by Toni Braxton
Once we completed our “Good Life” demo, Ernesto rushed it off to his contacts at Warner Bros. Records (which was Madonna’s label back then . . . I studied which artists were on which labels!) and Arista Records. Ernesto already had a relationship with Arista because of Starpoint’s connection with Milli Vanilli, who’d signed with the label—and it was because of Ernesto’s connection that our demo even got heard. I don’t recall whether Ernesto ever told us about the record company execs’ initial response to our demo—but it must have been decent, because we were invited on a short trip to New York City. In Manhattan, we would meet with various record execs and let them hear us sing. I’d later realize that this was all part of the schmoozing game that happens in the music business: The record companies bring a new artist to their offices, they get you all excited about the possibility of signing with the label, and then they later try to sign you for pennies, nickels, and dimes. But we’ll get to that part later.
My sisters and I, along with our mother and dad, boarded an Amtrak to New York City (we were scared to fly and even used a leisure van to get around to our church concerts in Maryland . . . very country suburban). We checked into an inexpensive hotel and divided up into three rooms. For dinner, we ordered from the room service menu—I had the chicken wings, which were around $7.99, and my sisters each made their selection. When we got the final bill, my jaw nearly hit the floor—the gratuity and delivery charges made the whole bill more than $100! Who knew room service could add up to so much? Certainly not a group of girls from Severn.
That night, I was so excited I could barely sleep. Just being in New York made me feel like I’d already made it: the bright lights, the bustling sidewalks, the millions of people who seemed to carry ambitions as big as mine. I’d always wanted to be famous—and it seemed like I was on the doorstep of that dream. Whenever I found myself fantasizing about a singing career, I pictured myself up on a stage. Yes, I’d been singing with my sisters for all of my life but in my heart of hearts, I always knew I wanted to be a soloist.
The next morning, our first stop was Arista. When we walked up to the granite building, I looked up and eyed the gold capital letters—ARISTA. Seeing the logo made me feel like I was already a star. Inside, the halls were lined with photos of famous Arista singers. Dionne Warwick. Whitney Houston. Barry Manilow. The security guard at the front desk handed each of us a name badge, and we stepped onto the elevator. Upstairs, we met Erik Nuri, an A&R guy. Erik trotted us around to various departments, like publicity and sales, just to say hello and let everyone have a look at us. We eventually rounded the corner of the hallway that led to the office of Arista’s founder, Clive Davis. At the time, he was already a legend in the record business, and he was best known for having launched the careers of some of the industry’s brightest stars—like Aretha Franklin; Aerosmith; Earth, Wind & Fire; and, of course, Whitney. “Let’s see if he has time to say hello,” said the man. Clive was just finishing up a call and was on his way out and gave us a quick hello. The whole exchange was less than a minute—Clive hadn’t been scheduled to meet us, yet he was just gracious enough to make time to say hi because we were passing through. Almost as soon as he’d greeted us, we were on our way back down the hall.
At Warner Bros., we met with Benny Medina—the celebrated record executive who’d once written for the Temptations, Smokey Robinson, and Rick James. That day, we’d all worn the same curly hairstyle—except for Tamar, who had bangs and a ponytail. “So why is your hair different?” he joked with Tamar. I could tell that he liked Tamar’s feisty personality (yes, she was as feisty at eleven as she is now!). Benny also recognized that we had talent: “You girls can sing,” he said as we were leaving. But in my gut, I had the feeling that we wouldn’t end up on his label.
I was right. A few weeks after we returned to Severn, Ernesto stopped by our house with some news: “Arista wants to sign you!” he told us. In the fall of 1989, we got a singles deal for “The Good Life.” For me, “the great life” seemed like a far more accurate description.
MOST ENTERTAINERS GO through a process called artist development—which involves defining your image through hairstyle and fashion. In Berry Gordy’s early years at Motown, for instance, he was known for investing in his singers’ public profiles. Now it was our turn: Once Arista signed us, we returned to New York for our makeovers. Our exhilaration about revisiting the big city (we’d never seen so many skyscrapers in our lives!) was soon replaced with another emotion—disappointment. In short, our makeovers were awful.
