Well, I didn’t agree. In fact, I had my own anger about how “the man”—in this case, the record industry—had treated the Sweet Inspirations. We turned out consistently high-quality work, became the standard for backup singers, and produced some great solo records. So we should have gotten a lot more support, from the arrangers to the producers to promotion. But for whatever reason, the labels never gave the Sweets the same kind of support they gave to acts that they really wanted to see make it.
Then, of course, there was the racist side of the business. The suits expected black acts to stick to rhythm and blues—they didn’t want us singing show tunes or pop. They wanted to keep black acts in a tidy little box, make sure we didn’t get close to that exclusive white club where only the Sinatras and Streisands were allowed to enter. I mean, in what other industry could you have special divisions for black people? Those “Black Music” divisions are the clearest example of all that racism alive and well in the music business.
If the recording industry had treated groups like ours fairly, the Sweets would have done just fine. We added value to so many recordings, and we helped boost their sales like no other background group could. If we had been compensated properly for that, I wouldn’t have had to pursue a solo career to make it big in the music business. And that would have suited me just fine, because the truth is, I never wanted to be a solo star, no matter how hard John pushed me. Because I knew what it could do to your life.
I’d seen what happened to good people who found themselves in the whirlwind of fame—there were so many pitfalls, so many distractions. I’d seen too many people get taken in by the fanfare, thinking they were so big, so grand, that they forgot what was important in life. These weren’t bad people, but in that world, fame and stardom can slip up on you and turn your life upside down. I just didn’t want any part of that for myself. I liked my life just as it was, with my children, my husband, my home, and my church. I didn’t need anything more than that.
John never could understand that, especially after his heart attack. He was feeling his mortality, and I guess it made him want to leave a bigger mark on the world. Suddenly, the fact that he hadn’t been able to was somehow my fault. Either that, or he was just so angry at the world—a world that he couldn’t change—that he decided to take it out on me. Whatever it was, John started acting like I was the one who’d held him back and helped create all that stress and then his heart attack.
When John first started making comments to this effect, I thought he was either joking or had lost his mind. I loved him, but there was no way I was taking responsibility for his illness. I couldn’t believe he was serious about it, but he was. And that’s when our relationship began to change. John and I had always had arguments, little verbal scuffles where we’d challenge and tease each other and then make up. Soon, our fights became more intense, and it started to take longer for us to make up. The fallout would end up affecting not only us, but Nippy, Michael, and Gary, too.
I kept on working Nippy hard—the only way I knew how to mold her. There were times at choir practice when I really got on her. She’d get mad at me, but most of the time she’d keep on going. Every once in a while it got to be too much for her, and we’d fight all the way home.
Once, when we’d argued all the way back to the house, she stormed out of the car, screaming, “I quit!”
I wasn’t having any of that. “No!” I snapped as I followed her up to the front door. “You gave up that right a long time ago, when you told me you really wanted to do this!”
Right from the beginning, I had tried to talk her out of trying to become a professional singer. If she had walked away then, it would have been fine. But once we were in it, I was not about to let her back down.
Each time we fought, though, Nippy would bounce right back more determined than ever. She soaked up everything, watching me at rehearsals and recording sessions, picking up little things I’d do, and then trying them out herself the next time. All the artists loved her, and it wasn’t long before a couple of them asked her to sing background on their records. When she was a young teenager, I let her do a few sessions, which I strictly supervised. She was a natural, right from the beginning.
When she’d had enough practice, Nippy entered the Garden State Competition, a singing contest for New Jersey teens. We spent months preparing, finding a dress and choosing just the right song and arrangement. We finally decided on Barbra Streisand’s “Evergreen,” and at the end of the competition, after hundreds of other girls had been cut, it was down to Nippy and one other girl—who, ironically, sang “The Greatest Love of All.”
Nippy was a better singer than the other girl, but her timing was off that night and her song ran longer than the time limit. The judges punished her for it, and Nippy ended up in second place.
