Bittersweet Memories ….

Whitney Houston: An Alternate View

From the beginning she was
the embodiment of duality:
Sweet yet sensual,
young yet old,
pop yet R&B,
gritty yet sophisticated.
Who could successfully balance these opposites
without verging on schizophrenia?

The world is bidding farewell to songbird Whitney Houston, who left us much too soon. Her passing at the age of 48 is so tragic, ironic, and awful that even these words can’t encompass it. Her voice was a gift to the world, a force so powerful that whole generations of singers owe a debt to her shimmering mix of gospel feeling and pop precision. She had seen the pinnacle of success through adulation, awards, applause, and admiration. She had also endured the deepest recesses of hell due to addiction, abuses, failed expectations, troubled relationships, and public ridicule. I mourn for her passing, and pray for her family, friends, and fans – all of those who loved her.

I first became aware of Whitney Houston in the mid ‘80s via WBLS New York’s quiet storm program, which played her “Saving All My Love For You.” I was an editor at Essence then, and not on the music beat. The song was amazing. It sounded world-weary to my ears, rendered in a voice that was sweet yet supremely mature. This was a song about dreams of forbidden love crushed, over and over, by a married man who won’t commit, yet the dreamer chooses to delude herself into not giving up on it. Relatable, certainly, but also pathetic: love leads us to make foolish choices but we just can’t help ourselves. The performance put me in mind of someone older and/or stylistically alternative – an Anita Baker, a Regina Belle, a Jean Carne, or a Marlena Shaw. Who was this fabulous new singer? Whitney Houston, a fresh-faced former teen model, daughter of the great Cissy Houston, barely into her 20s.

The photos I finally saw of Houston, and the material she released immediately after “Saving,” did not jibe with my initial musical impressions. What could this stick-thin baby diva know about cheating with married men? I know that singers are only interpreters of music, of lyrics often written by others, and that their material is not always autobiographical. However, experience does deepen performance. In a certain way I felt gypped – maybe not by Whitney herself, but by what was being presented to me as Whitney. “Saving All My Love For You” was a great song – but the fact of her recording it told me things about her: That she was after an audience that wasn’t exactly her peer group, that she was fine with casting herself as a victim, even in a song; and that she was out of step with an era witnessing the rise of street-level hip-hop, retro British soul, and new jack swing.

Sure, I loved Whitney’s “You Give Good Love,” and she did a fantastic job with the notoriously difficult anthem “The Greatest Love of All,” but when the video for “I Wanna Dance With Somebody” came out – with Whitney in pastels, blonde extensions, and tutu, jumping around like a pogo stick, backtracking artistically to scoop up the young, all-American pop audience – the disgruntled feeling of having been duped in an artistic bait-and-switch had taken over me. I admit that I’d been giving the girl the fish eye ever since.

Whitney possessed a beautiful face, figure, and talent. She was an old-fashioned chanteuse for a new generation; she could venture into pop ditties, sweeping anthems, and R&B grooves with equal ease. She had laserlike control over that unbelievable voice – like Luther Vandross, she could execute exactly what she envisioned with little audible struggle. Her phrasing was off-the-chain pristine. My response to her was varied, though. I liked individual songs. I knew her story, where she came from, how she had developed, who she was working with musically. But I couldn’t really feel her as a person behind the artist. As naturally talented as she was, I was profoundly aware of her as a construct, as a product of an ever-spinning “A Star Is Born” machine.

Does no one remember how Whitney was booed at the Soul Train Awards in the early ‘90s because of the perception that she’d sold out to cross over to the pop chart? Whitney was a church girl from Newark whose genes came from Cissy, Dionne, and by extension, Aretha, and she had become the epitome of the American Dream Girl. But we like to claim our own. And folks weren’t comfortable with the genre tightrope-walking visible in her career trajectory. From the beginning she was the embodiment of polar opposites: Sweet yet sensual, young yet old, pop yet R&B, gritty yet sophisticated. She went from chitlins to caviar. (And let’s not forget that her first film role as a proud black diva paired her romantically with – not Denzel, not Eddie – but the older, white Kevin Costner in The Bodyguard. When she married Bobby Brown, her fans could not seem to wrap their minds around the Pop Princess marrying the Bad Boy of R&B.) Who could successfully balance these diametrically opposed qualities in their life without verging on schizophrenia at times?

