A true love made in my life.
But as my girl burned up the airwaves, I began to notice that the audience was more varied. The Whitney Houston audience included twentysomethings, middle-aged folks—black, white, and everyone in between.
Touring with Luther was a great experience for everyone. He treated Whitney and her entire crew as if we were his entourage, and I can still hear him stopping by her dressing room or in the halls asking, “Everything good? Y’all all right? Got everything you need?” He was a real showman who truly enjoyed doing what he loved for a living. His singers and band sounded tight and looked fabulous, as did Luther, known for his shimmery jackets by black couture designer Fabrice.
Whitney loved her some Luther Vandross, as a person, friend, and performer: “He really knows how to sang!” She knew every song and jingle he had ever done. When Whitney went on the road as his opening act, she marveled at his show and saw firsthand what it took to be a headliner. Luther was the perfect artist to take notes from when it came to showmanship and production. You were captured not only by the vocal harmonies and blends but also by the arrangements, which Whitney originally had been privy to in the studio watching her mom’s work with Luther. Onstage, Luther generally used the same singers who recorded his songs in the studio—with the exception of Cissy Houston, whose flavor stands out on “Wait for Love,” “Creepin’,” “Better Love,” “The Night I Fell in Love,” and “Since I Lost My Baby”—“What’s gonna happen to me / I don’t know.” In other words, if you listen to Luther Vandross, you’re gonna hear Cissy Houston.
Luther’s singers Kevin, Ava, and legendary backup singer Lisa Fischer glided and swayed across the stage, glitzy, glamorous, and graceful, with spellbinding moves. Paulette McWilliams sang from a chair offstage, adding another layer. Luther’s band featured the sounds of A-list industry musicians, like the funky thumping bass of Marcus Miller. His show was dazzling.
Soon after finishing her opening duties, Nip would quickly change and tell us that she planned to go see the show, and I’m not talking from the side of the stage. With the lights low, just a few of us—me, Nip, Felicia, and John Simmons—would creep out into the house so as not to call attention to ourselves. We’d find a spot on the second level of the arena where we could see everything, sitting on the floor in the aisle by a railing. There were never empty seats; the place was packed! Whitney would lean forward, resting her forearms on her thighs, watching Luther shine until a concertgoer inevitably recognized her.
Now it was time for Whitney to headline her own shows. The Greatest Love World Tour ran from July to December 1986, with thirty-five shows in the United States and Canada followed by concerts in Europe, Japan, and Australia. It was unbelievable. I worked on the tour book, T-shirts, hats, buttons, and sweatshirts, and designed my first piece of clothing: Whitney’s varsity-style tour jacket with fire-engine-red leather sleeves and “The Greatest Love Tour” written on the back in silver with a single red rose floating high.
Whitney promoted Silvia to be her personal assistant, which would include accompanying her whenever she traveled. We also agreed on hiring Carol Porter as the hair stylist for the tour. Everything was falling into place.
Whitney was like a kid, wanting to have as much fun as possible. In our downtime, Whitney and I would have barefoot hundred-yard dashes down the long hotel corridors, betting dollars on who would get smoked! I won a couple, but she made sure that she was victorious most of the time by talking trash stride for stride. She’d get so excited, and I loved seeing her smile.
Sometimes there would be a hoop outside the back of a venue, and then Nip played defense against me with her head forward, her behind out, and her long arms draped around me—despite my insistence she was fouling. Though her two brothers played, Whitney didn’t have any game. Her most memorable play in grade-school basketball was a breakaway layup scoring on the other team’s basket. With her determination she might have gotten better, but Cissy said basketball was too rough for her baby girl and made her quit.
Twice, Whit rented an arena for dress rehearsals, and a bunch of us played touch football in the space. In one game, the last play was to hike the ball to Whitney; the entire line would go right, and she was supposed to take two steps behind us before darting off to the left. But instead, Whitney immediately shot to the left. It was as if she were running in slow motion, and then, wham—somehow she connected knee-to-knee with her accountant, who was the only person within fifteen feet of her, then toppled over, hurting her right knee so badly she had to be carried off the field. The injury left her unable to perform in heels for the duration of rehearsal.
