A Song for You

by Robyn Crawford

  In April 1995, while we were out of the country, Bobby, his publicist, and his bodyguard were all arrested after allegedly beating a man at a Walt Disney World nightclub. The man needed six stitches on the back of his head, and part of his ear had to be surgically reattached. Charges were dropped after an undisclosed settlement.

  Shortly before Bobby’s arrest in Florida, the National Enquirer ran an alarming story told by Kevin Ammons, the ex-boyfriend of Whitney’s former publicist. Ammons falsely identified himself as Whitney’s onetime bodyguard and claimed that John Houston offered him $6,000 to break my kneecaps. He quoted John as telling him he should lay my legs “on the curb and break them with a bat” and saying, “I want her arms and her legs broke.” During a television interview, Ammons claimed that John added, “I don’t want her murdered. That would devastate Whitney.”

  My mother was beside herself: “Nothing better happen to you.” Mom was a notetaker and kept meticulous records of everything, including what transpired between the Houstons and me. She went on the record with my aunt Marlene, too: “This is Robyn’s professional business, so I stay out of it, but nothing better happen to my daughter.”

  I didn’t approach the attorneys or anyone else at Nippy Inc. Everyone knew about the allegations, but with the exception of my assistant, Maria, no one said a word.

  I went straight to Whitney.

  “What is this?” I asked, holding up the paper. I usually dismissed stories about Whitney and me, but I had to read this one.

  Staring at the headline and clearly bothered, she said, “I don’t know, Robyn. I’ll get to the bottom of it.”

  The next day, Whitney called. “I spoke to my father. You don’t have anything to worry about. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, I’m okay,” she said, adding, “Nothing’s going to happen to you.”

  Silvia told me that when her father came to the house to talk, Whitney was emotional, crying as she sat on the ledge of the great room’s stone fireplace, her father seated opposite: “No, Daddy! Robyn is my friend.” In the press, John denied it all, and he never said a word to me about Ammons’s claims.

  The truth was, every time Whitney took a hit, I took a hit. Despite her success, the lavish wedding, the flashy rings, and the reassurance from the married couple that all was well, the gay rumors about her persisted. Decades later, Gary admitted in an interview that they just wanted to scare me, but I wonder if it ever crossed their minds that it was hurting Nippy, their sister, their daughter, the one providing for all of them.

  Once Nip had spoken to her father, I felt better because at least I knew where she stood. Even after Ammons’s book came out a year later, dredging up the whole thing all over again, the threat of bodily harm didn’t slow me down. But it did lead me to wonder exactly who was involved with what and who got paid for what role. I began connecting dots.

  Although I had moved out long ago, I had kept my key to the house Whitney and I used to share. Some of my belongings remained, like personal video footage I’d taken on tour, and I’d often go up there to swim or just hang out.

  One day in late September 1995, I sat at the kitchen table with Silvia, watching the news. Bobby wasn’t around because Whitney had put him out once again. In an earlier incident, he’d stormed into the garage and smashed the windows of her white Porsche. This time, Bobby drove off in her cream-colored Bentley, a gift from Warner Bros. after they’d wrapped production on The Bodyguard. Now Bobby was caught up in a shooting in Roxbury, his old Boston neighborhood. As we saw the blood on the seats of the bullet-riddled Bentley, the news reported that someone had died. The camera zoomed in on Bobby sitting on the curb, his head in his hands. Per usual he was uninjured, though everything he put his hands on ended up in ruins.

  That October, after being given the choice between jail time for driving under the influence and rehab, Bobby checked into the Betty Ford Center for treatment for alcohol abuse.

  That same year Whitney signed on to the film adaptation of Terry McMillan’s bestselling novel Waiting to Exhale.

