By the mid-1970s, Neil Diamond was the voice filling arenas and radio across the country. Hits like Cracklin’ Rosie, Song Sung Blue and Sweet Caroline made him a household name — and then a storm arrived that threatened to tarnish everything.
Critics noticed an eerie echo between Song Sung Blue and a passage from Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 21. The claim spread fast in music journals and gossip columns: had a pop star borrowed from a classical master? Other murmurs followed about familiar chord progressions and lyrical turns in Diamond’s catalogue. For a musician built on melody and feeling, the charge of plagiarism was a direct hit to his credibility.
Instead of mounting a courtroom defence or launching a public attack, Diamond surprised everyone with frankness. He did not deny influence. He named it, and he accepted it.
All music comes from somewhere. Every songwriter is building on what came before. If Mozart crept into my song, then I’m proud to be in that company.
— Neil Diamond, singer-songwriter
That line did more than defuse a headline. It reframed the debate. Diamond argued that music is a living tradition. Songs take pieces from what came before and reshape them with personal feeling. What matters, he said, was what the songwriter adds: voice, heart and truth.
Music scholars and fans split. Some said the resemblance to Mozart was striking. Others called the charge overstated, a chase for scandal where none was meant. For an audience accustomed to bold denials and legal fights, Diamond’s calm acceptance felt almost fearless. He did not insist on originality as a solitary claim. He claimed continuity instead.
The controversy did not stay a burning story for long. Record sales held steady. Concerts remained full. Yet the episode left a mark on how people talked about creativity and influence. In older listeners’ conversations, it became a teaching moment: how much of art is invention, and how much is memory transformed?
Beyond the headlines, those close to Diamond recall a steady, unflashy artist who understood the history of the songs he sang.
If anyone expected a tantrum or a lawsuit, they were wrong. Neil’s reply showed the kind of man he was — wise, measured, and secure in his work.
— Laura Mendel, longtime friend and music industry insider
Mendel’s memory echoes the quiet power of his answer. By embracing musical lineage, Diamond turned an attack into an affirmation. He invited listeners to hear not theft but a chain of influence stretching from classical halls to folk clubs and back to pop arenas.
The facts are simple and stark: a global star with multiple chart-toppers, a public accusation that grabbed headlines, and a response that refused to play the expected part. What followed was not a court case but a conversation about taste, originality and the nature of borrowing in art.
For older fans who grew up with those records, the episode matters less as scandal and more as proof of character. They remember a performer who faced the storm without bluster and who let the music speak for itself. The melody of Song Sung Blue continued to play on the radio, and Diamond kept his place in the musical firmament.
But the debate never entirely died. Some music historians still point to the similarities as a textbook case of influence crossing genres. Others see it as a journalist’s fevered search for drama. The questions remain sharp, and the answer depends on the ear that listens—