After that, it was all about Ping-Pong games and water-gun fights. We traveled with two Ping-Pong tables, but wherever we went throughout the country, we couldn’t wait to go to the local toy store and buy up every water gun they had. As many as fifty of us would engage in serious water fights, running through the hotels to refill our guns and then engaging in full combat around the grounds. Whitney carried a Rambo soaker and water balloons. Once, at a Tampa hotel, Whitney lost her emerald ring and the water battle stopped until one of the tour personnel found it in a stairwell off the ballroom.
Before we went overseas, Whitney was so busy she wasn’t really using and only occasionally smoked a joint. But I quickly learned that once a tour was under way, there were drugs all around. Dealers would station themselves at every venue or hotel, ready to capitalize on the arrival of an entourage. The guys in production were the first to know where to go if you wanted something, because they were the first to arrive in each city. A band member dubbed it “the Greatest Drug Tour.”
If Whitney and I wanted to indulge, her brother Michael was happy to hook us up. Gary was in trouble from the moment the tour started and was always lurking around, spewing negative energy, and then he would suddenly disappear. He’d borrow money from crew members, and when they tried to collect, it would fall to his sister to cover for him. I never once heard Gary congratulate Whitney after a show or thank her. Multiple times, I overheard him backstage saying he was in the studio recording or discussing getting his own record deal, which never happened. Many nights as we huddled up before a show in a prayer circle, holding hands and bowing our heads, Gary would stroll up last and Whitney, leading the prayer, would increase her volume and say, “And, Lord, protect us from this negative energy.” Or “Lord, don’t allow Satan to have his way. Armor us with your all-knowing, omnipotent power, oh God. We ask in your name, dear Lord—amen.”
Gary freebased regularly on the road. He once holed up in the bathroom of Boston’s Four Seasons Hotel and his wife, Monique, phoned Whitney’s hotel room in a panic because she was so afraid of him. Silvia, whose room was connected to Whit’s suite, phoned me saying she’d caught Gary and Michael getting high in her room, the contents of his black toiletry bag on full display. Silvia sat staring until they said she was blowing their high and eventually got up and left.
One time we went to an industry party and there were a few people sitting on a sofa talking. On the coffee table in front of them sat a bowl filled with cocaine. I had a little appetite, and it wouldn’t have been a problem if I’d picked up a plate and spooned a few teaspoons onto it. But I didn’t. After all, someone had to get up in the morning and get work done. Sometimes I had the urge to get high with Nip and Michael, or maybe by myself at night, but it was never my desire to get into a marathon with anyone. Having experienced my share of staying up all night, I knew the conclusion was always the same: folks looking crazy, hair jacked, eyes big and blinking rapidly, dry mouthed and tongue-tied, thirsty ’cause it’s all gone and you’re looking for ways to get more.
There were long days and late nights, but the work was exciting, so I tried to keep to myself more and more, curling up in my bunk on the tour bus, which usually rolled out from each city in the wee hours, around two or three A.M. If I was strong enough to resist temptation, I’d peek through
the curtain, and if it looked as if it had been a bad night, I’d hold out a sandwich as folks straggled by. Everyone thought it was kind of funny, but I knew how they were really feeling. They were hurtin’.
At this point, Gary bothered me regularly, mumbling under his breath, staring darkly. One day, as I was about to board the bus, he appeared out of nowhere, stood in front of me, and yelled in my face, “You’re not in charge!” Caught off guard, I walked around him and silently climbed the stairs. One of the singers said, “He’s so crazy,” and Carol added, “Scary, too!” I took a window seat, and as the bus rolled away, Gary was still standing on the sidewalk staring through the glass at me. I didn’t have a clue how to react but I’d regained my composure, so as we drove by him, I stuck out my tongue.