  At the start of filming in Scottsdale, Arizona, Whitney and Bobby were on the outs again, and she was clean and clearheaded. The women in the cast had built a friendship and support system, and Forest Whitaker was a kind and intuitive director. Whitney’s character was Savannah, a television producer who, after years of believing the married man she’s in love with will leave his wife, finally stops settling for the fantasy and learns to embrace her life without him. I hoped that Whitney would connect with this strong character and stand up for herself. Around the time she was shooting her love scene with Dennis Haysbert, Bobby showed up in Arizona and spent the night. The next morning, Nip showed up on set exhausted. She looked drawn. It was disappointing.

  At the time of the film’s release, Oprah did a segment on Exhale with the four leads. Oprah talked to Lela Rochon, Loretta Devine, and Angela Bassett about how they were cast and how they connected to their characters. She saved Whitney for last, and when she turned to her, she began by noting that she and Bobby were tabloid fodder. She asked Whit to tell the audience “whatever it is [she] want[ed] us to know.”

  “My life is none of your business,” she replied.

  Oprah came right back with, “Tell us how Bobby is doing and how y’all are doing.” I stood backstage wishing Nip had spent even five minutes thinking about the film and preparing for the interview. She should have been able to easily turn the conversation to Savannah. But her head was fuzzy and unfocused, and instead she fell back to her default, saying what she thought was safe—talking about her mother. She stuck to that old familiar script rather than come up with something fresh, interesting, or relevant. Every interview that she had, even if it started out with talk about a number 1 song, a great performance, or how many awards she’d garnered, the journalist always wound up turning to gossip, gay rumors, or Bobby’s bad behavior.

  In August 1996, less than a year after Exhale’s premiere and the beginning of another round of awards recognizing Whitney’s achievements, Bobby would be arrested yet again for drunk driving after losing control of her leased black Porsche, jumping the curb and crashing into a hedge in Hollywood, Florida. He broke four ribs and a foot. Bobby’s blood alcohol level was more than twice the state limit, plus he had drugs in his system.

  And I kept waiting for her to get tired of it all.

  Having spent her entire adulthood in apartments, Mom yearned to live in a house, and while I was on the road for the Moment of Truth Tour, she started looking at real estate. When I returned to the States, Mom told me all about the house she loved the most. So on December 12, 1994, we moved to a new house. I’d loved the condo we shared, but my mom wanted a house, and I would have done anything to make her happy. Whitney generously gifted me $100,000 toward the down payment.

  Janet Crawford was beautiful inside and out, and when we moved, she was doing well living with AIDS. She attended church, spent time with family and friends, laughed on the phone, wrote letters, and tended to herself. Her T-cell count elevated considerably to a less vulnerable zone. Mom was feeling well and focused on living. Meanwhile, I was flying back and forth to the West Coast, attending award shows and recording sessions with Whitney. When I was home I would work with some of the artists we were developing at Angelway Artists, the management company we ran together, and on our record label, Better Place.

  We needed producers and writers to work with two of the acts we had signed, singer Shanna Wylie from North Carolina and a girl group called Sunday, from Newark and East Orange. Late one night my phone rang and it was Raynelle Swilling, my close friend, whom I often referred to as my West Coast A&R ears. She said, “I’m in the studio with Kenny Ortiz and these producers called The Neptunes, and they are baaaad. You gotta get with them right away.” She had her finger on the pulse, so I jumped on it. After several phone conversations, I flew
to Virginia Beach with Shanna to meet the production team of Pharrell Williams and Chad Hugo. Twenty-one-year-old Pharrell picked us up at the airport, and as we climbed in I heard Joni Mitchell’s “Big Yellow Taxi.”

  “What you know about Joni?” I asked.

  “What? I love Joni Mitchell,” he answered.

  Relatively unknown at the time, The Neptunes were the first producing team to work with us. It was a beautiful summer day as Pharrell drove to a large green Victorian house, where upstairs he had his recording essentials. He and Shanna went for a ride to the store together to get to know each other a little bit and shortly after they returned, we got to work. We left with two rough mixes, “Let It Go” and “I Can’t Explain.” Soon after, I rented a van and drove Sunday back down to Virginia Beach to a new studio The Neptunes had recently purchased and they came up with two hot dance tracks, “A Perfect Love” and “Chess.”

