A Song for You

by Robyn Crawford

  It wasn’t until we got off the bikes that we realized Silvia wasn’t with us. We waited and waited and waited. Finally, we returned to the studio to find that ’Face was finished writing. We told him that we thought Silvia had gotten lost. He responded, “Yeah, probably. It’s really easy to take a wrong turn around here.” So the three of us got into ’Face’s car and went searching for Sil. As we approached the second hill, there she was, hot and sweaty from pushing the bike uphill.

  Furious, Silvia started running her mouth immediately: “I was yelling for you guys to wait for me, but you just ignored me and kept going! I couldn’t pedal up this hill. It’s too hard for me!”

  In typical fashion, Whitney replied, “Get in, Silvia. Robyn, you get out. You lost, so you ride the bike back.”

  Recording resumed, with ’Face and Whit sitting at the board. He held a handwritten paper in his hand and said, “Can you sing this?” Whitney got up from the chair, playfully snatching the paper from ’Face’s hand, saying, “Gimme that.” In the booth, with headphones on, the racehorse zapped right through the freshly written bridge.

  Looks like I’m fatal it’s all on the table

  And baby you hold the cards . . .

  I watched him listening intently, head bopping gently as Whitney sang the hook out until the track was no more. Whitney ultimately gave L.A. Reid and Babyface their first number 1 pop hit with “I’m Your Baby Tonight.”

  In 1989, Whitney was asked to present Michael Jackson with the World Music Award in a video that would be taped at Michael’s estate. So Whitney, her publicist Regina, and I clambered onto a helicopter on the rooftop of an office building in Los Angeles, and the whole ride—the swaying side to side and bouncing up and down—made me sick to my stomach. But I didn’t say much about it. If we’d had to go by rowboat and swim a mile, and Nip was on board, I’d have been there. After forty-five minutes in the clear and sunny skies, we approached Santa Barbara, where the treetops looked like huge marijuana buds ripe for the picking. Everything we could see, for miles and miles, belonged to Michael Jackson. This dude owned the mountains, valleys, and hills.

  We landed in a circle outlined on the blacktop, and before the helicopter door opened there was a cameraperson or two ready to document the arrival of Whitney Houston. No one had given us a heads-up or asked permission, and they weren’t asking for it now. Whitney didn’t say a word and neither did I. We were in Neverland, and that’s exactly how it felt—like being in the midst of magic.

  A young man greeted us and escorted us to our quarters so we could freshen up before lunch with Michael and Bubbles, his pet chimpanzee. As we walked past the main entrance, we could see the sign displaying the name Neverland, along with a statue of Peter Pan. I was totally blown away. I was at Michael Jackson’s house! The little-boy singing sensation every girl on the entire planet wanted to date and one day marry—including Whitney and me.

  The house was a large, two-level Tudor with an English-country-farm charm. The second level had lots of windows, which I couldn’t see into, though it felt as though eyes were watching us. We were led to one of two bungalow-style buildings with a safari theme and told to make ourselves comfortable. But we couldn’t ignore the enormous trampoline situated just in back of the main house, adjacent to where we were staying. As soon as the young man left, Nip and I ran back outside together, and we jumped, careful not to get hurt. We giggled, thinking that Michael was probably watching us; we’d been told that his room was located just above.

  After about an hour of downtime, we were asked if we wanted a tour of the house, and off we went. A young woman took us from room to room, and they all had a feeling of comfort, of being lived in. Then she stopped and, with her hand on the knob of a door, just before opening it, said ominously, “This is the dolls’ room, and sometimes you can hear them walking about at night.” We looked at each other, eyebrows raised, and then stepped inside the doorway. Sure enough, from wall to wall, ceiling to floor, there were thousands of porcelain, cloth, and plastic dolls with a gazillion long-lashed eyeballs staring straight at us! I remember thinking, That’s way, way too many dolls for my nerves.

