Meanwhile, a little separation was starting to develop between Nip and me. No matter what rules we came up with around responsible drug use, she kept breaking them and using whenever she wanted to. Her career was in high gear, and my hands were full at the office and the calls didn’t stop when I was at home, either. I was juggling what the record company needed her to do, performances, interviews, recording schedules, and ongoing business opportunities that came to the office, by mail, so I had to be on. I couldn’t be rolling out of bed feeling like shit.
The real issue was that we’d agreed that cocaine could not go with us, and once again she was finding it difficult to fulfill her part of that agreement. That’s when I knew she wasn’t having fun. She liked this stuff too much, even at the expense of the dreams we were aspiring to reach. When I suggested that things were getting out of hand and that she might have a problem, she responded, “Don’t worry about me. Whitney can take care of herself.”
It wasn’t long before I told Cissy about the cocaine use yet again. This time, I called and told on Whitney, Michael, Donna, and myself. But nothing ever came of it, except my having to deal with Michael, Donna, and a somewhat chilly Whitney. Donna told me, “The next time you feel like telling on someone, tell on your damned self!” We were all around the same age, and you know what happens when one person chooses not to go along—that person usually gets pushed out. Nippy never said anything about my telling her mom directly, but it was clear that she wasn’t listening to my warnings about drugs. A week or so later, Whitney was in her room at the house when Cissy came over. She approached me near the pool and confronted me about what I’d said over the phone. “She likes it too much,” I said. “I can stop, but she can’t.” Cissy said, “I appreciate you telling me,” and went on her way.
Despite how well Whitney was selling, there was a backlash about the album’s crossover appeal. I’ll admit the look was at the other end of the spectrum—from short, slicked-back hair on the cover of album one to the big hair on Whitney. And just maybe her skin looked a bit lighter than it did on the first album, but then the image was taken under studio lights.
Though the artwork for the highly anticipated sophomore album did go along with the product, Jon Pareles in the New York Times wrote a harsh review with the headline “She’s Singing by Formula.” Another reviewer wrote that she was too controlled by the strategic Clive Davis and wasn’t taking any chances, sarcastically referring to “I Wanna Dance with Somebody” as “How Will I Know II.” In any case, none of the criticism stopped Whitney from climbing the charts. “Didn’t We Almost Have It All,” “So Emotional,” and “Where Do Broken Hearts Go” would all reach number 1, making seven consecutive number 1 hits by February 1988 and breaking the record set by the Beatles and Elvis.
There was no way anyone could say the unprecedented success of her debut was a fluke, but there was a great deal of anticipation and scrutiny from the press, along with the expectations of her label. I was acutely aware of how many days she was singing consecutively, what territories had heavy press attendance, her set list, and how hard her voice would be working. By this time, there were lots of people who thought they knew what was best, but as long as I had Whitney’s ear, things were good.
On the other hand, I already knew that Cissy and John’s relationship was putting a lot of pressure on Nip, and I didn’t want to get caught up in it. I tried to keep out of the line of fire and do my best for their daughter. In my opinion, Whitney’s mother was someone who really cared about what other people thought, but sometimes I felt her obsession with the gay rumors masked her concern about something else: the depth of our friendship. It had crossed my mind that perhaps Cissy was angry because Whitney was living farther away and I was there. She was bitter about not having a closer relationship with her daughter, and that wasn’t my fault. On Mother’s Day, Whitney and her brothers weren’t picking up Cissy and taking her out like Marty, Bina, and I did for our mom.
I felt bad for Cissy, because when Nippy needed her mother to talk to, she couldn’t, and when Cissy needed or wanted the closeness of her daughter, by that point Whitney didn’t want to be bothered with her. One afternoon at the house, Cissy buzzed at the gate and Whitney said, “Don’t answer it.” On the video monitor, I watched Cissy back away from the gate. More often, her mother would come unannounced and sit in the kitchen with Aunt Bae.
“Where’s Nippy?” Cissy would ask me.
