by Toni Braxton
In the interim, Trina and Traci got pregnant. Because Traci’s pregnancy came after the Atlantic deal was signed, she wasn’t allowed to stay in the group (record label execs will often call off a deal if a female artist becomes pregnant—no, it’s not fair, but that’s just the way it is). Towanda, Trina, and Tamar continued with their deal and later released the album So Many Ways as the Braxtons. It earned a couple golds abroad, but it didn’t do so well here in the United States. I thought the album’s producers tried to make my sisters sound like me, even though they were all younger. Even still, we were all hoping that the record would be a big hit, and I think my sisters were disappointed that it didn’t blow up overnight the way mine did. I understand that disappointment, but here’s the part that confounds me: I’ve often been blamed for it. Over the years, I’ve heard a certain complaint repeated from a couple of my sisters: “We helped you in your career—now why can’t you help us?”
I’ve always acknowledged this: Performing as one of the Braxtons is what led to my deal with L.A. and Kenny. So when it came to helping my sisters get their own deals, I did a lot of legwork for them—and yet they’ve still said I’m not doing enough. I’ve finally come to a conclusion: As much as I love my family, I am only responsible for myself and my children. Period. But during my early days in the music business, I wasn’t yet strong enough to stand in that truth.
With the success of my first album, L.A. and Kenny put a lot of thought into how they should market me for my second album and beyond. I felt like a bottle of ketchup—a product that had to be branded and sold. “She’s so young,” L.A. once said to Kenny, “and yet her voice is so mature.” Sometimes they would have entire conversations about me as if I wasn’t there. On one particular day in 1993, Daryl Simmons, a producer and a silent partner on a lot of my songs, had dropped by Atlanta’s Doppler Studios to meet us.
“Maybe we should call her Toni Michele,” said Kenny. “Or maybe she should just be Toni. That sounds young.”
“But we don’t want to make the mistake that people made with Johnny Gill,” L.A. responded. “He was like a child with this big, giant voice. Maybe we should make her older so she can appeal to an older demographic.”
Daryl finally piped up: “I like the name Toni Braxton. It’s so distinct. Don’t change her name.” They paused, and I studied each of their faces.
“Well,” L.A. finally said, “the name Toni Braxton will probably sell five hundred thousand more units. Let’s stick with that.” I didn’t say a word. I think a lot of my success came from knowing when to shut the hell up.
L.A. and Kenny eventually concluded that I should be younger and sexier on the second album. I loved the music of other artists in my age group, like Mary J. Blige, and I wanted to sing the kind of dance hits that would involve stage choreography. Yet L.A. and Kenny wanted to put me at the piano on the stage, like Carole King. “She should just be a diva behind a mic,” Clive protested. That’s why they decided to save the whole piano thing for a future album—and I did eventually do one of those morning shows where they had me play and sing a song I wrote called “Best Friend.” But even when I played, many people thought I was faking it. I wasn’t. Though I signed on to LaFace as a singer-songwriter, I always had Kenny.
When it came to songwriting, I was no Kenny (at least not yet!)—but he did encourage me. “You should get in the studio and write some songs,” he’d tell me. “Maybe you could be part of a duo, like Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis.” He tried pairing me with this singer named Debra Killings, who played the bass and did a lot of background vocals for TLC. “You two could be like A Taste of Honey with ‘Boogie Oogie Oogie,’” said Kenny. “You play the piano and Debra plays the bass.” It was a good idea—but the energy never quite came together on that collaboration because I got caught up in other work.
Once a first album has been a hit, some artists feel an enormous pressure to produce a second album that’s just as good or better. I didn’t feel that way at all. In fact, my first record’s success gave me a real surge of confidence. I couldn’t wait to get into the studio. The creative process is hard work, yes, but it’s also completely fulfilling when you finally come up with just the right lyrics or melody. That happened rather organically for the song called “You’re Makin’ Me High”—and as it turns out, very high.
