by Mariah Carey
The mutt-mulatto bitch who lived in the shabby shack down the street had become a star.
The brother called out, “You’re a loser!”
That family, that house, that town, that time, that day—suddenly it all looked like nothing to me. It was nothing in nowhere, and I had made it out.
As I turned to get back in the car, I heard the blond girl crying after me, “Mariah, I’m so happy for you; I’m so happy for you!” And she became the prettiest sister of them all.
Yes I’ve been bruised
Grew up confused
Been destitute
I’ve seen life from many sides
Been stigmatized
Been black and white
Felt inferior inside
Until my saving grace shined on me
Until my saving grace set me free
Giving me peace
—“My Saving Grace”
PART II
SING. SING.
A PRELUDE TO SING SING
Nearing the edge
Oblivious I almost
Fell right over
A part of me
Will never be quite able
To feel stable
—“Close My Eyes”
Even now it’s hard to explain, to put into words how I existed in my relationship with Tommy Mottola. It’s not that there are no words, it’s just that they still get stuck moving up from my gut, or they disappear into the thickness of my anxiety. Tommy’s energy was intense, more than overbearing; for me, it was an entire atmosphere. Even before he would enter the room I could sense the air change and my breath grow short. He rolled over me like a fog. His presence felt dense and oppressive. He was like humidity—inescapable.
Never when I was with him did I feel I could breathe easy and fully as myself. His power was pervasive, and with it came an unspeakable unease. In the beginning of our time together I was walking on eggshells. Then it became a bed of nails, and then a minefield. I never knew when or what would make him blow, and the anxiety was relentless. In the eight years we were together I can’t recall ten minutes with him when I felt I could be comfortable—when I could simply be at all. I felt his grip was steadily choking me off from my essence. I was disappearing in installments.
It felt like he was cutting off my circulation, keeping me from friends and what little “family” I had. I couldn’t talk to anyone that wasn’t under Tommy’s control. I couldn’t go out or do anything with anybody. I couldn’t move freely in my own house.
Many nights I would lie on my side of our massive bed, under which I would keep my purse filled with essentials just in case I had to make a quick escape—my “to go” bag. I had to wait for him to fall asleep. Keeping my eyes locked on him, I would gradually inch my way to the edge of the bed and surgically roll my hips and swing my legs to the floor. Never breaking my gaze, I’d tiptoe backward toward the door, which seemed a full city block away. Ever so carefully, I’d back out of the door. It was such a victory when I made it out of the room! I’d softly creep down the grand dark-wood staircase like a burglar stealing a little peace of mind, then make my way to somewhere in the manor. Often I just wanted to go to the kitchen for a snack, or to sit at the table and write down some lyrics. But every time, right as I would start to settle into the calm of the quiet dark and begin to find my breath—Beep! Beep! The intercom would go off.
I’d jump up, and the words “Whatcha doin’?” would crackle through the speaker, and I’d gasp and once again lose my own air. Every move I made, everywhere I went, I was monitored—minute by minute, day after day, year after year.
It was as if I was being crushed right out of myself. Everything he felt he didn’t create or control was being strangled away. I created the fun and free girl in my videos so that I could watch a version of myself be alive, live vicariously through her—the girl I pretended to be, the girl I wished was me. I would view my videos as evidence that I existed.
I was living my dream but couldn’t leave my house. Lonely and trapped, I was held captive in that relationship. Captivity and control come in many forms, but the goal is always the same—to break down the captive’s will, to kill any notion of self-worth and erase the person’s memory of their own soul. I’m still not sure of the toll it has taken on me, how much of me was permanently destroyed or arrested—perhaps, among other things, my ability to completely trust people or to fully rest. But thankfully I smuggled myself out bit by bit, through the lyrics of my songs.
I left the worst unsaid
Let it all dissipate
And I tried to forget
As I closed my eyes
I sang some of what I couldn’t say. Though I do try, I cannot forget. Sometimes, without warning, I am haunted by a nightmare or flashes of suffocating. Sometimes I still feel the heaviness. Sometimes I have no air.
ALONE IN LOVE
When I was in seventh grade, I had my first professional recording session. I did background vocals on a few original songs, including a cover of the classic R & B ballad “Feel the Fire,” originally written and recorded by Peabo Bryson. The session took place in a dinky little home studio, but it was a real job, and I got paid real money. It was also when I began to discover how to create nuances and textures in vocal arrangements and how to use my voice to build layers, like a painter. This was when my romance with the studio began. This was a major moment that began my journey, my drive to succeed.
One session gig led to the next. I was a little big fish in a puddle. The Long Island music scene was pretty small, and word of mouth was the method of marketing yourself. By the time I was fourteen or fifteen, I was writing songs and recording background vocals and jingles for local businesses. I was doing background vocals regularly for these young Wayne’s World type of guys. They were into wild, loud guitar riffs and stuff, while I was listening to (rather, I was obsessed with) contemporary urban radio, which was mostly R & B, hip-hop, and dance music. I lived for the radio. Though our tastes were clearly very different, I liked the work nonetheless. I was making demos for songs and commercials, and learning how to adapt my voice to the task, whatever it was. The studio was my natural habitat. Like being in the ocean, when I was there, I felt weightless, and all my outside concerns fell away. I focused only on the music, and even if I didn’t like their songs, I respected the work it took to make them. One day, while we were working on one of their mishmashes of a song, I told them I was a songwriter too. I figured if we could work on their corny stuff, why couldn’t we work on my stuff?