“She’s in her room. Go knock on her door,” I’d say. If Cissy chose to knock, often there was no answer.
Twelve
Moving Fast at Twice the Speed
Just seven months after we returned home from the Greatest Love World Tour, Whitney was out and it was time to go back on the road again, this time for the Moment of Truth World Tour. Starting in July 1987 and running all the way through November 1988, we had sixty-one North American dates, followed by Europe, Japan, Australia, and Hong Kong. It wound up being the highest-grossing tour by a female artist in 1987.
This tour, we traveled in higher style than we had on the Greatest Love Tour: The bus was deluxe, and Whitney had a full bed, though she usually opted for a bunk like the rest of us. We now had two security guards, so Whit could have security escort her everywhere.
Also new was the addition of dancers, including Khandi Alexander, partway through the tour. Khandi and dancer-turned-choreographer Damita Jo Freeman were in the audience at the 1988 American Music Awards, where Whitney performed and took home three trophies. After the show, Damita penned a detailed letter to Cissy making the case for the inclusion of dancers in Whitney’s act. Up until that point, the belief was that people came to hear Whitney’s vocals, which were so extraordinary she didn’t need any enhancement. Damita’s pitch was that while this was true, Whit was young and had the energy and talent to do both. Slated to open the 1988 Grammy Awards, Whitney decided to give it a try on the Recording Academy’s dime. She agreed to have Damita and Khandi choreograph a number and hire several dancers, and they went to work. Sitting in the audience at Radio City Music Hall on the day of the ceremony, I watched Nip sing and dance her way through a six-minute version of “I Wanna Dance with Somebody” that included all kinds of moves from the Hustle to the Cabbage Patch—all in sling-back stilettos. The next day, Janet Jackson called the house to congratulate Whitney on her dance moves. Whitney enjoyed the interaction with the dancers and doing the choreography so much that she decided to add dancers for the second leg of the tour.
A lot of the critics at home reviewed her shows like they knew better than she did about what songs she should sing and how they should be sung! On the first tour, people would comment on her hair or say that her clothing was matronly, which was true. On the second tour, chatter about her appearance wasn’t so much in the air, but they would always find something to pick at, even though she and her albums were breaking records and her tours were sold out. It seemed as if the critics were only looking for what she didn’t have and didn’t do!
Whitney was singing her tail off, and it never even crossed her mind to lip-sync anything, not even during a video. Still, the feedback was: “She doesn’t dance, she’s as stiff as a cardboard box.” But I didn’t see them call out performers who danced with such high energy and elaborate choreography that there was no way to avoid singing to a track. At some point, a critic has to take a seat and acknowledge that millions of people the world over can’t be wrong. The audience bought the tickets, and people of all ages and demographics enjoyed themselves. I know because I was out there.
When I watched Whitney working so hard onstage, I just wanted to give her a hug. That was my friend and I wanted her to know that I understood. In the earlier years, if she spotted me in the crowd, she might wink, but for the most part when she saw me, her gaze would linger, almost as if she was looking for something. Like she was trying to see herself through my eyes, and I became her mirror in that moment.
As Nip and I
packed our bags for Europe in spring 1988, it was time to look for a responsible person to not only care for our pets, MisteBlu, Marilyn, and the new Akitas, Lucy and Ethel, but also to respect and protect our home. Since Silvia was joining us and Whitney didn’t trust her brothers with the task, she asked me if I knew of someone. I said, “The only person I know is my brother.” Marty still was living down south, after having been honorably discharged from the service. So Michelle and I drove Whitney’s silver Range Rover to North Carolina to bring him back up. Other than being a little thin, Marty looked great, was full of energy, and was excited to come up to the house.
Before we flew out for the European tour, I again tried to broach the subject of substance use. I was growing increasingly worried about cocaine and didn’t like what it did to us, but Nip was fearless and fine getting high without me. I suggested that we put rules in place, like “No getting high when there’s work to do” or “No getting high after a certain time,” and definitely “No getting high in groups!” This was particularly dangerous, because those sessions could go on all night with no one keeping track of what was going on. She appeared to be on board because she knew it was in our best interest, but I wasn’t sure the commitment would hold while she was on the road.