First things first: I’d never taken a puff of anything. By now, I’m sure you’ve figured out that I was a late bloomer—so at twenty-six, I began working overtime to get out of the “church girl” box and really explore life. But one evening when someone gave me a blunt, I thought I’d try it. First of all, I was paranoid to even have it in my possession. “It’s such a small amount that you won’t go to jail for it,” said the person who handed it to me. But I was still nervous—so I tucked it away in a shoebox in my bedroom. A couple nights later, I finally pulled it out, lit it, inhaled, and smoked the whole thing in one sitting.
I loved it—at least the first few times I smoked. I would watch the Chinese channel and think I actually understood what the actors were saying! But after smoking four or five Mary Janes over the following couple of months, I started to feel strange. Maybe marijuana relaxes some people, but it gave me a weird kind of déjà vu—I felt like I was reliving my entire life, scene by scene. It also made me giggle. A lot. Once that laughing was finished, I felt dizzy. And finally, my lightheadedness was followed by a horrible case of the munchies. Then one night while I was smoking, I had the most terrible panic attack I’d ever experienced. I decided it was time to stop—and I’ve never touched any drug since. When I admitted to Kenny that I’d experimented with marijuana, he just chuckled. “Who’d you try it with?” he said. I smiled but didn’t answer. A couple weeks later in the studio, Kenny and I were working on a track by Bryce Wilson (Bryce gave the track to me, and I loved it so much that I let L.A. and Kenny hear it). That day, Kenny and I reworked the lyrics and came up with a song—“You’re Makin’ Me High.” That’s the one good thing that came out of my pot phase.
I CONTINUED TO hang out with Bryant from time to time. I’m sure he thought we were in a relationship, but I didn’t see us as that serious. At one point, we would get together a couple times a month, but then I’d back away and we’d stop seeing each other for weeks at a time. I kept trying to tell him that it was over—but he wouldn’t let it be over. I never wanted to see him again in private. But I did anyway—mostly because he was so involved with my sisters. The whole time my sisters were working with Bryant at Atlantic, I never told them about the nature of our relationship or how unhappy I was.
IN DECEMBER 1993, my manager called me with some news: The Recording Academy had asked me to be one of the artists to announce the nominees for the upcoming spring Grammy Awards ceremony. “When you’re asked to announce,” my manager told me, “it could mean that you’ll be nominated.” There was no guarantee of that, but it was still pretty exciting for me to show up at the venue at like five thirty in the morning, get my hair and makeup done, and then read off the nominees from a sheet that was handed to me. Hundreds of members of the press were gathered. When I looked down on the sheet and saw my name, I froze. My nominations were in three categories: Best Female R&B Vocal Performance (for “Another Sad Love Song”), Best New Artist, and Best Female Artist.
I was ecstatic—yet I didn’t really have a chance to celebrate the moment. Bryant disapproved whenever I went out and did anything fun. He wanted to keep me to himself. Plus, my guilt resurfaced any time I accomplished something that didn’t include my sisters, so in that way, Bryant was perfect for me. He endorsed my habit of staying home or with him all the time, and it was easier to blame him for that than to admit that I probably wouldn’t have been out on the town anyway. When I look back on that time, I really hate it that I didn’t go out and live it up. I had reached the biggest accomplishment in my career to date, and yet I didn’t feel like I could celebrate.
My prep for the Grammys started weeks ahead of the ceremony. Right away, I knew
one thing for sure: I wanted to wear a red dress. Why? Because I’d noticed that other artists had worn red when they’d received their first award. Maybe the color would bring me some luck. I chose a sheer, red, lace halter with small rhinestones on it. Very sexy.
In the days leading up to the ceremony, the jazz saxophonist Kenny G and I rehearsed “Breathe Again,” the duet we would perform at the Grammys. During one of the rehearsals at the show’s venue, Radio City Music Hall, I ran into Jody Watley. In 1987, she’d won a Grammy as Best New Artist. She’d been asked to return and present the Grammy to that year’s winner. “I think you’re totally going to win it!” she told me. She couldn’t know that for sure, of course, but I still felt a surge of adrenaline. Maybe I have a chance, I thought. This could be my big moment.
