Diana Ross: A Biography

by J. Randy Taraborrelli

  Diana cut her off, suddenly seeming defensive and upset. “Because I’m just like you,” she said, pointing at Walters. “I have standards. You have a way you want to run your business. I have standards,” she repeated. “I have a way that I think works. I request that way in my presence. And when I do that, sometimes the information coming back to people is that I’m a bitch.”

  In truth, anyone who knows her well agrees that Diana Ross is not a thoughtless woman. Yes, she can at times be temperamental and impulsive but for the most part—with the rare exception of something like “the letter” about her former employees—her target usually ends up just having a very bad day, hurt feelings and a classic “Miss Ross” story to pass along to friends and the occasional biographer. The nature of modern-day divas is that they’re demanding. No surprise, there.

  Another story comes to mind: Once, when Diana was in Japan, she was on the telephone with Arne Naess (whom she had married in 1986). “There were thousands of people here last night,” she told him of her show, according to her later recollection. “Well, you’re a really big star,” he reminded her. “Then, how come I don’t feel like a really big star?” she asked.

  Putting aside for a moment the fact that this sounds like a very strange conversation between spouses, perhaps the answer to Diana’s question has to do with having been so discouraged by her father, Fred Ross, or maybe from having been constantly critiqued by her father figure—Berry. As she once admitted, “I’ll probably be insecure until the day I die.” Indeed, it’s as if no amount of adoration from her fans will ever be able to fill an empty space in her. It’s a state of being that is especially hard for her on those days she must transform into the persona she has created when she just doesn’t feel like doing it. Those are the days when she feels that she’s not even good enough to be … Miss Ross. She can then become demanding and seemingly unreasonable, maybe to remind herself and others that, indeed, she is Miss Ross.

  Everyone who has chronicled any aspect of her life and career has a favorite “Miss Ross” anecdote. Some are practically urban legends by now. Here’s one of the best of the lot:

  When she was signed to a long-term contract with Caesar’s Palace in Las Vegas, the marquee outside the hotel was supposed to read DIANA ROSS—and nothing else. Not “Presenting …” Not “Miss Diana Ross.” Not “The Diana Ross Show.” Just DIANA ROSS. One of her drivers said that it became an opening-day ritual for her to be driven past the entrance to the hotel to check that the marquee was as it should have been by contract. She would look up at it, smile to herself and then go on with her busy day. But, one time (in 1984) Diana was driven by the hotel by her chauffeur, looked up at the marquee and was surprised to see the sign proudly announcing DIANA ROSS but with an additional line of small text at the bottom, so tiny that onlookers might have been astonished to know letters could be made that small: “Appearing in two weeks: Sheena Easton.”

  Diana wasn’t happy. She went directly to the Caesar’s Palace business office and met with one of the bosses. “I put these things in my contract because they are my standards,” she reminded him.

  That night, the Caesar’s showroom was packed with fans waiting to see Diana. She was in her dressing room, dressed, made up and ready to go on. “Has it been changed yet?” she asked an aide.

  “Yes, Miss Ross.”

  “Well, I want to see for myself.”

  Diana and two security guards then marched from the dressing room, through the casino, through the lobby and out the front door. With her arms crossed, she stood outside in her white-sequined gown and fur wrap and gazed up at the sign.

  DIANA ROSS

  “There,” she said, smiling up at the marquee. “Now that looks nice.”

  The good life

  In early December 1983, Diana’s assistant Michael Browne was awakened at seven in the morning by a telephone call from his boss. “I’m negotiating a deal with Steve Wynn,” Diana told him in an excited tone. She was on her mobile phone, having long ago started her day. “They’ve asked me to substitute for Sammy [Davis] in a show with Frank [Sinatra] and Dean [Martin] in Vegas. Poor Sammy isn’t well, and so I’m taking his place. It’s very exciting.” Diana further explained that the gig, set for the 16th, was also the gala, grand opening concert for the new Thomas and Mack Center in Las Vegas, a venue that seated almost 20,000 people and which was sold-out for the concert. Steve Wynn, one of the best known and wealthiest hotel magnates in the country, was promoting an extravaganza at the Center which was to be called Christmas with Class, starring Sinatra, Martin and Ross. Diana had been reluctant to accept third billing behind the other two showbiz legends—Frank and Dean—but did so with the understanding that both would take the stage before her, making her the closing act and thus the star of the show.