Personally I was stuck on the jazz promise I’d first heard in her. I wanted Whitney to front a big band, break out some standards, and scat. I wanted her to write poetic material and sing words that came from her soul, backed by organ hits and a horn section or soft acoustic guitars. I wanted her to, as Teddy Pendergrass once sang, “get down, get funky, get loose.” Some people will say that I’m nuts, that Whit was as real as it got, that certainly she could go there, and when she performed gospel material it was a revelation for all. Folks were eating up what Whitney dished out and clamoring for more. In interviews there were flashes of warmth and charm. Still, I wondered when the real Whitney Houston would stand up. To me she seemed professionally rehearsed and guarded, with something harder underneath. But this was my critical view; my perceptions can often be those of a jaded conspiracy theorist. What I wanted for Whitney clearly had no bearing on anything, and if she had taken the musical path I imagined for her she would not have become a worldwide phenomenon and beloved vocal icon, may not have attained the well-deserved honors bestowed on her. But perhaps she’d still be alive.

While working at Billboard, I did get a chance to meet her. In fact, I was invited to her palatial home in Mendham, New Jersey, for her 26th birthday bash. It was incredibly exciting to make the drive out to her private domain for a spectacular bash chock-full of music industry greats. She was a gracious hostess, but we did not have a conversation.

Just a few years later, I became a product manager at her label, Arista Records. I did have dealings with the Nippy camp; The Bodyguard soundtrack had just topped the charts when I came on and Whitney was busier than ever. I dealt most often with her close friend and handler, Robyn Crawford, rather than Ms. Houston herself. I remember making a business trip to provide support for a Houston event, and Whitney barely acknowledged my presence. Granted, she had a lot going on. I had a better time goofing around with her husband, Bobby Brown, whom I always found to be engaging and funny. But I lasted less than a year in the gig. I was never to see Whitney again other than on television.

Whitney’s downward slide into drug abuse, bizarre behavior, financial ruin, and ultimately divorce saddened me. Like her most ardent fans, I hoped that with the release of her last album she would rally and reconnect. That did not happen. I was surprised to learn that she had been cast in the remake of Sparkle: that too represented a glimmer of hope for her professional and financial future. But perhaps the role – as the mother of a singing star in the making – only served to remind her of all she’d lost. We’ll never know. But as Whitney Elizabeth Houston is sent home in grand style at her family church in Newark this weekend, I hope that she truly and finally is “at rest.” The world will never experience a voice like hers again.

Remembering Don Cornelius

I’m not sure when I first became aware of Soul Train. I probably heard my friends talking about it, or perhaps it appeared in psychedelic splendor before our startled eyes as my younger sister and I battled for control of our living room television set, flipping channels between cartoons and reruns on a South Bronx Saturday morning. Our attention was galvanized by a seldom-seen-on-TV-in-the-70s glimpse of hip young black folks (hey – they look like us!) in their Afros and bell bottoms dancing in a yellow and orange stage set to the latest soul tunes. I was instantly hooked. I don’t know what I liked more: watching the live or semi-live performances by the flesh and blood R&B artists whom I only knew by name from the Top 45s list at the Korvette’s record shop, or watching the funky dance moves executed with such abandon by the studio dancers. Soul Train was THE show, hands down. You were socially required to study and report back on the dances, the clothes, the performances, the newest tracks, the scramble board mystery name (usually an African American historical figure or performer) -- even the latest Afro Sheen and Ultra Sheen commercials, which featured proud and regal black women and together brothers sporting glistening, perfectly rounded natural ‘dos.