  Months later, a solo Pharrell came to work at Whitney’s studio. Leading up to this opportunity, I had been telling Whitney all about what our label could do with their production, sending her every track and rough mix, attaching memos outlining specifics in order to keep her up to speed. I looked forward to making the introduction. Pharrell was working on a project for Space (a.k.a. Traci Selden), and played three of her songs. He asked me if Whitney would sing the hook on a track called “Message from an Angel”:

  I would never hurt you,

  But what am I supposed to do?

  I loved the song, played it for Nip, and left her a copy. I strongly recommended that we enter into a partnership with The Neptunes and sign Space to our management company. A few days later, Nip walked over to Crossway, unfortunately with Bobby tagging along. Here we go! I thought. I figured he was sniffing around trying to pick up a scent that could lead to something for him. Pharrell played a few tracks for them, including Space’s. Nip was into it, but then for some reason, after roughly twenty minutes, she said, “I’ll be at the house,” and they left. Pharrell and I just looked at each other like, “All righty!”

  “I’ll go over and talk to her in a little bit,” I said. After an hour, I strolled over and found the couple in the kitchen making something to eat, TV playing.

  “So, what do you think?” I asked.

  “Yeah, I like him. His stuff is cool. But I can’t do the hook.”

  “Why Nip?” I asked. “It’s just a demo.” I told her that we should consider making the producing team an offer to work with us.

  Bobby piped up: “I like Chucky. Chucky Thompson is better.”

  Chucky Thompson was a producer out of DC who worked closely with Sean Combs / Bad Boy Entertainment. I liked Chucky too, but this was The Neptunes and they felt like the future.

  One day I came home and found Mom shaken. She said that as she was driving home and turned the corner onto our cul-de-sac, the steering wheel suddenly became really hard to turn and she ended up running up onto the curb. It was obvious to both of us that Mom’s motor skills had been compromised. Luckily no one was hurt, and she escaped fine, though shaken. After that, her car sat unused in the garage.

  Then, near the end of 1995, she suffered a seizure. Fortunately, I was home, and as I passed her room I noticed her body slumped to one side. Her eyes were open but didn’t seem to be registering anything. The nearest hospital was less than twelve minutes away and the ambulance arrived quickly. Unconscious, she was taken to the ICU. I felt in my gut that Mom was going to awaken and return to us, and after four days, she opened her eyes to find me sitting at the foot of her bed. She looked at me, bewildered, as if to say, “Where are we and why are you looking at me that way?” She didn’t remember what had landed her in the hospital.

  After about a week, she was released, but this was the start of a slow, steady decline and I realized she no longer could be left home alone. As we sat poolside at our new home, she began talking about parenthood. She talked about how much she loved Marty—how she loved him exactly as he was. With tears streaming down her cheeks, she said, “I would have given everything to trade places with my child, anything for him to live.”

  I wondered if Mom was afraid, after watching her firstborn and only son lose a battle that she was now fighting. I didn’t ask many questions. For once in my life with her, I did a lot of listening. It was more important to know and remember. I believed that Mom would live as I’d believed Marty would. Bina said I was still in denial. I was terrified of death.

  My mother had survived domestic violence when there were no laws to protect women, then put herself through six years of school, earning a bachelor’s degree in psychology and a master’s in counseling, all while raising three children on her own with no help from our father. I was pissed that this was where life had taken her after all she had sacrificed and accomplished.

  Janet Crawford, still in high school when she had her first child and only twenty-six when she had her third, had expectations for a better life for herself and her children. Raising us, she often talked about her disappointment and blamed our father for ruining what our family could have been.

  I used to tell her, “Mom, let go of him and that kind of thinking. We made it. We made it because of you. We did it. You can be proud of yourself.”

  A smile would cross her face. “I am very proud of my children.”