On March 4, 1994, I attended the Grammys. I spent most of the day getting ready: hair (my signature short cut, just sharpened up a bit), makeup, and even red heels to go with the dress. I decided to keep my makeup super simple. “The dress should speak for itself,” I told my stylist. By the time I stepped onto the red carpet, I felt like a princess.
So many of the stars I’d admired for years were actually excited to meet me. “I love your music, Toni!” Billy Joel told me on the red carpet. I was stunned that he and other celebrities even knew my name! When I finally took my seat in my red halter dress, Bryant—my date that night—sat right next to me, but throughout the evening he barely spoke to me and didn’t offer a single word of encouragement.
The moment finally arrived for the Best New Artist category. My parents—proud as ever—were there watching in the audience. As Jody Watley and Billy Joel read off the nominations, my heart raced every time a name was called. Belly. Blind Melon. Toni Braxton. Digable Planets. SWV. By the time Jody opened the envelope, I was sure SWV was going to win. “And the Grammy goes to . . . Toni Braxton!” The crowd erupted with applause. “Another Sad Love Song” played over the loudspeaker. I placed my palm over my forehead in disbelief as my eyes filled with tears. But those weren’t tears of joy. What should’ve been one of the proudest moments of my life was ruined because I chose to share it with Bryant, who had been cold to me all night.
After my name was called, I hugged Bryant, handed him my purse, and made my way up to the stage. Once Jody handed me the gold-plated trophy, I opened a folded piece of paper and read a thank-you to just about everyone in the universe: God, my parents, my sisters, my brother and his family, L.A. and Kenny, Davett Singletary (VP of artist development at LaFace), Daryl Simmons, Bill Pettaway, Ernesto Phillips, the entire LaFace and Arista staffs, Clive Davis, my band, Vernon Slaughter . . . and that’s not even the full list. I even acknowledged the very man who made me feel nothing like a winner that night.
My career shifted into high gear after the Grammys (and by the way, my second win, the one for “Another Sad Love Song,” happened off camera). Jon Avnet, the director for the Robert Redford film Up Close and Personal, asked me to do a song for the movie’s soundtrack. Diane Warren, the award-winning songwriter, let Kenny and me hear a demo of a ballad she’d written—“Because You Loved Me.” But since the soundtrack would be released in the same year that my record would be out (1996), L.A. thought it might be too much. “As an artist, you don’t want to be overexposed,” he said. In those days, the thinking was that fans might get tired of an artist who was all over the place—which is the total opposite of what’s true today. “What do you think, Toni?” L.A. asked me.
I shrugged. “You’re right. It’s probably too much,” I said, “and I don’t really like the melody.” The truth is that I was excited about doing the song, but I didn’t think I had much of a right to my own opinion. That’s why I usually just repeated whatever L.A. and Kenny said. So we passed on the project—and I acted like I was cool with that.
As the opportunities rolled in, my relationship with Bryant continued. Once when Bryant and I were visiting my parents in Maryland, I borrowed my mother’s white Mercedes to drive my godson back to D.C. to drop him off. Bryant came with me, and on the way, we got into a big argument. I was so angry that I twisted the car’s steering wheel and swerved onto the right curb of Pennsylvania Avenue. I will never forget that feeling. Never in my life had I wished that another human being would die.
I made a decision that day: I would never talk to Bryant again. The rage I felt in that moment lent me enough courage to end it. Over the next few weeks, Bryant called. A lot. But I didn’t care anymore. Nothing he said or did could make me go back. For the first time in my adult life, I took a stand for myself. Nearly two decades after that incident, I’m still mastering how to do that.
CHAPTER 11
Bankrupt
My first real payday came in 1996—the year my attorney added an amendment to my previous contract. Under this revised agreement, I was to receive an advance on future recordings. I thought I might get $30,000 more—but the total amount due to me after that adjustment was $1.6 million. The day I got the check, I sat and stared at it for a full six minutes. At last, I had some money.
Then again, $1.6 million isn’t really $1.6 million. First, you’ve gotta pay taxes on that money. I did that right away. Then there are commissions—an artist’s agents, lawyers, and managers each have to be compensated, and the payments can add up to 25 percent off the top. So after I handed over checks for all of those things, I had about $600,000 left.
