The Warner Bros. Records offices in Burbank were the kind of place where the carpeting was worn in the right spots and the walls had soaked up more history than any rock museum could ever fake. When I sat down with Lenny Waronker there back in 2016, he was already a legend—producer, president, quiet hand on the tiller for artists like Randy Newman, Van Morrison, and the endless parade of wunderkinds who walked through those doors thinking they might change the world. He was the one who sometimes told them yes, sometimes told them no, and sometimes just had the good sense to get out of the way.
Waronker says he learned the business by cutting cheap demos with hungry players—Jimmy Gordon, Dr. John, Leon Russell. “You could only spend a couple hundred dollars,” he shrugged, “so you had to make it count. That’s how I learned to make a record.” By the time Warner hired him, he’d already absorbed the most crucial lesson: bet on the artists who tell the truth.
That philosophy was tested over and over. Chris Isaak’s “Wicked Game”? Waronker didn’t like it. “It’s true, I didn’t get it. Certain chord progression I just couldn’t handle. I told Chris, ‘If you believe in it that much, go.’” Three weeks later, the hit was undeniable and Isaak got to gloat. Waronker laughs about it now: “I felt good only because I got out of the way.”
Prince was another story altogether—mystery, mania, and the kind of genius you don’t tell what to do. Waronker recalls one surreal staff patio gig: “We’d meet with him and it was always about, ‘Can you hold back a bit?’ Which he couldn’t do. He was non-stop.” What floored him most was the demo tape that landed on his desk in 1978: eight songs, every instrument played by Prince himself. “The only person who could get away with that then was Stevie Wonder. Nobody else could really do it in a convincing way. But with Prince, the power of the presentation was overwhelming.”
Even Prince got nervous once, bringing in When Doves Cry with no bass line. Waronker leaned into the speakers, blasted it, and realized the kick drum and guitar carried the weight. “I forgot about the bass thing. I told him, ‘If it was me, I’d just put it out.’ Then I threw the cassette back to him.” Prince walked out, and Waronker had his mini-meltdown: Oh my God, what did I just do? A week later it was on the radio.
Then there was The Black Album fiasco—400,000 copies pressed, destroyed at the last minute after Prince changed his mind. Waronker admits, “I told my guy, get about a thousand and hide them.” One ended up almost going to a journalist, but instead wound up on his desk the same day Prince walked in with Kim Basinger in tow. As Waronker remembers, the tape Prince brought that day was 19 minutes long, the last five consisting mostly of Basinger moaning into the microphone. “Mo [Ostin] walked in halfway through and mercifully cut it off. Then he saw the Black Album sitting on my desk. Not ideal timing.”
Tom Petty’s Wildflowers years later was the opposite of chaos: cool, calculated secrecy. “It was probably the best-kept secret in rock and roll,” Waronker said. Petty wasn’t happy at MCA and wanted to jump ship. So Waronker, Mo Ostin, and just a handful of others locked the deal down in total silence while Petty quietly fulfilled his old contract. “There were five people who knew. That’s it.” When Wildflowers finally hit Warner, it became one of the label’s crown jewels.
For Waronker, the job was never about being the genius in the room. It was about trusting the actual geniuses and knowing when to get out of their way. “The only responsibility an artist has is to tell the truth,” he said. Maybe the same applies to the executives who were smart enough to listen.
Watch the interview above and then check out the video below.