I wasn’t the only one who was concerned. My mom had some words of wisdom for me. Recently she’d sat me down and rubbed her hands together as she always did when something was on her mind. “Robyn,” she said, “I thought that you would take better care of your body. You surprise me. You know, Whitney has her brothers to be there for her if something happens. But if something happens to you, they’ll be sending you home to me in a box.” Those words, and the way she looked at me while saying them, reverberated through my body. Mom knew me so well, and somehow she understood what I was up against.
On tour, Whitney was facing down nine sold-out shows at London’s Wembley Arena, which meant we’d be there for weeks, with all the temptation that came with a long stay in a big city. I knew we’d have access to anything we wanted. That was the nature of traveling with an entourage. Just like on the last tour, people were expecting us and knew where we were staying. So if anybody was looking for trouble, it wouldn’t be long before they found it, or it found them. Late at night, doors would open and close, footsteps would creak down the hall, voices would whisper. I didn’t want any of that trouble, so as soon as we landed, I decided to play it safe, stay in my room, and listen to music.
Gary had been in rehab for most of the US leg of the tour. He joined us in London, but he was far from healed. Because Cissy was on this tour, he was a bit more visible than he’d been on the last one, but there were still times when he would disappear or engage in strange behavior. He tried to cozy up to me once as I sat on a bench in catering. “Hey, hey, Rob, come here,” he said, putting his arm around me. “Why don’t we go grab a bite to eat or something?” I didn’t want to go anywhere with him, let alone break bread alone with him. He had a jealous spirit. Gary’s whole delivery and con-man lingo gave me the creeps.
Michael was funny, sensitive, and caring, but he was in trouble, too. Before we had first left for the tour, most days he would park in the back of the underground parking garage of Nippy Inc. for hours, getting high. On tour, he was Whitney’s main source for coke.
When we reached London, it was a good thing I decided to keep my head down for the most part, because Big Cuda was on the prowl. So as the days stacked up, I stayed away from the scene, listened to music, and tried to keep to myself. Now when Michael asked me, “You in?” my answer was, “No.”
One morning in London, I got a call from Joy, one of Whitney’s dancers, inviting me out for a day of sightseeing. I love London, especially the parks, and it was an absolutely gorgeous sunny day, so I accepted. It wasn’t an issue if anyone in the executive crew spent time with someone in the band or crew—unless that person was me, as it turned out.
I hadn’t seen Whitney for at least a day and could imagine what she and Michael had been doing. I checked in with Silvia, who confirmed that Whitney was catching up on some much-needed sleep, and I told her that I was going out. Then I hit the town with Joy. She was tall, with curly, long bushy hair and fair skin—attractive. I didn’t know her well, having spent time around her only during rehearsals, but I thought she was cool.
I was glad to be out and about for most of the day, but when I returned to the hotel, I learned that all hell had broken loose while I was gone. It turned out that Silvia had decided to go out and grab a bite with one of the crew. She’d taken her walkie-talkie but didn’t realize it wouldn’t work once she got out of range. When Nippy awakened and realized everyone was gone, she was pissed. Enter Big Cuda, to the rescue!
For years, I’d tried to accept Cissy and follow Whitney’s advice: “You know how my mother is. You have to ignore her.” So I never took her attacks personally. That is, until that day.
I was standing in the bedroom of Nip’s Four Seasons suite, between the television and the bed, and Nip was standing off to the side, crying. Big Cuda walked up to me, about half an arm’s length away, berating me as though I was somehow responsible for her daughter’s unhappiness.
“What do you think you’re doing going off like that? You should be where she can find you. Do you know what you’re supposed to be doing? You’re working!”