  At this time Diana was in the midst of a huge, $10 million contract with Wynn to play his Nugget Hotel showroom in Atlantic City. The lucrative deal had been her first big post-Motown coup, other than the RCA recording contract. A similar arrangement might have been possible with Wynn while Diana was at Motown, but she probably would not have got the lion’s share of its profits. Now that she was on her own and acting as her own manager, she got all the money—and spent it as she saw fit. Also, the publicity surrounding the multi-million-dollar contract was one of the reasons her stock had risen so considerably in the entertainment business after leaving Motown. She had negotiated the deal on her own and was proud of it, and eager to accommodate Steve Wynn in any venture. Still, Michael Browne was surprised to hear her so enthusiastic about what sounded like just another big engagement. “What’s so unusual about this, Miss Ross?” he asked.

  “Well, you know how much I make. Right?” she asked. He did. The figure had long ago been set in stone: $220,000 per show. “Well, instead of paying me to do the show, Steve said he would let me use one of the Golden Nugget jets for two weeks. So, what I need you to figure out for me is this,” she continued, “if I had use of Steve’s Nugget DC-9 jet for two whole weeks and flew it from Las Vegas … to Sun Valley … to Maui … to Detroit … to Miami … and then down to St. Martin … what would that cost me? I mean, if I had to pay for it out of my own pocket.”

  Browne did some quick figuring. “Well, Miss Ross,” he began, according to his memory of the conversation. “In comparing the Golden Nugget jet to the BAC-111 or the Falcon 50, which we’ve used to go to Europe, with the distance and the days gone and the fuel and the crew …” He did the maths. “I think it’s worth about $250,000, maybe even more.”

  “Exactly!” said Diana, as if she already knew the answer. “And I make $220,000 a show. This is a good deal, right?”

  “Well, yeah,” Michael told her. “I mean, among Steve Wynn’s casino fleet, the Nugget DC-9 is the best. It’s the most beautiful. The most luxurious—”

  “Don’t you think I know that, Michael?” she said, cutting him off. “I have been on it before, you know?”

  “Yes, Miss Ross.”

  “Well, okay, fine then,” she said, back to business again. “I know it’s Christmastime and you usually are off, but maybe you can join me in Las Vegas and make all of the arrangements with the Wynns. Do you think you can do that for me, Michael?”

  “Well, of course, Miss Ross. I could do that and I would do a very good job at it, too.”

  “I know that, Michael,” she said, testy again. “Or else I wouldn’t have asked, now would I?”

  “Yes, Miss Ross. I mean no, Miss Ross. I mean—”

  “Goody goody,” she said, happy again. “Okay. Gotta run. Love you. Bye.”

  She clicked off.

  Diana always had at least a dozen different goals she hoped to achieve at the same time, some of them a tad offbeat. For instance, one of her chief concerns for the trip to Las Vegas was that all of her daughters’ Christmas presents were to be hidden aboard the Nugget DC-9 (which Steve Wynn was to send for her and her entourage) before anyone boarded it at LaGuardia airport. None of the gifts was to b
e visible to the naked eye. As they did every year, Diana and her staff had purchased not just a few, but many dozens of presents for Rhonda, Tracee and Chudney. The day after Thanksgiving was the day they would start shopping, not a day sooner or a day later. Everything was on a schedule. By 7 December, all shopping had to be finished. Then, there was one week—until the 14th—for wrapping. Every year, Diana would say, “Next year, we must start earlier,” but they never did. Part of the fun, for her anyway, was the mad rush. This year, 1983, Diana spent more than $100,000 on Christmas gifts, and all were wrapped just in the nick of time for the unexpected trip to Las Vegas, which was to take place on the evening of 15 December. Michael Browne’s task of hiding the gifts would not be an easy one. Before he even got to that chore, though, a major disruption would occur in the lobby of Diana’s East 63rd Street brownstone office.