  As we backed up out of the room, Whitney leaned in and whispered to me, “Why would she say something creepy like that?”

  “Well maybe it’s true,” I said. “All of those damn dolls in one room. Anything could happen.”

  We never got around to asking about the doll collection, because that concluded the house tour, and it was time to eat. We were led into a kitchen filled with pots clanging, the sounds of dishes, and the scent of baking bread. There was a picnic-style table, a mix of chairs, and a bench. And there, at the head of the table, sat Michael. He was soft spoken but warm, seeming to want to accommodate us and make us comfortable. He included us all in the relaxed conversation, but his attention was on Whitney. Bubbles was seated in an elevated chair next to her, enjoying some finger food.

  After lunch, Michael showed us the rest of the house, including his private wing. Standing at his window, I could see the entire property—as well as anyone having a blast on the trampoline. Michael took us to see the animals in the barn—he had llamas, peacocks, snakes, and animals I didn’t even recognize—and then asked if we’d like to ride horses.

  Whitney was all in. She was dressed for the occasion, wearing jeans and boots, while I, on the other hand, was wearing a white nylon running suit with running shoes and booties for socks. It was the worst possible outfit for riding a horse. But the train had already left the station—literally! We rode in an old-fashioned red train until we got to the stables. Whitney mounted a large, dark brown horse, then Regina got on hers, and then a man walked another one over, which he positioned so that I could jump on. I glanced over and saw Michael sitting on a golf cart, watching. He had this wide ear-to-ear grin plastered across his face.

  A few hours later, after we showered and dressed, it was time for the award presentation. We gathered in the main part of the house, and I was off to the side until Nip called me over to listen as she practiced reading through the script. I couldn’t help but notice that Michael was staring at me. I didn’t want him to know that I knew, but it seemed that he had absolutely no problem staring directly at me for minutes on end. Finally, someone called his name and he stepped away. Nip turned to me: “You see the way that Michael was staring at you, Rob? I think it was your eyes. He must really love your eyes.”

  We were in Europe a few months before the release of Whitney’s third album, I’m Your Baby Tonight, when Arista called, saying they wanted her to do an interview for the cover story of a magazine called Fame to support the release. Reporter Roger Friedman began asking Whitney about my role, so I joined the conversation. We shared our plans for Whitney’s acting career, producing movies, television, and representing artists. We opened up to him, excited about presenting our vision to someone who seemed honest. Friedman didn’t probe us with questions about our relationship or Whitney’s dating. We knew this article was going to come out featuring us as two successful, business-minded women.

  When the October 1990 issue of Fame hit the stands, nothing on the page reflected our conversation. Fame’s headline, “Secret Life of Whitney Houston,” said it all. Nearly every word was slanted toward building evidence that we were lovers. She felt violated, and the fact that the request had come through her record company made it even worse. At that time, I had heard rumors about Clive Davis’s being with men, but it wasn’t confirmed beyond speculation until he revealed that he was bisexual a decade later.

  After she finished reading and the shock wore off, Nippy said, “This is what my mother meant when she said, ‘They build you up to tear you down.’ You know what? They will never, ever get anything from me again.” And she meant it. That story altered the professional landscape for Whitney and me, and forever changed the way she felt about doing interviews.

  Cissy insisted that I no longer walk next to Whitney
in public. I couldn’t ride in the car with her or sit next to her at most award shows. “You’re playing right into their hands,” I said, but they were unmoved. There were times when we both could feel the persistent chatter, and Whitney might hold my face in her hands and say, “Robyn, you know I love you immensely,” while advising me to ignore her mother if she said anything mean or pushed me aside.

  Whitney was only twenty-seven years old, and already she was tired. It wasn’t just the unethical reporters or not being “black enough”; it wasn’t just her mother and the rest of her family or the industry’s demands. And it wasn’t just the rumors. It was all those things that responded with a resounding no when she frequently asked, “Can I be me?”

