One anecdote that I remember well:

The wife of a bigwig at some record label wrote a Christmas song, and used her influence to get it included in one of the label’s yearly holiday records. Unfortunately, the song wasn’t really very good, so Henry was given the thankless task of “improving” the song into an acceptable commercial number.

So he worked and worked, and finally submitted his improved version. The bigwig’s wife was unhappy with the changes made to her song. Her rage was terrible to see; she was especially angered that Henry had changed the title from “Beneath The Christmas Star” to “Beneath A Christmas Star.”

She had pull, and Henry lost this particular battle. The song ended up as “Beneath The Christmas Star.” The label put out it out, with Judy Collins singing, on the yearly Christmas LP.

Well… That was the story as he told it. Years later I was looking through a pile of old records at a thrift shop and, “Viola!” There it was, “Beneath the Christmas Star,” with Judy Collins singing.

Henry was a gentle spirit who never seemed to succumb to the violence and conflict of the time. He worked dilligently on his music and shared his art freely. I remember an afternoon I spent with Henry in his grandfather’s apartment. The old man had recently died and we were awe struck by the large canvasses left behind painted in the style the of Renaissance Masters.

As young adults our paths diverged. My sympathies to Lisa and the family.

Then Henry told me a story about his own experience trying to make a living while he was making his life. He took a job at a high end Italian men’s clothier in New York City. A friend ran the shop and offered him a sales position, but shortly thereafter Henry was pulled from the sales floor because he actually told customers his opinion, honestly. Convinced he couldn’t sell, his friend placed Henry behind the counter where he managed the schedule, handled transactions, and spent a good amount of his time penning lyrics in a pocket notebook.

One day John Lennon came in and tried on a suit. The salesman helping him had ducked into the back to speak to the tailor so John came out and asked Henry, “How do I look?” Henry looked John up and down and said, “I think you look like shit.” Just then Henry’s friend, the owner, comes tearing out of the back screaming. John Lennon smiled, looked at Henry and said, “I like you.” From that point John only bought suits from Henry. He would call occasionally and ask if Henry had anything for him, and Henry would give him an honest answer.

I found that to be true in my own time with Henry as well. When I turned out great work he would champion my effort and show me why it was good. And when I half-assed something Henry would look at me sternly and say, “Well you know that’s shit.” That’s what I always valued. I knew I could get an honest opinion. Henry would build you up or tear you down, but he never did so out of ego or his fear of my fragility. He did it because he genuinely cared about my growth and progress, just like he cared for all of his students. And it turns out he was right about me being smart enough to figure things out. For that I will always remember Henry with great respect and gratitude.

Thank you for caring Henry. Best wishes to your family and may you rest in peace.