  Mom didn’t want to spend any more time in hospitals, and I was glad that for the most part we were able to keep her comfortable and at home with Bina and me. Our goal was to keep the pain under control, but there were many signs that the illness was progressing. I wasn’t on the road, so I was able to be there with Bina to care for her. We had time to talk. “Take care of each other,” she instructed me. “Look out for your sister and get to know Jesus.”

  Eventually, we were advised to call hospice. They sent a hospital bed to the house, but when it arrived, my mother told me to get rid of it, so I did. It was difficult to turn her in the bed and help her when she needed a bedpan, and it was painful for her, too. The aide provided morphine as needed, and Bina and I would stay with her late into the night. When we finally went to sleep in the wee hours, we’d ask the aide to rouse us if Mom needed anything or asked for us. And then we’d be back first thing in the morning to check on her. She was no longer able to talk and her eyes were closed, but I continued to talk to her.

  On what turned out to be her last night, I sat up talking softly in her ear, my head on her chest.

  “Mom, I want you to go. Don’t worry about us. Bina and I will be fine. It’s okay to let go. You taught us well, and we know what to do. Don’t be afraid. Go be with Nana and Marty—they’re waiting for you. I love you.”

  She finally passed on Thursday, April 18, 1996. Bina called most of our family members and the friends in our mother’s address book while I focused on the arrangements.

  Though my mother attended a small nondenominational church in Orange, I opted to hold her service at New Hope in Newark, which could accommodate a larger crowd and would be relatively easy for folks to get to. Whitney offered to call Pastor Buster Soaries to officiate the service, and I asked my “cousin” Ameena Mateen to deliver the eulogy. We had Mom dressed in cream leggings and a blouse, a cream jacket trimmed in gold, and a matching wrap around her hair. We covered her feet in thick white cotton socks. My sister and I sent Mom off warm and comfortable.

  In her absence, I felt alone. I felt as though I could no longer make any mistakes because the person I could always run to was gone. Whatever the circumstances, Mom was in my corner. She knew exactly what to do and not do, what to say, and now there was only silence. The day that Janet Marie Williams Crawford left, I finally had to grow up.

  As production for The Preacher’s Wife began, I was still trying to make headway with the label and our partnership with Elektra Records. Shanna had been in the studio working with The Neptunes, Mario Winans, Narada Michael Walden, and another producer suggested by Sylvia Rhone, doin
g two cuts. Throughout our entire relationship and despite all my efforts, I was never able to capture Sylvia’s ear.

  One afternoon, I went to the Elektra offices to play Shanna’s record for about twelve executives in a large, circular conference room. The heads of each department were there: R&B, Pop Promotions, Marketing, Public Relations, Sales, and then, of course, Sylvia. I was in the center seat. We went through the songs one by one, and each person gave their critique. Most of it was positive, with constructive criticism on tracks where Shanna delivered a solid vocal performance. But it was clear that we still didn’t have a lead single or the heat they felt we needed to get them 100 percent behind the project. Afterward, I played rough mixes of two Sunday tracks produced by The Neptunes just for Sylvia, which failed to blow her away. This is how it goes for artists, songwriters, producers, and A&R people. Not everyone’s going to hear it and get it. Happens all the time.

  Our partnership fell apart after a meeting with Sylvia and Merlin Bobb (Sylvia’s A&R man) late one Friday morning. I was there to play some new mixes on tracks Shanna had done. When she and I arrived, Sylvia’s assistant Tee, who had been with her for years, welcomed us and directed Shanna to make herself comfortable in Sylvia’s office. I made my way to another room a few doors away. Inside the small room were a desk with a few chairs, audio equipment, and speakers. Merlin was already seated but stood to give me a hug and said that Sylvia was on her way. We sat quietly awaiting Rhone, who now was running ten or fifteen minutes late. Then she walked in the door, clearly agitated, picked up the CD I had placed on the table, and threw it at the wall!