  Fourteen

  From Sea to Shining Sea

  Despite the turmoil behind the scenes, we couldn’t help but be excited about Whitney’s upcoming performance of the national anthem at Super Bowl XXV in Tampa, Florida. In the lead-up to the event in early 1991, we kept hearing that security was going to be unusually tight. The United States was in the midst of Desert Storm and there had been numerous security threats, so a feeling of unease hung over the stadium and blanketed the entire country.

  Our NFL contact alerted us that there would be a number of safeguards in place, including the presence of the National Guard, plainclothes police, several security checkpoints, and more. We were permitted a limited number of guests and told that the group had to stay together and that once we entered the stadium, we would not be able to leave and reenter.

  Once we cleared security, we were ushered to the side to wait for our escort down to midfield, where John and Donna awaited us. Whitney looked around and asked, “Where’s Gary?” Nobody had seen him since we approached security, and we would not see him again for the rest of the day and night.

  We were anticipating sunny and warm weather in Florida, but this was Tampa, which is farther north than we realized, and as the clouds rolled in it got progressively cooler. Whitney, who had traveled in a lightweight brown suede car coat, now had her coat fastened to the neck, and had fished gloves and a hat out of her bag.

  The plan was for her to stand on a podium backed by a full orchestra all dressed in black tie, and she was to wear a sleeveless black cocktail dress and heels. But after sound check, when we were back at the hotel with a few hours to kill, Whitney came into my room, plopped down on my bed, and said, “What am I going to do? I’m going to be freezing in that dress!”

  I remembered being in the room watching Silvia packing her bags, and I said, “Why don’t you wear the tracksuit that’s in your suitcase?”

  “What tracksuit?” she asked.

  I led Nip to her room, opened her bag, and pulled out a white Le Coq Sportif tracksuit. “You won’t be out of place. It’s appropriate for the occasion, and no one is going to be looking at the orchestra anyway—all eyes are going to be on you.”

  For some reason I cannot fathom, Whitney did her own hair and makeup that day. Then she added a white headband, suited up, and slipped on a pair of white Nike Cortez sneakers with a red swoosh, and Whitney Houston was ready to astound the world with her national anthem.

  As soon as she began, the packed Tampa Stadium went quiet and remained that way until she reached the final line. When she hit the word free, those people who were still sitting began to rise. And by the time she reached brave, which she amazingly held for nearly eight seconds, the eighty thousand people who filled the stadium were either cheering or tearful. It was breathtaking. It was extraordinary.

  Standing on the sidelines listening to her, I just drifted away. I heard the words she was singing but lost myself in the feeling. A feeling of pride. And it wasn’t only that I felt proud to be an American. I felt proud to be witnessing an incredible moment of unity. But that’s what Whitney did to a song. That’s what she did with “The Greatest Love of All,” “I’m Every Woman,” and “I Will Always Love You.” Her interpretations made you feel something you’d never felt before. That evening Whitney took our minds off fear and gave us something beautiful to hold on to.

  “How was it?” Nip asked me after jumping down from the stage.

  “You killed it,” I answered.

  The Giants beat the Buffalo Bills by one point, but on January 27, 1991, the real victory belonged to Whitney Houston, who forever raised the bar for the US national anthem. Her gospel inflections claimed it for African Americans, many of whom felt a connection to it for the first time. When Whitney sang it, you forgot about all the other renditions of the song you’d ever heard.

  As I predicted, no one questioned the tracksuit. No one said Whitney wasn’t black enough. Everyone claimed that black girl from East Orange that day. We later learned that Arista wanted to release Whitney’s anthem as a single. Folks were calling into radio stations asking DJs to play it, and similar calls flooded the Nippy Inc. and Arista lines. After it came out, Whitney’s anthem became Arista’s fastest-selling single, and she donated all the proceeds to the Red Cross.

  And yet, within a few days, a rumor spread that she hadn’t sung live but instead had lip-synced.