Technically, I had been writing since before I was a teenager. I wrote poems and sketches of songs in my diary. Every once in a while I would be alone in the house, or my mother would be asleep, and I would have a moment of lightness in the small, dim living room, sitting on the wooden piano stool at my mother’s surprisingly well-kept brown upright Yamaha piano. I would prop my diary on the music shelf, feet dangling. I’d hum a bit of a melody, search for the keys that were the closest to my voice. Then, very quietly—nearly whispering—I’d sing a few words with the melody.
I trusted the music I was hearing in my head. I believed it was akin to the popular songs I heard on the radio. My songs didn’t mimic the style or sound of what I heard; rather, I would always search for the right sound, the one that felt like me. And I believed my sound would fit in with, or even break through, what was on the radio. I really believed that. I knew what I was hearing was advanced for my age, but luckily I was working with two guys who were very collaborative and open to working with such a young and female artist. So it was there in their mother’s house, in a sad little slapped-together studio, that I wrote and produced one of my favorite demos, “To Begin” (I still love it, but sadly it’s among one of the many lost tapes of little Mariah). I was confident I had a solid song.
They were like, “Why are we listening to this little kid?” Honestly, I just don’t think they understood the culture, genres, and tones I was working with. They really were weird little garage-band hippieish-type g
uys. Indeed, I was a little kid, but I also knew where the pulse of the culture was—and that they were not anywhere near it. The discipline of working with them was good for me. But by the time I was fifteen, I had outgrown them.
One of my first regular gigs was with these two sketchy guys who made demos. They liked my sound because I had that young-girl quality that was popular at the time, largely because of Madonna’s success. But I was actually a young girl, and my vocals could get into that high pitch range naturally. I could emulate the popular Madonna studio technique, but with my voice alone.
I auditioned by singing one of the songs they wrote, and they hired me on the spot. So the sketchy guys began paying me to sing demos. This was the official start of my professional career—and of a never-ending succession of sketchy characters that came with it. I had entered the treacherous territory of the “music industry.” Though my journey was just beginning, I would soon be initiated into the complicated dynamics that female artists have to endure. As I now know, most don’t make it through.
There were weird vibes from the start because I couldn’t really tell if these guys were pervy or not, but I believed nothing crazy would happen because they both had wives who were around all the time. Naïvely, I thought these women might take on big-sister type roles with me. They were all full-blown adults, and I was still just about a child, but unfortunately, my age and talent caused friction. Even though I was a scrawny little teenager (I mean, my body was pretty much a straight line at that age), one of the wives was threatened by me. She was always close by, prancing around in short shorts, giving me evil energy. I didn’t understand what was going on. I was too young to get it, and also, I was there to work. Maybe my own short shorts were inappropriate around these older men. I didn’t know. I was just a kid getting her first whiff of independence, and besides, a few pairs of cheap shorts and tops were all I owned. I was in a battle of the short shorts, and I didn’t even know it.
I continued recording demos of songs for the guys, making a little money. But again, just as with the garage-band dudes, we were putting down their songs, though I believed my songs were stronger. And again, I asked if they were open to me writing some songs. Initially, they refused. It was totally frustrating: here I was singing weird, corny songs again. Didn’t these people even listen to the radio? I wondered. Didn’t they know what was popular? I studied the music on the radio closely, constantly analyzing what was in heavy rotation. I knew the songs they were writing weren’t good. Despite not liking the material, I sang it because it was my job, and I really needed the money. But now that I’d had a taste of making demos, I knew I needed to get my own songs down, and quickly.
Later I was able to make a deal with one of the guys who owned a studio: I would sing demos for him if he would let me work on my own. I brought in one of the songs I had begun at my mother’s piano at the shack, called “Alone in Love.” I sat in a room alone and began to make my very first demos. My own.
Swept me away
But now I’m lost in the dark
Set me on fire
But now I’m left with a spark
Alone, you got beyond the haze and
I’m lost inside the maze
I guess I’m all alone in love
—“Alone in Love”
I figured out the setup. I experimented with the songs. I did dance tracks, straight down the line, all different sounds. I learned how to produce under pressure. I was in the studio, doing it. “Alone in Love” was one of the first tracks on my demo. A version of the song eventually made it onto my first album and remains one of my favorites.
You haunt me in my dreams
I’m calling out your name
I watch you fade away
Your love is not the same
I’ve figured out your style
To quickly drift apart
You held me for a while
Planned it from the start
All alone in love
I was in eleventh grade.
