beyond their relationship. Dionne Warwick had signed a lucrative contract with Warner Bros. Records in 1971, and that contract specifically required Bacharach and David as her production team. When they couldn't fulfill those terms, Warwick sued them both.

It was an ugly end to one of the most successful creative partnerships in American popular music.

The Legacy

Bacharach kept working for decades after the split with David, collaborating with other lyricists and continuing to compose. He won additional awards, including an Academy Award for "Arthur's Theme (Best That You Can Do)" with Christopher Cross in 1981 and another hit with Warwick, "That's What Friends Are For," in 1986.

Over his career, he received six Grammy Awards, three Academy Awards, and one Emmy Award. In 2012, he and Hal David—despite their falling out—received the Library of Congress Gershwin Prize for Popular Song. It was the first time the honor had been given to a songwriting team. Rolling Stone ranked them thirty-second on their list of the "100 Greatest Songwriters of All Time."

His influence extended far beyond his own recordings. Music critics credit him with helping to create or influence several genres: orchestral pop, easy listening, sunshine pop, soft rock, chamber pop, and even the Japanese genre Shibuya-kei, which drew heavily on 1960s American pop sophistication. Writer William Farina described him as "linked with just about every other prominent musical artist of his era."

Bacharach died in February 2023 at age ninety-four. By then, his songs had been repurposed for countless film soundtracks, covered by new generations of artists, and celebrated in tribute albums and revival concerts.

Why It Mattered

What made Bacharach's music last wasn't just craftsmanship—it was ambition disguised as accessibility. He took the lessons of jazz harmony and classical composition and deployed them in three-minute pop songs. He demanded control over how his music was recorded and produced. He treated pop music as an art form worth taking seriously, at a time when many dismissed it as disposable entertainment.

The result was songs that felt immediately catchy but never quite predictable. You could hum along, but you might not be able to guess where the melody was going. That tension between familiarity and surprise—between the comfortable and the complex—defined his sound.

A thousand artists recorded his songs because those songs were built to last. And they have.