The Voice, Lost

There were only two times in the history of current music where I felt as driven to watch the line-up of music awards shows as I do the movie award shows.  Where my excitement to see them execute their songs was as intense as my desire to see them sweep their nominated categories.  Because of two modern artists who reshaped the face of pop music, for lack of a more appropriate term, and catapulted into the kind of iconic stardom which almost guarantees their images, their melodies, will be burned into our memories for decades upon decades yet to come.  And as of this afternoon, it appears that these two incredibly talented singers and performers, so dubbed the king and queen of pop, now also share another distinction in the trajectory of their careers and lives: tragically too early death.  Michael Jackson and Whitney Houston. 

There's only been a single time where I felt the need to see a musician live and in concert (which I realize is unusual in our concert-loving culture):  Whitney Houston.  In fact, the concert tickets were a gift from my lifelong friend, Laurie G., and her sister, Annette.  Yes, she sounded pure.  Unadulterated talent on tap, for sure!

My teenage self, laden with angst and self-loathing, found a measure of joy and confidence in the music of Whitney Houston.  When she burst on the scene, so fresh-faced and gorgeous, all legs and LUNGS, carrying a tune with more talent, more maturity and control, than seemed possible or even appropriate given the perfect package presented on stage and MTV, I was in awe -- just like most of the music-loving world. Song by song, the hits just kept coming.  Catchy, melodic, leaving the ear begging for more.  It doesn't seem realistic to name a favorite, any more than it is to select from Mister Jackson's esteemed repertoire, but I can tell you that "The Greatest Love of All" left a mark on me.  And in me.  I used to sing that and the national anthem (before Miss Houston ever delivered her rendition, which reset the bar for all who accepted the honor and task) to the pigs on my uncle's ranch, practicing for the choir and school events.  We all have to practice on someone or something, right?  Mine was a captive audience.

And I was a captive audience to Whitney, along with tens of thousands of other young girls and women, no doubt.  Especially in her early career, when the focus was solely on developing a platform for her growing talent as her fame increased.  Before marriage.  Before childbirth.  And, yes, before drug and alcohol abuse.  Not to mention the horrid press she received in the wake of the myriad Medusa heads which seemed to sprout from the core of her union with another famous pop performer, Bobby Brown.  Her music, her very personality, underwent major changes as the years and tears passed.  Though I continued to admire her gorgeous voice, her life and musical choices both surprised and underwhelmed me.  But it's not surprising that the fame machine chewed her up and spit her out a different creature.  Just disappointing.  One might expect it of a Britney Spears, who was cute and perky and totally a contrived package with little vocal talent, moreso than from a Whitney Houston or Mariah Carey or Christina Aguilera, ladies who were blessed with stupefying voices which should be insured, treasured and cared for as the gifts they are.

But maybe that's where we, as a society of admirers and fans, make our mistake.  In believing that an individual with abilities which place him or her in the rarefied stratosphere high, high above us, should somehow be above succumbing to the foibles and follies which afflict lesser human beings.  That their phenomenal artistic or intellectual or physical capabilities would endow them with similar amounts of self-control, self-respect and lifelong discipline.  That a deep-seated sense of responsibility to their gifts exist side-by-side with a need to nurture those gifts with awareness as to their value.  WRONG.  Personal issues strike without checking ID's.  Pain does not care who it pierces.  Drugs and alcohol undoubtedly practice anti-discrimination across the board with a single-mindedness which should horrify us all.  And surprise of all surprises!  Famous folks, gorgeous folks, obscenely wealthy people, they, too, are able to not only have sex, as most expect, but also to reap the rewards of sex: pregnancy and childbirth and parenting.  In the end, Whitney Houston, and those like her, are just men and women who put their jeans on one foot at a time and use the toilet to void their bladders and bowels.  Not to put too fine a point to it.

I worry about her daughter.  Still so young and vulnerable.  Still in need of her mother.  And known to the press.  Now, she'll mourn her mother, privately, while simultaneously sharing her sorrow with the masses who loved her mother for vastly different reasons than she did.  I watched whatever interviews with Whitney that came down the mass communications pipeline: Oprah, Diane Sawyer, morning shows, etc.  I liked to hear her talk about her daughter and her mother.  The generational thing.  Lessons learned and hopes yet to bear fruit.  Like anyone who really knew her music and could recognize her powerful pipes within a few notes, I knew her voice, badly abused and neglected, would never replicate the past but I wanted to see the victorious Whitney Houston comeback.  I was ready to applaud her efforts to rise from the ashes of her fallen years.  And I think she really was moving in that direction.  Until the coroner's office reveals the official cause of her death at 48, I'm not going to surmise that she died from drug and alcohol abuse.  Though I understand the conjecture.  Though I will not be surprised if that is the case.  Even if she was successful in dodging drug use as of late, it's a no-brainer that previous, pervasive and sustained abuse leaves lasting effects which could cause myriad physiological episodes resulting in unexpected death.  That is the sad reaping of that which was sown.  

I'm choosing to remember that which is, and was, beautiful about Ms. Whitney Houston.  Her vocals.  Her force of personality.  Her mothering.  Her model good-looks.  The uplift she gave to the world through her music.  You won't find an uncomplimentary shot of her here.  You'll see and hear plenty of that in the days and weeks to come.  Searching online, I was struck by the volume of pictures out there for just anyone to take a gander, so many of them less than complimentary, if not downright invasive.  Again, no surprise.  But, again, disappointing.  I can choose what images I want people to view of me on my blog, Facebook, online photo albums.  But people like Ms. Houston lose that choice when fame supplants their commonness. I can imagine the inner fortitude she had to develop to deal with the knowledge that her dark side, dark days, dark moods, were chronicled and uploaded for anyone to repeatedly point-and-click.  I can even imagine the conversations she might have had with her daughter about such things.  For far different reasons, I've experienced the necessity of such action in light of public attention and opinion.  Most unpleasant.

I'm sorry that this precious life has been lost to her mother and daughter and friends.  I'm sorry she was denied freedom from her addictions though she never stopped trying to do so.  I use the word 'hate' quite sparingly, powerful verb that it is, but I hate addiction and the damage it inflicts upon the soul and psyche.  But in a lovely reversal, I can attest to the positive impact that Whitney Houston's incredible voice and songs had on my soul and my psyche.  I console my sense of loss, shared with other fans, by praying for those closest to her.  They are feeling true pain.  They will endure her absence.  They need healing.  Lord, please bless them with a measure of your grace at least equal to the measure of talent you gave to Whitney.