She was so upset, but I just told her, “You came in second, and you know you can do better. And next time, you will.” She still looked sad, so I pulled her to me and said, “Nippy, you’re good now. But one day, you’ll be the best.” And I wasn’t just talking, trying to make her feel better. I truly believed it.
Many years later, after Nippy released her hit version of “Greatest Love of All,” she and I happened to be in a coffee shop where we saw the girl who beat her. She was beside herself at getting to meet Nippy, and we all three had a chance to talk for a little bit. It must have been discouraging for her to know that the girl she’d once beaten all those years ago was now a global superstar, but Nippy and I both told her the same thing that day—to just keep on singing.
It wasn’t long after the Garden State Competition that Luther Vandross got in touch with me. While the first time I’d met Luther, he was just a high school boy playing hooky and coming to see the Sweets backstage at the Apollo, now he was a rising young singing sensation. Luther had just signed to do an album for Cotillion Records, a subsidiary of Atlantic, and he wanted to know if I would consider doing the background. I agreed, and brought Nippy to the session with me—and she and Luther hit it off the minute they met.
Luther became a dear friend, and he was also a big influence on Nippy during her teenage years. He gave her tips about the business—things like how to handle situations on the road and in the studio. He was a terrific vocalist, but I was just as impressed by the no-nonsense way he worked. Luther was for real; there was absolutely nothing phony about him. And he was a taskmaster, like me. He wouldn’t take no stuff from anybody.
In fact, Luther got to the point where he insisted on having me do background on his records, so I worked with him and his group—Brenda White-King, Fonzi Thornton, and Cindy Mizelle—all the time. We had so much fun together, and eventually Luther became like a brother to me. We always called each other when we were on the road—we’d laugh and joke about whatever was happening at home, and then he’d tell me all the dirt about what was happening on the road. I’d always fuss if he didn’t call soon enough, and then the minute we were both back in town, we’d call and get together.
At around the same time, Nippy was doing background for some cuts on Chaka Khan’s 1979 album, Naughty. She was learning so much so fast, getting better and more confident every day, so by the time she was fourteen or fifteen, I started bringing her with me to nightclubs, too. I was appearing regularly as a solo act in clubs like Sweetwaters, Reno Sweeney’s, and Mikell’s. I’d bring Nippy and her brother Gary, who had a wonderful voice, to sing backup for me.
Nippy was so good that after a while, I decided it was time for her to step out on her own—and not just in church. Though her voice was ready, she wasn’t sure she was. She was shy, and just wanted to keep singing background for me. I knew if I just told her to do it, she’d only argue with me, so I came up with a plan.
One night before we left home for a show at Mikell’s, I sat Nippy down and in a low, raspy voice, said, “Nippy, my throat is killing me. I don’t think I can sing tonight. But I can’t leave Mikell’s hangi
ng, so I want you to go and take my place.”
Her eyes got wide, and she just stared at me. “Aw, Mommy,” she said, “you can do it!”
“No, honey,” I rasped. “Listen to me, I can’t even talk. I need you to do this. You know all the songs.”
“But you always sing when you can’t talk!” she whined. I could see she was scared now.
“No, Nippy, not this time. I’m sick and it hurts too bad,” I told her. “Don’t be scared—your brothers and your dad will be there. It’s time, Nippy. You can do it!”
She argued with me a little while longer, but I wouldn’t budge, and eventually she gave in. So John drove her, Gary, and Michael into the city, and that night marked Nippy’s first appearance as a lead or single performer in a club. I was so nervous sitting at home—I desperately wanted to call the club and find out how she was doing, but I managed to stay away from the phone all night. I was nervous as a cat, but I hoped that having Gary back her up would help Nippy get over her nerves.
