The Whitney I Knew (4 page)

There we were, on an outdoor stage under a tent in the Bahamian night, singing our hearts out. No one getting paid, no egos. Just a bunch of “family,” making music and having the time of our lives. Stevie played and led us; Whitney, Marvin, and I sang backup. This was Whitney at her raw best. We sang songs we didn't even know, telling each other the lyrics right before we had to sing them!

There was very little fanfare, yet you could taste the energy in the air. You could feel the intimacy on the stage. When Marvin would take the lead, Whitney would lean over and whisper in my ear about anything and everything—hilarious, crazy stuff about her and Bobby, or silly stuff about us all being on stage together and not knowing the lyrics to the songs we were singing, or pointing out things about people in the audience. She was like a little kid on the playground. But that's what made her so lovable, and that's why people were drawn to her.

You won't find a video of this performance on YouTube—it's only available through this book. In the hands of family. And that's exactly how Whitney would have it. For her, that night was like being back at church, singing for the joy of singing.

There was that burst of energy we saw in her iconic pregame performance at the 1991 Super Bowl, but here she was giving the same passion and energy to a crowd of a few hundred (at most). I think it was those times of intimate singing with those she loved that invigorated her spirit. Those times when she was able to sidestep fame and walk in a different direction for a time, letting that heavy weight fall from her back and spreading her wings a bit wider.

Nights of pure singing and laughter and relationship like the one we experienced in the Bahamas watered her soul. But when you're Whitney Houston, those nights are rare.

Whitney's reality at the height of her career was intense. Her fame limited what she could share with people and with whom she could share it. She couldn't tell just anyone that she'd had a miscarriage, for example, for fear that word would leak to the public. If one person outside her trusted inner circle found out, then suddenly the world would know. And if the public was going to be told, she intended to be the person to do it. But it was difficult for her. She couldn't grieve like a normal person, and that makes it tough to process the pain. In times of deep loss, she would find herself trapped in a dark place, with grief a lonely friend.

Could Whitney rock a stage to the ground? Yes.

Was Whitney at home singing backup for CeCe and me or singing with her friends at some random stage in the Bahamas? Yes.

That's the Whitney I knew.

She didn't possess a hunger for fame and notoriety; she possessed a hunger for seeing others thrive and find success.

Whitney loved talented people. With Anita Baker's 1986 single, “Caught up in the Rapture,” she remarked to me, “Did you hear this girl, Anita? Oh! Love her.” That was true Whitney. That was part of the joy of Whitney: she just loved hearing and finding new talent. For her entire career, she was constantly encouraging other singers—the new arrivals to the frontlines of fame. So many women, from Alicia Keyes and Brandy to Beyoncé and Kelly Rowland and Rihanna, have credited her as far more than mere influence and inspiration. They were recipients of her personal encouragement, away from the cameras.

From sending cards and flowers to keeping moments light with her humor, Whitney individually reached out to so many of the rising stars who she inspired. Monica, who'd been befriended by Whitney at age fourteen, remembered some of those personal touches that were representative of Whitney's ways. She told
E! Online
that just before Whitney's death, Whitney had visited Monica and Brandy's rehearsal for their upcoming tour, and when Whitney heard how Monica ended one particular song, she joked, “You killin' that run at the end. . . . You know I know you stole that from me, right?” Monica also recalled in a
Vibe
interview what many of Whitney's friends would echo: “I went through a lot of very tumultuous moments and [Whitney] would show up, not just with a phone call, but physically. . . . That's something that I've carried with me. . . . [She] never turned her back on the people she cared about.”

And contrary to popular thought, she loved to hear Mariah Carey sing. When Mariah burst onto the scene, Whitney called me and asked, “Did you hear that new girl, Mariah? Good Lord, she can sing!”

To give you an idea of how the media twists reality, allow me to expound on the Mariah Carey situation. Now, this story would probably embarrass Whitney a little, but I have to tell it. I think she'd understand that it's all in good fun.

When Mariah debuted, I'm sure people in the media couldn't wait to compare her to Whitney. I had heard of Mariah early on because my good friend, Rhett Lawrence, produced her first big single. I was at his house in California when he was raving about this new singer.

Well, as we all know, when Mariah came on the scene, she hit hard. And instantly the media created a “hate” between Whitney and Mariah. They were both going to be at the American Music Awards, and people were expecting some kind of fireworks because supposedly there was this massive tension between them. Again, this was a fabrication. They didn't hate each other; they didn't even know each other.

I could convince Whitney to do anything—pranks or whatever. We'd be hanging out and I'd tell her to do something, and she'd say, “You are not my father. Why do you think you my father? You think I'll just do whatever you tell me?” To which I'd reply, “Shut up, I am your father”—all in good fun, of course.

Well, we were at the American Music Awards, and I had persuaded Whitney that after her performance and her category were over, we would go to dinner. I'd also informed her that when we exited our seats, she would be the last one out, and that we were going to pass Mariah Carey on the way out.

“Here's what you do,” I said. “You gonna stop and you gonna put out your hand and you gonna speak to her.”