At the top of every show, Whitney would say to the audience, “I’ll make you a deal. You give me some of you and I’ll give you all of me.” And she did just that: She gave her all and was sweaty and spent at the end of each show. She enjoyed herself, but sometimes after a performance there would be a few folks who wanted something more from her. Once, when we were walking the long corridor of a venue in Virginia leading from backstage to the dressing rooms, we passed two young women in their twenties like us, and one of them loudly said, “Look, she don’t know nobody,” trying to call her out for not greeting them. Whitney, flanked by security, came to an abrupt stop, turned around, and walking right up to the one who’d spoken, said, “You’re right, I don’t know you.”
At US stops, Whitney mostly stayed in the hotel. The crew would locate a restaurant and then she might join in, but most of the time she didn’t want to go out. She was a homebody even on the road. Silvia and Cissy’s friend Aunt Bae packed what they could to make her feel at home. There was a large case on rollers filled with Nippy’s favorite comfort foods: Fruity Pebbles, Cap’n Crunch, tuna fish, Ritz crackers, and peanut butter. Wherever we stopped, Nippy would ask us to pick up coloring books and crayons for her, a relaxing pastime she enjoyed whenever she had free time. I used to tell her that she should sign them and hand them out to fans, but she probably did so only once.
Not long after I met her, Whitney said, “Stick with me, and I’ll take you around the world.” And now she was doing just that. This time, Whitney, Silvia, and I flew the Concorde to London while the rest of the crew were taking the eight-hour flight. Aunt Bae was upset about Silvia’s flying with Nip while she wasn’t invited. “Why are you flying on the Concorde?” she demanded. “’Cause Whitney said so,” Silvia answered, looking a little like a kid standing up to a bully. When we arrived at Heathrow Airport, the three of us descended the airplane stairs and were met by paparazzi. “Follow me,” Whit said. She looked ready for it in her sunglasses and brimmed hat, taking long strides with that walk of hers that verged on pimping—an international star.
The country I really fell in love with was Japan. Akihabara made Times Square look like it needed more lights! The way that place was lit up, it felt electrifying. I went out at both the beginning and the end of the day, and the energy was always the same, always buzzing. The music stores had all the latest audio equipment, electronic gadgets, and a vast collection of what seemed like every artist who’d ever released a record. Artists were so revered that you could find every little thing a singer or group ever recorded. I probably spent my per diem earnings solely on rare Chaka Khan, Rufus, Motown, and Philly sound recordings—all the classics.
As for food, there was no such thing as a California roll. Instead, I spent days eating tender, fresh sushi rolls in restaurants where you could point to the fish of your choice in the window. The presentation of everything was lovely—even a bottle of Coca-Cola was poured with a flourish over three perfect ice cubes. Some nights, when I was feeling a little homesick, I’d go downstairs to the restaurant at the Capitol Tokyo, where we were staying, and order spaghetti Bolognese. This wasn’t necessarily what I ate at home, but given where I was, it seemed familiar. A lot of times I’d find Michael down there, and we’d ask the waiters in their beige coats for hot sauce to add to our pasta. For the most part Michael was good to me, friendly, easygoing, and affectionate. His disposition was similar to Nippy’s.
Nobody was looking for cocaine in Japan. The closest thing I had to a habit there was the blueberry gum I bought in the hotel gift shop. Maybe it was because there was a language barrier, but instead of getting high, we spent time mingling with concertgoers after the shows. People bowed and called me Robyn-san.
We were in so many cities: Osaka, Yokohama, Tokyo, and on later tours, Sendai, Fukuoka, and Hiroshima. In Hiroshima, we made sure to visit a park that was a symbol of peace in remembrance of the war, the living, and the devastation of life caught in the path of nuclear bombs in World War II. We saw statues of adults, kids, toddlers, babies—everybody who had been going through their everyday lives before everything changed.
En route to one of our shows, the traffic in Tokyo was so terrible we had been at a standstill for long enough to be concerned. We called ahead to the Budokan arena, afraid Whitney wasn’t going to make the curtain. They sent a motorcycle, and Whitney, without hesitation, hopped on the back and made it. Once onstage, she was in the zone: calm, cool, and collected. Most of the people probably couldn’t speak a word of English, but they all knew her songs.