I snapped and told Cissy, “I don’t have to listen to this. You should save this talk for your children,” then I made the mistake of attempting to step past her and walk away. She went to grab me but was so angry and unfocused that her hands snatched at my clothing, like a cat in a fight. When I turned back, she slapped me across the face. Nippy screamed, “No, Mommy, stop!” and she did.
Later that day, I went to talk to Carol, and with my luck found her doing Cissy’s hair. Carol gave me a sympathetic look, periodically shaking her head as she continued working.
“You all right, Robyn?” Cissy asked, breaking the thick silence.
“Yeah,” I answered. “I got a few scratches, but I’m fine.” This was the closest thing to an apology I would ever get from her. But I knew she was sorry.
That evening I would find out that Nippy had been feeling weak and alone. And when I told her about my day, she asked, “Did you sleep with her? Don’t lie to me.”
I told her, “We kissed. We didn’t take off our clothes—” Then, out of nowhere, Whitney slapped me—my second slap of the day, for those keeping count, but at least this one was followed by a hug and an apology. She then picked up a few little pieces of black hash with a bobby pin and started lighting each one with a match. As we inhaled the floating smoke, our mood mellowed, becoming light and easy.
Later that night, Whitney opened up, telling me that for the first time, she was feeling as if she had no voice to do what she needed to do. She felt the beginnings of a cold, and the show at Wembley was the next day. She was worn down, feeling pressure from everywhere. “I’m letting all the people down. I can’t cancel!”
“Yes, you can,” I said. “Yes, you can. Even Muhammad Ali had to have someone to throw in the towel.” I often told Nip that she was like a champion boxer, and that boxers don’t know when they’ve had enough. Instead, they just keep taking jab after jab, hit after hit, and need someone in their corner to give them an out before they crumble. I went into the bathroom, brought out a white hand towel, and threw it on the floor, saying, “There. I did it for you.” I could feel her relief as she pulled me in for a big hug before falling fast asleep. I settled in the bed next to her, exhausted from all the drama.
I thought that the issue with Joy had been resolved until we came home for a break in July and Whitney told me she was going to fire her. I countered that there was no reason for her to do that and that Joy didn’t do anything to deserve it. But Nip had made up her mind. After Joy found out she was being let go, she called me to say that she wanted to talk to Whitney and have the chance to clear things up. I was
with Nip, so I put Joy on speakerphone. She said that it wasn’t her intent to cause any disturbances or problems; she just wanted to be friends with me, and with Whitney, too.
Whit responded, “But I don’t need any more friends. I hired you to dance, not to make friends, and that’s all you had to do.” Wow. I sat there listening as Nippy ended the call. For the rest of the tour, I felt as if I was tagged: “If you plan on hanging out with Robyn, best think again.”
It was early 1988, and Whitney was working, working, and working. Around this time, we had been on the road so long that being home around the holidays felt like a vacation. Nonetheless, there were back-to-back award shows and interviews, so our lives were still a blur. And although I was by her side, working with her, I decided that if I was going to continue to grow professionally, I needed her to respect me not only as her friend but as a business partner, too. I thought getting my own place would go a long way toward achieving that. She and I discussed it, and the verdict was that I would look for a place not too far from the house after the tour, later in the year. We found a condo for me thirty minutes away and hired the same interior decorator who designed the house we currently shared. Whitney paid for it all.
A few days before moving into the new condo, I was there checking out the décor when I got a call from Joy, who was in town and wanted to speak face-to-face about what had happened back on the tour. I told Whitney, and she seemed indifferent, until she showed up at the front door of the condo shortly after Joy’s arrival. Whitney asked, “Did you two sleep together?” I told her we hadn’t, which was the truth, but she was upset and not hearing me. Whitney demanded that I tell my guest (who had managed to discreetly slip onto the back patio) to leave, and when I refused, she abruptly turned around and walked out. Needless to say, the meeting between Joy and me was short and sour, even after I suggested that we go for a drive somewhere and maybe stay overnight at a hotel. She was pretty shaken by all the drama and figured it was best to cut ties and move on. We never saw each other again.
A Song for You Page 14