  At the end of the business day on which they were to leave for Las Vegas, there was a problem getting the Ross girls from their private school to Diana’s office. During the school year, the girls commuted to Dalton School in Manhattan from their home in Connecticut, a forty-five-minute ride by chauffeur-driven limousine. Dalton is one of the most exclusive of New York’s private schools.

  No one could ever fault Diana’s mothering skills, and her children were her biggest fans. She would record all hours of the night just so that she could be with them in the morning when they left for school, and then arrange her schedule so that she would be home at the end of the day when they returned. She not only gave them quality, she gave them something most women in her position can not often afford to give: quantity time. “I’m like my mother in that I’m a walker,” she has said.

  I’m up all night, walking the floors, checking in on them, getting them up for school, making them breakfast. People find it hard to believe. But if they knew how I was raised, they would know that I would have it no other way. Yes, of course I have assistants and help, but the kids are my responsibility, not theirs. When I plan a tour, I first find out how the girls feel about my leaving home. We discuss choices—they can go with me if they’re not in school, or they can stay with their dad. There’s nothing wrong with having a successful mom, a mom who travels and sings and people like her. That feels good to them.

  Diana’s longtime chauffeur, a hapless soul named Nathan, said that she had earlier told him to meet her at the office, first. They would pick up the girls together and then make the trip out to LaGuardia. However, she insisted that the direction she’d given him was that he was to meet her at the office with the children, and then … off to La Guardia. This mix-up was major; it had to do with her children, which always upped the stakes. To say that Diana was upset would be to understate it. In front of witnesses in the lobby, she began to interrogate Nathan. “What happened here? What happened here?” A short man, he was standing up four little steps and was thus at searing eye level with her. Diana looked over at the receptionist, a nervous woman named Roxanne. “Do you remember when I told him to pick up the girls, first?” she asked her. “Oh, yes, Miss Ross,” said Roxanne. “You’re absolutely right and Nathan is absolutely wrong.”

  Diana then moved in on her chauffeur. “You see that! Now, I want an explanation,” she demanded. “How could this happen? This is not acceptable, Nathan. Not at all!” He tried to apologize, but she wouldn’t let him get a word in, she was that angry. “These are my children,” she reminded him. “How could you be so careless? And now they’re waiting at Dalton and who’s there to pick them up? Nobody, Nathan. Nobody!” Finally, when it looked as if the guy was either about to burst into tears or just faint dead away, Diana retreated. “I’ve really had it with you,” she announced. She then stormed off to the first-floor ladies room.

  Nathan stood in place, wild-eyed and trembling as if he didn’t know what had just hit him. Actually, everyone present was left speechless for at least five minutes, looking at one another the way people do when something truly embarrassing occurs and they’ve all shared the experience.

  Finally, Michael Browne broke the silence. “Man, don’t just stand there. Go!” he told Nathan. “Quick, before she comes out of there,” he said, motioning to the bathroom.

  “But, I … She … I … She …” Nathan couldn’t even talk.

  “Oh Jesus. Screw it. It doesn’t matter,” Michael said. “Just get the kids and bring them back here. It’s okay. She’s just upset. It’ll pass. Go, Nathan … please.”

  Nathan took off … maybe just in time. As soon as he left, Diana emerged from the bathroom. However, she was now composed, her big eyes searching the premises to see just who had witnessed the unpleasantness. Everyone tried to act extremely occupied and unaffected. “Uh … Miss Ross,” Michael Browne said as he approached her tentatively, “I’d better go and … uh … hide the … uh … presents on the … uh … jet.”

  “Oh, you big chicken you,” she said. Her small smile suggested that she was aware that he really just didn’t want to be around her in that moment. “Okay, Brownie,” she said, using her nickname for him, perhaps to lighten the moment. “Go and hide those presents before I—”

  He didn’t hear what followed because he was gone in a flash.