“I'm not gonna speak to her,” Whitney replied.

“Yes, you are. You're going to be bigger than this whole situation.”

“I'm not . . .”

“Yes, you are.”

Her category finished and our little foursome started marching out to go to dinner—CeCe in front of me, Whitney's assistant, Robyn, in front of her, and Whitney at the end of the line—just like I said. And Whitney did exactly as I told her to do. I didn't stop to listen to or watch their interaction; I just kept moving. The three of us piled into the car, and then Whitney blew in like a storm and slammed the door behind her. She was clearly upset and embarrassed.

“I'm going to kick your tail!” she said to me.

“What happened?”

“I'll never listen to you again.”

“Tell me what happened!”

“I did everything you said: I stopped. I put out my hand and said, ‘Hi Mariah, I'm Whitney.' And when I stuck out my hand, she turned her head like she didn't hear anything I said and looked up at the sky.”

“Oh no,” I said. “Tell me that's not true.”

“Oh, it's true. I was so embarrassed. There I stood, looking like an idiot. I'm never going to do what you tell me to do again.”

Thank God the media didn't see this. If they had, Whitney's and Mariah's brief exchange (or lack of it) would have been blown into epic proportions. They would have hated each other and not even known why—and all because it may have been so chaotic in that moment that Mariah didn't even hear Whitney. Unbelievable.

Well, my idea didn't go very well, but we laughed at that whole awkward affair years later. And this incident didn't end up stopping
those two from getting together in the future . . . after some further persuasion.

Before Whitney was approached with the opportunity to record a duet with Mariah, I encouraged her to do one with her.

“You crazy,” she responded. “You know what happened last time I tried to do something nice. You don't know what you're saying, boy. You've lost your mind.”

It wasn't that she disliked Mariah; she just didn't want to be embarrassed again. We talked a little more about it, but she finally said, “That ain't going to happen, BeBe.”

Then, only a few months later, she called me and sheepishly informed me of her latest news.

“Well,” she began, dragging it out a bit, “you said it a few months ago—that I should do a duet with Mariah.”

“No,” I interrupted, “don't tell me you're doing it!”

“Yeah, Babyface is producing it—and it's on.”

I could tell she was very happy about the whole thing.

“Wow,” I replied, “ain't that something! That's going to be incredible! But wait, you said you were never going to do something like that.”

We both laughed and laughed. Oh, how Whitney loved to laugh.

Finally the two superstars met—two musical powerhouses who knew who they were outside of the pop world. And when they performed that Oscar-winning song together (“When You Believe” from the
Prince of Egypt
soundtrack), it was the catalyst for a great friendship between them. When I looked at Mariah at Whitney's funeral, all those memories came flooding back.

I share that story for two reasons. First, as an example of the gross exaggerations the media likes to spin on celebrities and also
to communicate Whitney's honest love for her peers. She loved other singers and was always up on who was new and fresh. Second, I wanted to depict the scene within the church the day of her funeral. Each person sitting in that sanctuary represented both the good and the bad of Whitney's life.

When I say good
and
bad, I simply mean the wonderful makeup of this life in general. That's what makes life so beautiful: the fun and the boring, the misunderstandings and the epiphanies. All of it mixes together on the canvas of our lives. When I saw Mariah at Whitney's homegoing, I saw a specific brushstroke of Whitney's life. That brushstroke touched other brushstrokes. Together the strokes formed a masterpiece.

All masterpieces have certain tensions or contrasts on display—that's what makes the painting dynamic and memorable. Whitney's life told a dramatic story filled with contrast and beauty, a life truly lived.

The seclusion of fame damages people the most. Fame causes its inhabitants to live afraid—to fear their reputation being marred—which makes seclusion seem the only real alternative. Look at how Michael Jackson faded into eerie reclusiveness, buying a monkey and other exotic animals as pets. For me, that seems far removed from reality and true human connection. But he also endured a level of celebrity that few people on earth can relate to.

One year Whitney threw an exclusive party—a BIG party. You may ask, who throws a party for their twenty-sixth birthday—complete with a who's who of attendees, loads of food, a beautifully decorated
tent, and excellent music? Well, she did, because she was on the road during her twenty-fifth birthday.

The invitation had a spectacular picture of Whitney on the cover. You had to be on a list, and there were different security checkpoints. CeCe and I just stayed on the sidelines of the party, watching her enjoy the evening and all the love as she mingled with everyone.

That was also the night we discovered that Michael Jackson had given Whitney a monkey as her birthday present. Everyone seemed amused, but I'm sure they were all thinking the same thing I was—
This is crazy! Who gives monkeys to people for their birthdays?

The thought is funny and ridiculous at the same time. Of course Whitney didn't need a monkey! It was all she could do to take care of her cat! But perhaps Michael was so far removed from people that he thought Whitney could use the companionship of a monkey.

Whitney couldn't believe it. She looked at me and said, “What am I going to do with a monkey?”

We both laughed.

“As soon as this party's over, that monkey is getting dropped off at the zoo!”