Most people would call $600,000 a lot of money—and frankly, so did I. I purchased my first place, a four-bedroom house. I wanted a home large enough to accommodate my family when they came to visit—that’s how a country suburban girl thinks. The home was just being built, so I added hardwood floors throughout, and I had two of the bedrooms combined into one long one. I then purchased a gorgeous mahogany Schimmel piano (which I still have in my living room to this day) and I leased a navy blue Cherokee.
There were perks to being famous—and finally having a little money to go along with that fame. I went from staying in basic hotel rooms to sleeping in the double suite penthouse at the Four Seasons in New York. The first time I saw the space, I was blown away: The walls were covered with gorgeous art, the sheets were super luxurious, and I felt like I’d just stepped into a scene from The Great Gatsby. Totally spectacular. My only regret was having no one to share the room with me. At the time, I didn’t have a boyfriend—and though my family sometimes visited me, they weren’t with me during that first stay at the hotel.
Speaking of my family, our connection had grown tighter as my career ascended. Mom might’ve originally disapproved of my choice to go solo, but once I was solidly on that path, she got behind me 100 percent. She and my dad called me often and came to see me whenever they could. When I’d travel home to Severn, they proudly invited their friends to come to the house. And any chance I got, I flew my sisters in to spend time with me either when I was on the road or in Atlanta. I wanted to give them a front-row seat to my singing career—and to keep alive their own dreams of making it big.
As for the fabulous vacations that usually come with fame, I didn’t really take any—but that doesn’t mean I didn’t get out of the country at times to perform. I crisscrossed Europe and visited places I’d only read about—Berlin, Paris, Brussels, London, Rome, Milan. Arista’s parent company, BMG, is headquartered in Germany, so I passed through there a lot. The crazy part is that when you’re working overseas and darting from one city to the next, there really isn’t much time for leisurely sightseeing. But at the very least, a chauffeur might point out a city’s most famous sites (as in the Eiffel Tower and Big Ben) during the drive to or from the airport.
I once traveled to Tokyo for work—and I came home with a funny story. I adored Japan itself, but I wasn’t in love with the fact that so many things on the room service menu were raw (lots of sushi!). So I decided to order the Kobe steak—and I loved it, so I kept ordering it for a few nights. How was I supposed to know that Kobe steak is one of the most expensive cuts of meat in Japan? At the end of the week
, my room service bill was more than $4,000! I didn’t have enough money with me to cover the bill, so the record company settled the bill—and I paid them back a couple months later.
Fame comes with another big change—your community expands to include other celebrities. L.A., who was always trying to get me to step out on the town with a hot celebrity man of the moment, thought that would do wonders for my image. At one point, he was pressing me to show up to an awards ceremony with Wesley Snipes—but I was too embarrassed to even ask Wesley because of a situation that had previously cropped up. Out of nowhere, Wesley apparently sent flowers to me at my record company. The only problem is that my publicist never actually told me that he’d sent the flowers—I swear that I had no idea. That kind of thing happens all the time in my business—your team handles a lot of your day-to-day details, and word doesn’t always reach you about all that has been written about you, said to you—or, in my case, sent to you. Half the time, you read something in the paper about yourself, and you’re going, “What is that all about? I didn’t even know that happened.” So anyway, I was out on the road doing a show when Wesley’s delivery arrived, so my publicist probably just hadn’t gotten around to mentioning the gift. And by the way, I had no clue about the intention behind the nice gesture: I’ll never know whether Wesley was interested in me, or if he was simply a fan of my music. But either way, someone in my camp had put the word out in the press that Wesley had sent me those flowers. So once I actually heard (weeks later!) about the gift, I called Wesley myself—and he seemed a bit annoyed. He goes, “How do I know that your publicist isn’t on this phone right now, writing down everything I’m saying?” I apologized profusely that the news had been leaked—maybe he had a girlfriend at the time, and he didn’t want her and the rest of the world to know that he’d sent me flowers. Fair enough—but my point is that this was exactly the kind of “What the hell?” experience I suddenly began dealing with in my new world. Crazy, right?