One of my guilty pleasures is a love of the hugely commercial pop song and at her best, Whitney Houston could do it as good as anyone.
I ran into Houston, who died Saturday (February 11) at 48, at the very beginning of her career and again at the peak. Neither encounter hinted at the train wreck the ill-fated singer would become.
I first met Houston at Toronto’s Club Blue Note on Pears in the early-80s, not the original club of 60s legend but a shoulder-pad era attempt to recapture the magic. The club never entirely did but it served as a slick, upscale rhythm and blues venue, and a record label eager to show off a new star had booked it for the night.
I was at the event more for the free beer and food than to see an aspiring act, it was early days for NOW and anything free was welcomed. I had two NOW music writers in tow to check out the spread and, begrudgingly, the performer.
Houston was fresh faced and beautiful, her trademark high cheekbones framed a gorgeous smile and highlighted beautiful skin still untouched by surgical interference or the coming lifetime of bad drug choices.
Her hair looked natural and was cut in a bob and her fashion model figure showed well in her sparkling white mini-dress. She sang three songs with no band just backing tracks, pretty uncommon at the time. Houston was good-natured enough to pose with three drunken idiots from NOW for a picture we are determined to find.
The next time I ran into Houston, was March 2, 1988 and her career was in full bloom. It was a triumphant night, the Grammy’s had returned to New York City after a seven year absence, Michael Jackson had delivered a stunning live performance and Houston picked up her own Grammy for Best Pop Performance, Female, for I Want To Dance With Somebody Who Loves Me.
The city was mad with Grammy fever and a red carpet covered the sidewalk ringing around Radio City Music Hall. After inserting myself into a conversation with Herbie Hancock in the Hall’s lobby, I followed him at safe distance through an unmarked door and passed a security guard who should have known better. Scurrying along the catwalks under Radio City I eventually came to a line that Lou Reed was standing at the end of. My training had taught me to get in any lineup Lou Reed was in, so I fell inconspicuously behind.
Eventually I surmised that I had stumbled into the limo line that all the A list celebrities had to suffer through to pick up their ride. As the line snaked up the stairs I saw Billy Crystal being kind with his kids and spotted Houston at the top, already no longer a fresh-faced girl. She was still beautiful but she was clearly a star. She wore a grey-black mink coat and was attended by a handful of earnest-faced handlers all attempting to get her moving. As she seemed to be heading out the door to hop into her limo as directed, Houston delivered a lovely diva moment.
She gently spun in her fur coat and said, “I have to say hello to my New York”. As she spun her coat flew off her arms and into the hands of her nearby handlers. Her tight dark brown leather pants revealed a woman much skinnier than the young girl I had met in Toronto. She burst through the doors with arms outstretched at Christ like angles, smiled and gently waved, more posing than greeting the fans who screamed at her appearance. Thousands of fans were held at bay across the street from the hall’s doors, held back by a yellow rope, stanchions and cops.
After more screams and more smiles, Houston slid into her limo and disappeared into the night, her fans aglow in her aura. I followed her through the doors, decided my night among the stars was finished, walked across the street, slipped under the rope and watched the rest of the attendees decamp from among the fans.
Houston was great at being a star, not so good at being a former one, and she never found her post-glory groove.
Her descent was yet another well-documented fall in a world full of them. For a while Houston had it all but like ill-fated lovers in some song she sang, it wasn’t enough.