When they finally got home, John told me that she’d had a slow start but soon had the whole place jumping. “Nippy was fantastic,” he told me, and then he couldn’t resist teasing me—just getting in a little dig. “I don’t know,” he laughed, “but I think they might be hoping your throat is still bothering you next week.”
The next morning, I hugged Nippy hard and told her how proud I was. This had been a crucial test for her, and she’d done better than even I expected. The girls and the managers at Mikell’s later told me that once she got started, she was as cool as could be. Everyone in the club was asking who she was, and no one could believe it was a first-time solo appearance. She was already acting like a seasoned veteran, like she owned the stage.
After that night, I never did worry about giving Nippy more lead time on the stage. She had shown that she was ready, that she wasn’t afraid. From then on, whenever she appeared with me on any stage, I made sure she had a solo or was called up to sing a duet with me. She was on her way.
CHAPTER 7
Separation
After Nippy’s solo appearance at Mikell’s, record industry people started sniffing around her for the second time. The first time was when she was just fourteen, when Arista scout Gerry Griffith offered her a contract after hearing her sing backup on the Michael Zager Band’s hit “Life’s a Party.” But just as I’d done then, I put them off. It was just too early—I really wanted Nippy to have a chance to find out who she was and enjoy her teen years. “You’ll thank me later,” I told her, and though she may not have agreed with me, she had no choice but to accept it.
There was no way of keeping Nippy out of the limelight forever, though, and I knew it. She had just sung backup for Lou Rawls and Chaka Khan, and word was getting out that there was something special about her. And not only was she a great singer, but she was also beautiful. Even as a teenager, without any makeup, Nippy was radiant. That’s why I wasn’t completely surprised that it was her looks rather than her voice that first pushed her into the spotlight.
I was appearing at Carnegie Hall at a benefit for the United Negro College Fund in 1979, and Nippy was singing backup for me. When I brought her out to sing a chorus of “Tomorrow” from the Broadway show Annie, she did a beautiful job, and we ended up getting a long ovation. There were photographers all over the place, and they were just snapping away—you know, I guess a mother and daughter onstage and a standing ovation make for a good story.
The next day I had a session in Manhattan, so I brought Nippy back into the city with me. We were walking along Seventh Avenue when a photographer from Vogue came up and asked if she had any interest in modeling. He’d taken some photos at Carnegie Hall the night before and thought she’d make a perfect teen model. “There’s a new agency opening up,” he told me. “You ought to go on over there and see them.” I wasn’t so sure about that, but I took the address anyway.
After he’d gone on his way, I looked at Nippy, with her beautiful skin and sweet smile. “Well, do you want to go?” I asked her.
“What do you think, Ma?” she said.
“Up to you,” I told her. “If you want to go, we’ll go.” She nodded, so we walked on over to the address he’d given us. The agency was called Click, and they signed her that day.
The agency started booking modeling jobs for Nippy the very next week. She modeled all throughout high school, eventually switching from Click to the Wilhelmina agency, and by the time she was a junior she was appearing in all the top magazines—Vogue, Essence, Cosmopolitan, Harper’s Bazaar, and Seventeen. Her senior year, she was even on the cover of Seventeen—putting her among the first black women to have that honor. Photographers loved her because she was professional and easy to work with. She had as much modeling work as she wanted to do, though she did confess that she found all that standing around kind of boring. When she got to a point where it was too much for her, she’d just say, “Mommy, I got to stop now. I got to catch up on my schoolwork.”
About once a week I’d let her get out of school to go do a shoot. But I’d always take her there myself, make sure she was okay, and then go to my job afterward. And when it was over, I’d pick her up and take her back home.
“I can do it myself,” she’d say, trying to be all grown-up.
“Oh no you can’t!” I told her. No way was she going to a photo shoot alone—I knew what happened in them doggone places, especially to beautiful, young, naïve girls. My baby needed protecting, and I planned to be there to do it. Yet as much as I wanted to protect Nippy, she was getting to be a young lady, and like any teenager she wanted more freedom and independence. She thought she was old enough to take the bus to and from New York by herself, and she’d beg me to let her do it.