Soul Train was water cooler television before there was a name for such a thing. It was beyond exciting to see Stevie Wonder sit before a piano and play, to watch Al Green (perhaps one of my favorite Soul Train performers) croon out one of his numerous hits, to see what Aretha Franklin would be wearing. I remember seeing the electric Joe Tex – accompanied by popular Soul Train dancer Damita Jo Freeman -- perform his tune "I Gotcha!," which scandalized my 12-year-old sensibilities (“you made me a promise now you better stick to it!”). In junior and senior high my girlfriends and I would stay after class and practice the moves we’d witnessed on the most recent show’s "Soul Train Line," especially popping and locking, the breakdown, the penguin, the funky penguin, the bump, and a gang of other colorfully named routines. As a 45 rpm spun on a portable record player (I remember in particular the Isley Brothers’ “Who’s That Lady?”) we’d mimic the formation of two opposing lines, with the dancers bopping and contorting their way along between them.

And then there was the program’s host himself. Don Cornelius. He was unlike anyone I had seen before on television. The sonorous voice, the elegant and distinctly hip diction, the glasses, the wide lapels, the crisp collar and tie, the giant puff of afro. He looked part business man and part gangster. Before I knew what a producer was, I knew that Don was clearly in command of everything on and off camera; it seemed to me that by the sheer force of his personality, a wave of his hand or the arch of a brow, he commanded the teenagers to undulate, the “TSOP” theme to begin blaring, and the Soul Train train logo to chug its percolating path across the screen. Soul Train was Don’s House, and stars like Stevie Wonder, Isaac Hayes, Marvin Gaye, the Spinners, the O’Jays, Gladys Knight &the Pips and all the others arrived in a steady stream not only to entertain the viewers, but to pay homage to The Media Potentate. Even some pop and rock acts – Elton John, David Bowie – paid a visit to The Soul Svengali. Most of the time Don seemed cool and distant, but every once in a while he broke out a smile, or gushed over a guest of whom he was truly fan. His deliberate style of speaking and his dress set him apart from the artists and the dancers – he often seemed to be operating on a different vibrational wave length, even as he delivered his famous and radio smooth parting phrase at the end of every show.

I became R&B music editor of Billboard in June 1989, and the Soul Train Music Awards – which were inaugurated in 1987 at the Santa Monica Civic Auditorium -- were traditionally held in March. I flew from New York to Los Angeles to cover the awards for the first time in 1990; Don and I were likely introduced backstage or at the Sprite-sponsored pre party. I found him somewhat intimidating; he was, after all, an icon. He was tall and imposing, decisive, urbane, and just old school cool. Over the course of my time at Billboard I had occasion to speak with him several times.

I interviewed Don by phone for a Soul Train anniversary story that I did in the early '90s that included his own recounting of how—inspired in small part by Philadelphia's American Bandstand -- Soul Train was originally produced in Chicago on a shoe string before he decided to move the whole thing to Los Angeles to be closer to the labels. The details of his history are well documented by now; I don’t have a clear recollection of any particularly significant comments he made (and I thought I had a printout of our interview somewhere in my files, but I can’t put my hand on it). He was justifiably proud of the fact that he’d been able to take this nugget of an idea and run with it until it became the cultural touchstone of an entire generation. He was pleasant to talk to, funny, and occasionally he could be flirtatious. Back then I would type my phone interviews in shorthand to save myself the agony of transcribing later, and Don spoke so slowly and deliberately that I could write every word he said.

I think we got along because I was very much aware of the history Don represented as an African American television producer, and as a consistent presenter of black culture and artistry on television. I didn’t hesitate to pay my respects for all that Soul Train meant to me, and what it still meant as Don continued to build the brand through the presentation of the Soul Train Music Awards, the Soul Train Lady of Soul Awards, and even an annual Soul Train Christmas Starfest broadcast. His personality seemed to demand that kind of acknowledgment. There was a prickly quality to him – I had the sense that if things didn’t go his way, I might find out how quickly he could administer a colorfully worded cussout. Occasionally I heard rumbles from the music industry about how as the producer of the Awards show, he played hardball to demand top musical artists, sponsorships, and more. Some questioned how the winners of the awards were actually determined. That side of Don I was not privy to, and I never questioned the integrity of the Soul Train Awards themselves.

