Neil Diamond had a song in his hands that could have changed his own career.
He didn’t give it away by accident.
He wanted somebody else to sing it.
In 1966, Diamond was still trying to establish himself as a recording artist. He had spent years struggling as a songwriter in New York’s Tin Pan Alley, with a career that was anything but guaranteed. Then he wrote “I’m a Believer,” a bright, infectious love song that sounded very different from the brooding material that had helped define his early image.
But when Diamond imagined the song becoming a hit, he wasn’t picturing himself standing at the microphone.
He was thinking about Eddy Arnold.
Arnold was a major country star, and Diamond initially thought the song would work beautifully in his hands. To Diamond, “I’m a Believer” was essentially a country song waiting for the right singer. He had no idea that the song was about to be pulled in an entirely different direction.
Then Don Kirshner heard Diamond’s work.
Kirshner was closely involved with the music being created for The Monkees, and he had already noticed Diamond’s breakthrough with “Cherry, Cherry.” He wanted another song from the young songwriter. Diamond sent over material he had recorded for an upcoming album, and Kirshner chose “I’m a Believer” along with other songs that would become part of The Monkees’ extraordinary run of hits.
The rest happened incredibly quickly.
Micky Dolenz sang the lead vocal.
The Monkees recorded it.
And the song exploded.
“I’m a Believer” became a No. 1 hit, eventually spending seven weeks at the top of the Billboard Hot 100. It became one of the defining pop songs of the 1960s and, arguably, the recording that permanently changed the scale of Neil Diamond’s songwriting reputation.
And that was when the people around Diamond realized what had happened.
His record-company boss was furious.
Years later, Diamond recalled the reaction bluntly: the head of his record company was angry because he believed Diamond had effectively given away a No. 1 record. From a business perspective, it was difficult to argue with that complaint. Diamond was trying to become a successful recording artist himself, and one of his songs had just become an enormous hit for another act.
But Diamond didn’t see it that way.
He was thrilled.
That is what makes the story so unusual.
Diamond later explained that he was a songwriter first. For years, he had wanted other artists to record his material. Becoming a singer himself had happened partly because nobody else was willing to record enough of his songs. So when The Monkees took one of his compositions to No. 1, Diamond saw the achievement rather than the missed opportunity.
He didn’t hear somebody else stealing his biggest song.
He heard his song succeeding.
And there was another twist: Diamond eventually recorded “I’m a Believer” himself for his 1967 album Just for You. His version never came close to the cultural impact of The Monkees’ recording, although Diamond later returned to the song again in his career.
That makes the decision look even stranger from today’s perspective.
Imagine writing a song that becomes one of the biggest singles of the decade—and knowing that you could have kept it for yourself.
Diamond didn’t.
He had already spent years struggling for recognition, yet he was willing to let another group turn his composition into a phenomenon because, at that moment, being heard mattered more to him than being the face of the record.
And perhaps that explains something fundamental about Neil Diamond.
Before the stadiums.
Before Sweet Caroline.
Before the sequined shirts and sold-out concerts.
Before he became the singer millions of people knew by name, he was a songwriter desperate to hear somebody bring his words to life.
The Monkees gave him exactly that.
They just happened to turn his song into a monster hit in the process.
Neil Diamond didn’t lose his biggest song to another singer.
He watched somebody else make it immortal—and was perfectly happy to let them.