  After John Simmons passed, Whitney first thought his replacement should be a pianist, as he had been. Keyboardist and pianist Bette Sussman was a killer player who began her career as the musical director for the touring company of the Broadway musical Godspell when she was just nineteen. The only woman in the band, she had also worked with Cissy, which seemed to make her a natural choice. But Whitney’s bass player Rickey Minor called on the phone declaring, “I’m your MD.”

  “No, you’re not,” Whitney said.

  “Yes, I am,” Rickey insisted.

  “No, you’re not,” Whitney replied as they went back and forth like an old comedy routine. In the meantime, back in the office, John Houston was also pushing for Bette. But Rickey was hungry and relentless and seemed ready to completely devote himself, so Whitney said, “Give him a shot and see how he handles it.” When Rickey first became musical director, he was stressed out to the max, even losing patches of hair. But he saved himself; he started practicing yoga and soon became adept at handling the whirlwind. Whitney had trusted her gut, and their collaboration was to last for ten years.

  A few months before the Super Bowl, Nip told Rickey the only version of “The Star-Spangled Banner” she found inspiring was Marvin Gaye’s rendition, which he sang before a 1983 All-Star basketball game. Rickey had the blueprint for the arrangement: Keep it simple. I’d watched that game at home and sat mesmerized as Marvin performed accompanied by only a simple drum machine. Nip’s approach also was to keep it straightforward. But what was a “simple” delivery for Whitney Houston was a jaw-dropper for the millions who heard it.

  I was with Whitney the day Rickey told us that per our NFL contact Bob Best, the league required that a “safety” version of the anthem be recorded in case of a glitch or technical difficulty during the live broadcast. Rickey made it clear that that was the protocol. So we met him at an L.A. studio to record it. He asked Nip if she had listened to the track and she told him no. He played it for her once and then again halfway through when Nip said, “Okay, let’s do it.” She went inside the booth, tracked her vocal in one take, and we were out of there. She never listened to the recording again.

  But on that most memorable day, all eyes in Tampa Stadium and around the entire world were on her. Now, I have heard Whitney sing everywhere, and I mean everywhere! In the car, in the pool, in the elevator, in the studio, from the bathroom, in the kitchen, at someone else’s house, at a restaurant, in church. I know that voice so well that from the very start of a song I can tell by how she sings the first few words where she’s going to take the next line. These ears of mine are seasoned. In any case, I don’t recall any Super Bowl performance of the national anthem being similarly scrutinized before Whitney’s, even though artists like Neil Diamond and Diana Ross had sung to tracks in prior years. That January ev
ening I stood twelve yards from her. And she sang.

  At a tour rehearsal the following week, John, attorneys Sheldon Platt and Roy Barnes, and Rickey were discussing all the speculation. I looked up at Whitney, who was just sitting there listening to all the chatter about whether she sang live. Before my lips could even move, the look on her face said, “I know you ain’t about to ask me.” And believe me, I wasn’t. I didn’t need to. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. It was maddening.

  “I know you were singing,” I said.

  Whitney replied, “I was singing my heart out.”

  But behind the scenes, things weren’t all so triumphant. One day around this time, Whitney was rehearsing at a soundstage, warming up, singing a favorite Stevie tune, “If It’s Magic,” and her voice did something it had never done before. It was like when you’re walking down the street and you suddenly trip over an uneven sidewalk and then look back as if to say, “What was that?” The beauty of Whitney’s vocal instrument was her ability to downshift and then elevate smoothly, soaring upward to her head voice, where the sweetness of her top resided. But this time the sweetness wasn’t there and Whit was brought to an unexpected stop. Sitting on her stool, now lengthening her torso, Nip gave it another try—but no go. She knew it wasn’t good. I watched her stand up and walk off to one of the closed lounges. I knew something was wrong with her voice but didn’t understand what exactly had happened.