Since we were unproven artists with only a singles deal, we didn’t exactly get the five-star treatment. Our stylist was awful: She blow-dried my baby-fine hair and sewed in two or three rows of weave tracks to give me some volume. But the tracks were way too tight (ouch!), and later, during our promotional photos, I stripped them out and just pulled my hair into a ponytail. Towanda got curly hair extensions; Traci wore her hair tapered in the back (very MC Lyte), which was her favorite look in the eighties; and the stylist didn’t do anything to Tamar’s or Trina’s hair (they both already had long, thick manes . . . especially Trina). As for makeup, the artist made me about two shades darker than I am. And I could actually see the line between my dark face and my light neck! It was a disaster.
In those days, nothing happened fast in the music business. Even once you land a record deal, it’s as if your project is put onto a conveyor belt—and you have to wait your turn for your new music to be released. So we couldn’t just say, “Here’s our single—go ahead and release it.” We had to be slotted in. That’s why an entire year passed between inking a deal and having our song introduced to the world.
Back in Severn, my day-to-day life didn’t change much. By 1989, I was a student at Bowie State University. I’d finally moved out of my parents’ house and begun sharing an apartment near campus with Jackie and Penny. My friends were all ahead of me in completing their education: I’d transferred around so much (and lost credits along the way!) that I was starting my junior year; they were all working on their master’s degrees. Even still, we were all like peas and carrots—practically inseparable.
I started dating a Georgetown med-school student—and I’ll spare him the embarrassment of revealing his name. His family (which included three generations of wealthy dentists) wasn’t into the arts, which is why he had an issue with my pursuing a music career. “You should be taking a heavier course load,” he’d often say. He was in his residency and about to become an anesthesiologist. “Why don’t you finish school?” In addition to being unsupportive of my dream, he was also somewhat of an egomaniac: “You and I are probably going to marry,” he said, “and any woman who wants to become my wife has to sign a prenup.” I was excited about his semi-proposal, but I was completely over the idea of being the wife of a powerful man. I wanted to be my own woman—and to have my own voice.
On Tuesday, September 4, 1990—a full year after Arista signed us—our song finally hit the radio airwaves. Leading up to the debut, I’d told all my friends and classmates to turn their dials to 95.5 WPGC, an FM station in Maryland. I knew exactly which window of time the song would be played in—the record company had told us that. I hopped into my Honda (and yes, all my performance outfits were still spilling out of the back!) and I began my drive to school. Just as I pulled into the parking lot, “Summertime”—the DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince hit, which was one of the biggest songs of the year—began playing. I sang along. As the song’s last notes faded, the announcer introduced us: “And up next,” he said, “we’ve got Maryland’s own . . . the Braxtons!” My pulse sped up. I put the car in park, turned off the engine, and turned up the radio. At last, I heard the opening line I’d practiced so many times: “When will people ever learn . . . wonder will they ever turn!”
The song wasn’t a hit—and I knew that right away. How did I know? Because it just didn’t seem to fit with the other popular songs on the radio. It didn’t blend well. The first time I heard “Summertime,” f
or instance, I could tell you that it would become a hit—I knew that at hello. The rhythm, the lyrics, the way it reverberated in my Honda—I could just feel that it would resonate. Have you ever heard a song and then wondered, Why in the world did they put that out? It’s sometimes because the artist and the producers have made the mistake of only listening to a song on the big speakers in the studio—and every song sounds like a hit on those speakers. But when you’ve truly got a hit, it sounds like one even through a car’s small radio speakers. From the opening note to the closing refrain, our song simply didn’t have the sound of a chart-topper. Period. But that didn’t make me any less proud. Whatever happened, we had a single out—and the excitement of that just smacked the piss out of me and my sisters.
