Fifteen years ago today, the police broke down an apartment door at 200 East 72nd Street to find the body of John Mcglinn, who had died from a heart attack several days earlier.
Since then, I doubt there's not a day that passes without my mentioning or thinking of John; I cataloged his estate, and until 2015 I worked in an office surrounded by his scores, books, orchestra parts, and manuscripts. I would swear that I occasionally heard hs ghost moving around the office on the days I worked alone there. I've said much ill about him and most likely will continue, and yet, lke BK, I owe much of my career to him. Until the Big Blowout of 2002, when he blamed Robert Kimball and me for his deserved removal from a project, we were friends. It was a strange friendship, because he had a stunted and extremely limited view of what friendship was. He probably considered me a better friend than I did him because negotiating John's megalomania, treachery, and manipulations were not always fun. For him, a good friend was someone on whose shoulder he could cry about his love life or allow him to talk about himself for hours. Occasionally the conversations were two-sided, like when he'd call and we'd start casting a concert or album together. Still, in the 1980s, working on SHOWBOAT, the Danbury Concert, the Book of the Month Club, dealing with diva Kiri Te Kanawa, and sitting in the Carnegie Recital Hall and letting him know when the band was too loud are some of my most cherished memories. Thank you, John!\
RIP, my friend and, sadly, my enemy. I will listen to one of your CDs today and mourn you.