* * *
I distinctly remember one night—bleeding into morning. The pink of dawn was seeping through the edges of the deep-purple night sky, and I didn’t know where the hell I was, again. Somewhere on the Taconic Parkway, or maybe the Cross Bronx Expressway? Clutching the hard-plastic steering wheel of my mother’s rickety old Cutlass Supreme, I tried to stay focused on the road and not stress over the needle of the gas gauge that stayed twitching on E.
Every day was a struggle, with me trying to find my way home after work just to grab a few hours of sleep before I had to get to school. I’d recently graduated out of the Long Island music scene. My brother (who was also trying to make a name for himself in the music industry, as a manager or producer—I’m not sure what) had introduced me to a new crop of session musicians and studio engineers in the city—New York City. I began commuting to The City to do sessions at night and then would turn right back around and head to The Island to get to school the next morning. So began my first double life (kind of).
Very few of my peers at school knew what I was doing. They didn’t know I was driving alone on highways, getting lost at midnight, collapsing on my bed, then dragging myself to school. They didn’t know why I was late every day. I didn’t talk about it because I knew it would sound crazy—and most people didn’t have the ability to really believe as hard as I did. Besides, the kids I knew didn’t need to believe. They were getting new cars, Camaros and Mustangs, for their sixteenth birthdays. They had their paths mapped out and were well financed for generations to come. Most were certain they were going to go to college. They had a guaranteed life already planned out for them.
I remember that once, one of the most popular jocks in the school asked me what I was doing after graduation. I usually didn’t tell any of the kids around about my dreams, but in this case I did. I told him I was going to be a singer and songwriter. His response was, “Yeah, right; you’ll be working at HoJo’s in five years.” (HoJo’s was short for Howard Johnson’s, the chain of hotels and restaurants that was still widely popular then.) The degradation was totally intended.
As it turns out, in less than three years, in a simple black dress, with a head full of curls and a stomach full of, yes, butterflies, I walked through a packed stadium among the deafening buzz of tens of thousands of voices. A loud, clear voice cut through the cacophony: “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Columbia recording artist Mariah Carey for the singing of ‘America the Beautiful.’” The piano track was recorded by Richard T. I held the little mic and sang that big song with everything I had. I hit a really high note on “sea to shining sea,” and the stadium erupted.
When I finished, the announcer said, “The Palace now has a queen, and the goose bumps will continue.” It was Game 1 of the NBA finals, between Detroit and Portland. I knew that the jock who condemned me to HoJo’s (no shade on anyone in service work, because I’ve been there), and everyone who had looked down on me, and millions of Americans were watching. None of the players, none of the fans knew who I was when I walked in, but they would remember me when I walked out. A victory.
Another very early high visibility big breakthrough moment: “Vision of Love” was number one on the R & B charts before it was in the top spot on the pop charts, and so my national television debut was on The Arsenio Hall Show. Arsenio was more than a host; he had more than a late night show; it was a cultural event, a true Black experience—or, rather, it was a mainstream entertainment show seen through a Black lens. Everyone watched it and talked about it everywhere. I will always be grateful and proud that it was on Arsenio’s stage that most of America got to see my face, know my name, and hear my song for the first time.
In my teens, living in a constant state of exhaustion and exhilaration became my new normal. But with every mile driven and each dawn met, I was more and more determined. My ambition grew to the level of devotion. And the hard-earned blessings were beginning to come down. My brother did manage to connect me with a reputable producer and
writer named Gavin Christopher. Gavin had written big hits for Rufus (the band for which Chaka Khan sang lead) and produced songs for Grandmaster Flash and Afrika Bambaataa. We instantly clicked and began working together to produce one of my first professional demos. I also met his girlfriend, Clarissa, another singer, and we got along well. I liked them both, and I could feel the stirrings of a new life in the city appearing before me.
Making valuable connections in New York City was certainly crucial to my career, but getting out of my mother’s house was no longer just a desire, it was a necessity. When I was younger I had no control over our constant moves and my mother’s consistently poor choices in men. In my last year of high school she began dating a guy I despised. He was petty and manipulative. On Thanksgiving we all went out to dinner, and he actually insisted that I and my nephew Shawn (who was in middle school), Alison’s first son, pay for our portions of dinner. He divided up the receipt evenly among the people present and demanded we pay our share. So after I gave him the few pitiful, crumpled-up dollars I had in my pockets, which was just about all the money I had, Shawn and I left and went to the movies to see Back to the Future II. No thanks to him.
When my mother decided to marry him, I knew it was my cue to move out. I guess she thought she had struck it rich marrying this guy because he had a boat in the West Seventy-Ninth Street Boat Basin. But that was where he lived before he crashed into the shack, and trust me, his boat was more tugboat than yacht.
Eventually she ended that abominable marriage. The divorce took multiple years and many lawyer fees, which of course I paid for after the success of my first record. Then the jerk even ended up suing me for the rights to some fictitious Mariah Carey doll (if I had a dollar for every deadbeat who sued me, I’d be … well, it’s been a lot). But I was the polar opposite of rich when I moved out of my mother’s house. I was broke and seventeen years old. It was the late 1980s, and I was living completely on my own in New York City.