  Michael Browne then caught a cab to LaGuardia airport and boarded the private jet waiting on the runway. Steve Wynn had wanted to fly Ross and crew from Newark airport where the landing and takeoff fees were thousands of dollars cheaper, but Diana wanted to fly from LaGuardia. “See if you can get her to save me a little money,” Steve told Michael. “I’ll try,” Michael told him, but he knew better than to actually do it. There was no way, he knew from experience, that Diana would be sympathetic to a multimillionaire’s desire to save a few thousand dollars. “We all have our problems,” she once said of a similar request of her. “And we all have to find ways to solve them. My job is not to solve other people’s problems. I’m busy solving my own.” They would have to leave from LaGuardia, Michael told Steve Wynn upon calling him back.

  Once aboard the aircraft, Michael attempted to hide the presents. It was impossible. There were just too many gifts, all elaborately wrapped with gigantic ribbons, bows and other fancy frills. Becoming somewhat agitated with each passing moment, he hid the gifts under seats and in the bulkheads, in closets … in every cargo hold he could find. Before he’d even finished, the black stretch limousine with Diana and the children pulled up alongside the jet. “I was frantic,” he recalled. “I was afraid that she would explode if she saw even one shiny bow. She was already having a bad day. But there was nothing I could do about it. I just did the best I could, and held my breath for her arrival.”

  The limousine came to a stop a few feet from the jet. One of the doors flew open and Rhonda, Tracee and Chudney ran from the vehicle, up the stairs and onto the aircraft. They took their seats, noisily but quickly. After about five minutes, a pointed toe peeked out from an open door of the limousine, then a long leg in a black stocking … then Miss Ross. She stood on the tarmac for a moment in her large sunglasses, her long mane of hair billowing in a strong breeze. She looked elegant in a knee-length black mink with diamonds sewn into the vertical pelts. The garment had cost her $200,000 and was one of her favorite coats; she loved wearing it. Looking up at the jet, she took it in and smiled broadly, waving to anyone on board who might see her standing there. Then she slowly began to climb the stairs.

  “Hi, hi, hi,” Diana said, peeking her head into the cockpit. “Is everybody okay?” she asked the pilot. “Do we have any problems? Is there anything I should know about? If so, tell me now. No surprises on this trip, please.”

  “No, Miss Ross. Everything is fine.”

  “Okay. Perfect, then. Thank you.”

  Diana then began to walk down the center aisle of the plane, past her children and toward Michael Browne, who was standing at the end of the rows of seats. Within seconds, the inevitable occurred: she caught a glimpse of a wrapped present peeking out from beneath the very chair upon which was seated her eight-year-old daughter, Chudn
ey. Diana’s expression turned grim. She stood rigid, her fists clenched. She threw her head back, eyes closed. Then, after a deep breath, she approached Michael. “I thought I told you I didn’t want to see a single present,” she whispered angrily. “Not one single present. And look, over there,” she said, motioning to the offending gift. “What’s that?”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Ross, but—”

  “Oh my God,” she said. “Is it so much to ask? I mean, really. When I ask that something be done, all I want is for it to be done. And this was such a simple task, Michael. All you had to do was hide the presents.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Ross, but—”

  “Oh, never mind that,” she said, waving away the problem with her hand. She then switched into problem-solving mode. “Okay, now do you think she’ll look under her seat?” she said, speaking of Chudney and keeping her voice down. “She’s very smart, that one. I think she will look. And then the surprise will be ruined.”

  Michael Browne would later say that he knew the girls were well aware that presents were stashed everywhere on the aircraft. This was certainly not their first Christmas en route to a location on a private jet. And Diana had to know it, as well. In fact, they had done the exact same thing a year earlier when they enjoyed Christmas in Aspen and Browne had to hide all of the presents on the jet that had taken them there. The girls certainly didn’t believe in Santa Claus—even Chudney was over that illusion by this time—so how else did they think the presents appeared under their tree? Still, he knew that Diana liked to surprise them and that they, in turn, liked acting surprised, so he played along. “I doubt it, Miss Ross,” he ventured. “Chudney will sleep the entire way. Don’t worry. It’ll be okay.”

  “Well, hmmm,” Diana said, now trying to come up with a solution. She stood with one manicured finger to her mouth as she tried to figure things out. “Okay, I’ve got a great idea. What if … ” she began, her wheels turning.