Later that day, Ernesto and I caught up by phone. “How did it sound?” he asked.
“It was all right,” I said.
Noticing my obvious lack of enthusiasm, he pressed on: “Well what song did it follow?”
“‘Summertime,’” I responded.
“Well nothing would sound like a hit after that song!” he said. “That’s the biggest hit of the year! I’m sure it’ll do great. You’ll see.”
Soon after, my sisters and I set out on a three-week tour to promote the single. Do you have any idea what it’s like to show up at a nightclub and sing a song that contains the Lord’s Prayer? The crowd would be listening to house music or something, and then we’d march in with our Christian inspirational number. At Zanzibar in midtown Manhattan, we actually got booed! One lady in the audience said, “Don’t boo them—they can sing,” but that didn’t erase my embarrassment. At a few other stops, we did get some claps from the audience; we also got encouragement from Bubba, a singer in the R&B group Today. “You guys are so talented,” he said when he met us. During our eight gigs on the road, we also did a little press: Cynthia Horner from Right On! magazine interviewed us. As the eldest, I did most of the talking. She asked me all about what it was like to grow up as a preacher’s kid and then transition to a singing career. I was so thrilled just to be talking to her that I can’t really remember what I said—but I did plenty of smiling and gushing. I felt honored to be talking with anyone from Right On!—whenever I’d get my copy back when I was a kid, I’d pull out the centerfold posters of artists like Michael Jackson and New Edition and hang them in my closet.
It didn’t take long for us to realize that “Good Life” was doing badly. Don’t get me wrong: We could’ve done much worse than number 79 on the Billboard charts. But when Clive and his execs took note of our single’s weak performance, he began to ask himself the same question that Ernesto had been asking: How do I package these girls? That’s when he made a phone call that would become pivotal for us.
In January 1990, Clive dialed up Antonio “L.A.” Reid and Kenneth “Babyface” Edmonds—the powerhouse producers whose company, LaFace Records, was still a brand-new label under Arista. “We’ve got these girls,” Clive told them. “And to be honest, I just don’t know what to do with them. You’ve gotta take a look.” L.A. and Kenny weren’t all that interested. That was mostly because they’d just signed TLC, the R&B trio discovered by Pebbles Reid, who was then L.A.’s wife. But Clive insisted that they hear us perform. “Just let them do one showcase for you,” he said, pressing them. “They can fly down to Atlanta.”
Reluctantly, L.A. and Kenny agreed to take the meeting. No one could’ve predicted the painful episode that would follow: Five bright-eyed Braxton sisters would soon be narrowed down to one.
CHAPTER 8
Going Solo
You already know that I chose to take the solo deal with L.A. and Kenny despite my mother’s explosion. Now here’s the second half of that story: Even a couple days after our Braxton Family Civil War, my parents still seemed pissed. Very. But undeterred by their reaction (and quite frankly, still in shock that they’d turned on me in the first place), I packed a bag and headed off. “Kenny wants you to go to Dayton, Ohio, for a couple weeks to work with Midnight Star,” my manager, Greg, had told me. Kenny had some kind of production deal with that R&B group, and the idea was to send me to them for a studio recording boot camp. I probably would’ve hightailed it to the moon if Kenny had asked me to. This was the man whose records I had listened to for hours on end—from the first note to the last yodel. I was pretty much in wonder of his talent.
I was petrified the first time I showed up at the studio. The soundproofed room was painted in an amber tone, and it was much larger than any studio I’d ever seen. The floors were made of hardwood. In one corner sat a piano and a set of drums; in another area, there was a huge vocal booth—more like its own room than a booth. I walked over to the booth and put on my headphones. A producer played a track for me. The second time he played it, he asked me to sing along. I did.