By 1994 I had moved to L.A . As a publicist for Perspective/A&M records, I escorted acts like Barry White, Sounds of Blackness, Mint Condition and CeCe Peniston to the Soul Train studio set on Gower Street in Hollywood to tape the weekly show. Don had long since retired from hosting duties, but sometimes he lurked on the sidelines with his producers and we said hello. I remember being shocked at how small the TV studio actually was – the set seemed a vast playground on the screen.

Don would appear at an annual press conference to announce the nominees and performers for the upcoming Soul Train Awards. The locales for these announcements changed from year to year: a Beverly Hills restaurant or hotel or at the Paramount studio lot. The Soul Train Awards presentations were generally held at the Shrine Auditorium in downtown LA, while the Lady of Soul presentations usually were staged at the Pasadena Civic Center. I was writing again as Managing Editor for Billboard’s R&B Airplay Monitor by 95, back on the R&B radio beat. At one press conference in the mid '90s I stood up in the hotel ballroom to ask him a question and instead of answering he made a comment about my appearance, something along the lines of “that fine Janine McAdams.” The room laughed. I was mortified and annoyed – one, that he hadn’t answered my question, two, that he had made a sexist comment, and three, that I hadn’t used my formerly married name in years!

Don did show his prickly side – to me and especially to J.R. Reynolds, who was then the R&B Editor of Billboard. In March of 1996, we each attended the Soul Train Music Awards at the Shrine. I was backstage in the press room, and I believe J.R. may have had a seat in the theater itself. This was at the height of the popularity of the awards show; the Awards were really the place where R&B and hip-hop artists could celebrate themselves. The show was well attended by stars, their handlers, labels, and the press. There was a lot of excitement because I think Tupac Shakur and the Notorious B.I.G. were in attendance. As the show finished, more artists and their entourages came into the backstage area. At one point there was a scuffle, followed by screams, and then the crowd rushed for the exits to the parking lot – me included. There were reports from several people on site that gunfire had erupted between the Death Row and Bad Boy camps, fueling more rumors of the deadly feud already brewing between the two rap stars. Later, others said there had only been a fight. In the parking lot I got quotes from several people who claimed to have seen shots fired. In my reportage of the Awards for R&B Monitor I included information about the incident, as did J.R. in his section of Billboard. We weren't the only journalists to report that this incident took place.

Don was enraged. He felt that the media was trying to smear the reputation of the Awards with a false story; African American events involving hip-hop artists were already battling to keep big money corporate sponsors who feared that rap meant violence. He sent a scathing letter to the publishers of Billboard; I don’t have a copy of it, but both J.R. and I printed a rebuttal saying we were not guilty of a smear campaign and that we stood by our stories. We were reporters. You can read J.R.’s response at Google Books (Billboard, April 27, 1996, p 19).

-- unfortunately Google Books did not archive the Monitor so I can’t access my version and I don’t have a copy in my files. Strangely, it seems there is little evidence now that this backstage East Coast West Coast incident ever took place. But six months later Tupac was dead in Las Vegas, and a year later, upon leaving a Vibe-sponsored Soul Train Awards post party, Biggie was gunned down (I left the same party literally minutes ahead of Biggie -- he and Puffy were coming down the escalator at the Petersen Automotive Museum just a few feet behind me and colleague Suzanne Baptiste).

Don was one of a kind. He had a profound vision and a commitment to pushing forward our unique culture and artistry through the Soul Train brand. He was driven as a business man and as someone who wanted African Americans to attain their rightful place of recognition in the fabric of society. For a considerable period, he may have been the most powerful man in black music for his ability to showcase new talent and new projects nationally. However, the downtrend in the music industry negatively affected his media profile, and in recent years he has battled personal and health problems. Now, as the Soul Train brand has been consolidated and celebrated through DVD rereleases, compilation albums, and the revival of the Soul Train Music Awards, it is sadly ironic that Don chose to take his own life now. Suicide is an extreme response to private pain, but I pray he rests in peace. Thank you, Don, for letting us take the hippest trip in America.