Our next stop, Australia, was magical—the climate, the water, the beach, the people. We played touch football on the front lawn of the parliament house in the capital, Canberra. Melbourne’s weather and walkability reminded me of San Francisco. The audiences were mostly white, but we made a point of meeting and breaking bread with Aboriginals. We traded beautiful, elaborate handmade belts and bags for swag and tickets to the show.
The exchange rate for the US dollar was very favorable, so cocaine seemed like a bargain. One night after a show, I was sitting in Whitney’s room, and Michael said he was going out to get some and would be back in five minutes. When he finally showed, it was eleven o’clock the next morning. Getting high at that point just seemed crazy to me. I had a thirst for being outdoors instead. I also was ready to go home.
I missed my car and bed, eating bags of chips instead of crisps; I missed sweet potato pie and I missed my family. When the tour was officially over and we came home to America in time for Christmas, we kissed the tarmac.
Ten
The Moment of Truth
While we were on tour, Clive had started working on songs for the second album, Whitney. Whit was back home for a stretch, but her plan to rest had to be scrapped because Clive insisted she ride the wave of her unprecedented success.
Starting in December 1986, we made several trips to Narada Michael Walden’s Tarpan Studios in San Rafael, California. It was a beautiful, calming space, and Nip was happy to be there. Whitney and Narada had a great vibe. While she was in the booth, he would close his eyes and press the palms of his hands together, holding them at his heart. A beautiful, contented smile would cross his face. His approach, like his demeanor, was gentle, and he handled the board with subtlety, pushing the levers up or down gradually. Nip called him “Peace, Love, and Happiness.”
Just as she did on the first album, Whitney always left with a cassette tape from the day’s recording so she could listen overnight and return to the studio the next day ready to jump in. Her background vocals alone would liven up any party. I had watched Whitney sing countless times in church, at rehearsals, at performances live and in the studio, and she never ceased to amaze me.
I was always paying attention, my eyes on Whitney. Because of this, Narada sometimes asked for my input. “Sit here, Robbie,” he’d say, using Whit’s nickname for me. “Listen to this one. Did you hear the difference?”
She would do a take and Narada would say, “Perfect, now do another one, just like that.” Even if her pass at a line was perfect, he had the patience to see what possibilities could unfold during a session, and Whitney had the stamina to do one take after anothe
r; she would work until they both were satisfied. Narada, always sensitive to energy, occasionally would turn around and ask, “How is she, Robbie? She okay?” When we completed the recordings, he said Nip needed a getaway and recommended Kona Village Resort on Hawaii’s Big Island. Off we went for two serene, television-and-phone-free weeks, gorging on fresh fruit and sharing our room with the geckos and iguanas.
Narada produced more songs and had more hits with Whit than anyone. “I’m Every Woman,” the anthem penned by Nick Ashford and Valerie Simpson, was originally delivered by Chaka Khan, on her debut album, with none other than Cissy Houston on backing vocals. Because she trusted him, Whitney phoned Narada to produce it. She instructed, “Don’t change it. Do it just like the original. And keep Val’s piano.” After that initial recording, David Cole and Robert Clivillés of C&C Music Factory were brought in to create dance remixes. As David was also a native East Oranger, Nip agreed to go into the studio with them to record additional vocals for the clubs.
One day I needed a break, so I asked Michelle to accompany Whitney to rehearsal at SIR in Manhattan, and Whitney drove to the studio in her silver Range Rover. On the way back, traffic was at a crawl, and another car tapped her car door while they were inching into the Lincoln Tunnel. Whitney got out of her car and started cursing the other driver out. Michelle yelled at her to get back in because it was just a little tap. Then the driver, who had started to apologize, suddenly said, “Oh, shoot. You’re Whitney Houston.” This snapped her to attention, and she quickly got back in the car and they drove away. Even after her successful debut album and world tour, it was still a surprise sometimes for her to be recognized.
After that incident, she became a little hesistant about going out and being spotted, but I convinced her that if she went to the Short Hills mall around eleven A.M., there would be only moms and babies there, so most people wouldn’t recognize her. They were so used to seeing Whitney all done up, and she never looked like that day to day. You really had to look at her closely—like that driver had—for her features to come into focus. She wasn’t hiding, but she wasn’t declaring herself, either.
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