Right away, I felt like I’d failed. It was clear that the producers wanted me to sing like Midnight Star’s lead vocalist, Belinda Lipscomb—but her voice was much higher than mine. “Try it this way,” said Bo Watson, one of the members of Midnight Star. He was trying to get me to mimic Belinda’s vibrato. But I couldn’t make myself sound like her. It took me the whole two weeks to master just a couple of songs—and there was absolutely no magic. By the end of my time there, I had just one thought: Kenny and L.A. are going to drop me.
I returned to Maryland feeling deflated. The depression didn’t have much time to settle in because I had two weeks to pack up my whole life and get to Atlanta, which is where Kenny and L.A. were based. I guess I hadn’t completely blown it in Ohio, because Kenny and L.A. still wanted me to come down and begin recording. Before I said good-bye to my classmates (I’d completed up to my junior year at Bowie State) and headed off to a whole new life, I wanted to change my look. I let a local hairstylist cut my shoulder-length hair into a short style. I just wanted a whole new look to go along with the brand-new life I was beginning. My Honda had died, so my father arranged to get me a Mercedes 190—the car had belonged to my manager, and Dad asked him if I could just take over the payments. My Honda had been $185 a month, and the Mercedes would be like $199.
A friend and I stuffed the Benz with my belongings and made the trip down to Atlanta together. As we slowly backed out of the driveway, the frame dropped a bit with the weight of everything I owned. My hometown—the place where my dream began—grew smaller in the distance with each passing mile. We made our way onto I-85 South and settled in for the ten-hour journey to Georgia. I used my Motorola flip phone to check in with my parents, which I did just about every hour. “Where are you now?” my dad would ask with a touch of panic in his voice. I’m sure he and Mommy were just concerned about my safety on the road. By this time, Mom had started to chill out a little and settle into the idea that I was moving forward. We didn’t really talk about the episode, but I could just tell things had simmered down. In spite of the fact that she didn’t agree with my choice to take the solo deal, she was still a good mom—and that meant she was nervous about seeing me drive off onto the interstate and begin a big adventure on my own.
I showed up in Atlanta with $300 to my name and plenty of student loan debt. Since I hadn’t yet nailed down an apartment, I moved into one of those extended-stay places in Buckhead on Piedmont Road. A woman named Connie from the record company had explained to me that I could move into an apartment that would be paid for out of my artist budget. I didn’t quite realize it then, but that meant I was essentially paying for the place myself. Let me explain.
I signed on with LaFace Records as a “singer/songwriter”—which meant I would be paid to perform and write music. L.A. and Kenny were to receive 50 percent of my songwriting royalties through their company, Jay Bird Alley Publishing. In the music business, the record company determines an overall budget for an artist’s project—and mine was about $100,000. Of that $100,000, I received a signing bonus of $30,000 that I used to pay off my student loans. That up-front money is like a loan that the record company gives you—but that loan has to be p
aid back with any profits that you eventually earn.
Here’s the part that a lot of people don’t understand: A singer’s signing bonus, all of her personal expenses, and all of the costs of making the album are deducted from the overall project budget. So if the budget is $100K, and your total expenses add up to $99,000, you’re left with a $1,000 paycheck. In short, it might’ve seemed like the record company was covering my rent—but it was being deducted from the budget. That’s why just about every performer starts out in the hole. It’s a standard contract that most new artists sign.
A few hours after my friend got me settled into my place and flew back to Severn, L.A. dropped by. “You’re here!” he said. “How was the trip?”
“It was fine,” I said.
“Let’s go over to the studio,” he said.
“Now?” I responded. I glanced down at my Levi’s and neon-yellow sweatshirt—the one with African kids dancing on the front. “Can I change?” I said.
“You’re fine like you are,” he said, smiling. So I grabbed my fake Chanel purse (one that I’d bought at TJ Maxx) and hopped into the passenger seat of L.A.’s black Benz.
The studio was at L.A.’s house. As he drove us there, we chatted. “So what kind of music do you see yourself doing?” he asked, trying to get into my head. “Who do you like?”
“I really love Anita,” I said.
“Do you think you’d get excited if you met Anita right now?” he asked.
I nodded.