by Mariah Carey
But at the very end, Aretha decided to take us to church and started to sing gospel. She came and put her arm around me, and I blew out a few big “Jesus!”es because she invited me to. It’s like jazz: she was the bandleader; you followed her. So the dueling diva had gone too far before (in my humble opinion) and appeared to try and outsing Aretha. That. Happened. I couldn’t believe anyone would try to upstage Aretha Franklin on her tribute, while singing about Jesus, no less. Maybe it was a big culture gap, but it seemed like sheer lunacy to me, and I wanted no part of it. As it was happening, my body began to involuntarily back up out of the Diva lineup and I headed back to join the backup singers, most of whom I knew. It seemed like blasphemy to me, and I wanted to be out of striking distance should the lightning come.
I was mortified, but of course Aretha didn’t care. She had more skills, soul, and natural talent than all of us combined and then multiplied. She had so much fun that night and tore it down.
Later I told the story to Patti LaBelle—Godmother, as I call her. (One day she just started calling herself my godmother, after I had the sublime honor of singing “Got to Be Real” with her on her TV special Live! One Night Only. She truly is one of the realest singers ever.) She has given me good, seasoned advice and has literally held my hand through some tough situations. So when I called her and told her about the scene, she said, “Mariah, if you would’ve participated in that hoedown, I would’ve had to come slap you in the face.”
Hopefully the one lesson we all learned on that stage was: R-E-S-P-E-C-T.
Aretha Franklin will always have not only respect from me, but also an ocean of gratitude that will water me forever.
* * *
The year following the “hoedown,” VH1 Divas Live called me back to do a Diana Ross tribute. The Boss, Donna Summer, and I were supposed to do a Supremes kind of a moment. Of course I lived for the idea, because … Ms. Ross! However, it would be a bit of a stretch for me, because while I was very familiar with both Ms. Ross and Ms. Summer’s iconic disco-diva periods—I grew up with their dance hits—the Supremes era would require research. I loved Ms. Ross’s eighties dance anthems like “I’m Coming Out” and big ballads like “Endless Love” (which I so loved remaking with Luther); I could capture that feeling. Of course I knew some Supremes classics, like “Stop! In the Name of Love,” but I didn’t really know their specific performance styles and qualities, or all of the lyrics.
* * *
To prepare, I turned to my friend Trey for the Ms. Ross background and backstory. That’s when I put it together that Ms. Ross and I were born within the same week in March, a day apart from each other. (Aretha too—when I was with Ms. Franklin in her trailer, trying to learn “Chain of Fools” in a flash, I made some snarky comment (respectfully, of course), and she said, “Like the sense of humor. Typical Aries.” And Chaka Khan and Billie Holiday have birthdays in that week too!) As much as I loved Diana Ross growing up, Trey is the biggest Diana Ross fan there ever was. He lives for her.
Trey and I became friends before my first album came out. I was working in a studio, and he was doing backgrounds next door. I heard this voice going all up in the stratosphere, and I had to find out from whom that glorious sound was coming. It was an instant click with us, not only because of his dynamic vocal abilities that were so complementary to mine but because his spirit was light and full. We also got each other’s humor—particularly when it came to impersonating retro film and music stars and parodying great musical moments. And Ms. Ross was an endless reservoir of inspiration; a lot of our sayings—our “-isms”—were derivative of the Boss. Trey was an expert when it came to her mannerisms, her ad-libs, things he learned watching vintage Motown and Supremes clips, or little gems he picked up from movies and tapes. He just adored everything about her. The way I am with Marilyn, Trey is with Ms. Ross.
Once I was in London, where Ms. Ross and I were both doing the Top of the Pops TV show. At the time, and for a very long time, Top of the Pops was the most important show to debut a song and make it an international hit record. Your performance of the song on the show could literally make or break it. It wasn’t an awards show, it was a televised showcase, and after an appearance, a song could make it to the top of the pop charts. Almost all of the UK and most of Europe would watch. There really is no American equivalent. It was one of the very few places where you could pass superstars like Prince or the Rolling Stones in the hallway.
Ms. Ross was so wonderful to me on set, telling me, “I love you; my kids love you.” She was beyond lovely. She even came into my dressing room just to hang out! Instantly I thought, I’m here casually with Diana Ross; I gotta call Trey! I did, and she left him a really sweet message in that high-pitched but low-volume singsongy voice: “Oh, this is for Trey? This is for Trey. Happy birthday, Trey.”
When he heard it, he just about died, right on his birthday. He saved that voice message forever. He probably still has it to this day.