One time, I did agree to let her stay a little while after a shoot, if she promised to catch a bus at Port Authority and be home in New Jersey by eight that evening. This was well before anybody had a cell phone, so when eight came and went . . . and then nine . . . and then ten . . . with no sign of Nippy, I was frantic. I sent John out to drive around looking for her. And when she finally strolled on home, explaining that she’d only been window-shopping, I had to be stopped from giving her a good whipping.
Nippy and I may have had our moments, but we had a lot of fun together, too—like the trip we took together to Japan in 1979. I was invited to represent the United States at the Yamaha Music Festival, a song contest in Tokyo. I didn’t want to go by myself, so I took Nippy with me—since she hadn’t been abroad yet, I knew the trip would be good for her.
I wasn’t too hip on flying, but Nippy loved it—she wasn’t scared at all. The minute we got on the plane, she just closed her eyes and went to sleep, something that would become a lifelong habit on flights. Me, I just about went crazy for the fifteen hours or whatever it was to get to Tokyo. I was a wreck when we landed, and of course Nippy was raring to go. Her eyes just lit up as we rode from the airport to the hotel—she’d never seen anything like Tokyo.
We were staying at the Intercontinental Hotel, and when we arrived there I said, “All right, Nippy, we need to find a place to eat. Where do you want to go?”
“I don’t know, Mommy, but I’m hungry,” she said.
I’d seen a kind of deli-like place in the hotel lobby, and they had tuna sandwiches, so that’s what we had. And that’s what we ended up having the whole time we were there. I didn’t feel like going in search of anything else, and Nippy liked those sandwiches. She was a skinny little thing, but she sure went to town on that tuna fish.
We were in Japan for ten days, and I took her everywhere with me. I did a lot of rehearsing, and Nippy would always come along to watch; and when we weren’t doing that, we were sightseeing. I got a massage in the hotel, but that Japanese masseuse just about tore me up—I thought my back would break and I’d never walk again. Nippy just laughed when I told her, and then of course rather than scare her away, my story just made
her want a massage of her own.
Nippy loved Japan, even though she couldn’t understand what anybody was saying and they couldn’t understand her. But there was one moment when she got into an elevator with some Japanese people, and one of my songs was playing over the speaker. Nippy started shouting, “That’s my mother! That’s Mommy!” with a big smile on her face. They might not have known exactly what she was so happy about, but there was no mistaking that smile.
For my performance in the competition, I’d picked “You’re My Fire,” a song arranged by Michael Zager. The Yamaha Music Festival was big, with performers from three or four dozen different countries, a band of sixty or so pieces, and thousands of people packed into the stadium to watch. Nippy was in the audience cheering me on when I took the stage, and I have to say I sang the hell out of that song.
Bonnie Tyler won the highest award, the Grand Prix International, but I won the Most Outstanding Performance Award. Later, Nippy told me she was so excited that she was screaming, “Sing it, Mommy! Sing it!” all the way through my performance. It was a really special trip—one that neither of us would ever forget. Years later, Nippy would still tell people all about the fun she had on that trip to Japan with her mother.
Unfortunately, the joy from our vacation was short-lived. When we returned to New Jersey, things between John and me weren’t going well at all—he and I were at each other’s throats more than ever. We were fighting over the dumbest things anybody could think of—the dog hadn’t been fed, or the car was nearly out of gas, or someone had forgotten to pick up the laundry. It didn’t matter how slight the problem was. Everything turned into a knockdown verbal duel.
At this point, John and I weren’t even really living as husband and wife anymore. For a while we were sleeping in separate beds, and as unimaginable as it would have been even a short time earlier, we didn’t seem to have a reason to do otherwise. I didn’t know it at the time, but John’s ongoing health problems, which included diabetes, had a lot to do with our struggles.
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