To prepare for the Divas Live Ms. Ross / Supremes tribute, Trey was schooling me on all these Motown moments, and I was getting into her feeling, but how to integrate with Donna Summer was not as clear. I have such a tender memory connected with Donna Summer. I was quite young and at a publicly funded New York City summer sleepaway camp for kids. Let’s just say, it was not the most organized, and the staff were practically kids themselves. It was predominately Black, and I was one of the very few mixed or light-skinned children there, and the only blondish one. But I most certainly was not having more fun. Rather, I was a flash point for animosity. None of the girls liked me. Why are they mad at me? I wondered. I didn’t understand, then. It wasn’t just the light skin and blondish hair—if that weren’t enough, Khalil liked me. Khalil was the cutest boy in the whole camp. He had dark, curly brown hair, caramel skin, and greenish eyes. I was also taller than he was, so I think the girls also thought I was too old for him (even though we were the same age).
At any rate, the dreamiest boy at the nightmare camp thought I was cute. There was a closing-day dance, and just as the first bird-twinkling-flute sound with soaring strings and the melodic ooohs began, Khalil walked over to me. He took my hand, and “Last dance, last chance for love” slowly started to fill the room. We went out to the dance floor, and our little selves moved in a waltzlike sway until the song broke out into the bright and happy up-tempo part; then we jumped around in our own disco-ball world, letting jealous girls made mean by harsh environments melt away.
I carried that less-than-ideal experience of being at a public camp with me. It inspired me to conceive Camp Mariah, a summer camp focused on career awareness. I intimately understood there were countless children who didn’t have access to resources at their hands, space under their feet, and sky above their heads. The first fundraiser was a Christmas concert at the Cathedral of Saint John the Divine in Harlem in 1994, where I performed “All I Want for Christmas Is You” live for the first time. It stood as one of the largest fundraisers ever for the Fresh Air Fund, Camp Mariah’s amazing partner. The Fresh Air Fund’s Camp Mariah allowed me to create what I didn’t have for thousands of deserving children. It has been not only fulfilling but healing.
So for me, Ms. Summer’s classic hit was the soundtrack to “Camp Khalil,” that innocent childhood moment (and there weren’t many). I had never met her. Divas Live is a live concert, but it’s taped in front of an audience at Radio City Music Hall. There were crew and people bustling all about. Everyone was excited about the arrival of the icon, Ms. Ross, and I was having my own current big pop-culture moment celebrating Rainbow, my seventh consecutive album to produce number-one hits on the Billboard Hot 100—“Heartbreaker” was my fourteenth. We were doing a walk-through of the staging and preparing for a run-through of the Supremes medley (without Ms. Ross). Donna Summer quietly came up, appearing shy and uncomfortable. No one said much as she went off to the side to have a conversation, I think about the teleprompter, which was scrolling lyrics to “Baby Love.” Then someone came and
held up three hideous green sequined gowns. They were cheap costume types, nowhere near couture. Putrid.
* * *
Who do they think is wearing that? I thought. ’Cause I’m not wearing that. I was sure Ms. Ross would find them distasteful (to say the least) too. The next thing I knew, someone came over and told me Ms. Summer wouldn’t be doing the performance with us. And she left. Oh, okay. There was no time to find a Cindy Birdsong (she replaced Florence Ballard in the Supremes). I don’t know what made Ms. Summer bow out (if it was the dresses, I certainly don’t blame her), but it looked like this year’s Divas Live was going to be another wild ride.
* * *
So now I was adjusting to the notion of doing a duet with Ms. Ross. Of course that was exciting, but the green abominations? No ma’am. I would not be foiled by bad fashion on that particular night—not in front of Ms. Ross, who is a well-documented international fashion icon.
Growing up, I so vividly recall seeing giant black-and-white posters of Diana Ross all over New York City. She was wearing a white T-shirt with rolled-up sleeves and worn-in jeans; her hair was imperfectly perfectly slicked back and tucked behind her ear, and she was in minimal makeup. It was très chic—she was so beautiful. My eye couldn’t help but focus on her gaze. The poster simply had her first name—“Diana”—written in large lowercase letters off to the side. I pasted that image on my inner inspiration board and subsequently pulled it out for my #1’s cover. The composition was different, but I was inspired by the poster’s simplicity and intensity. From the beginning I sought to make timeless, not trendy, images, and Ms. Ross is a trailblazer in creating modern, classic high-glamour iconography.
* * *
I made it known that I would not be wearing the shiny green horror. I don’t ever leave the house without my own wardrobe possibilities, because in this business you never really know what might happen—and something very tacky was happening this night. I had a plan. Since Donna Summer had backed out, I offered this to Ms. Ross:
“Well, I have a dress. I actually have two dresses that are the same, if you wanted to look at them.”
Donatella Versace had made me two fine metallic-mesh-link mini toga-style numbers—one gold and one silver—and I had brought them both with me. (What a perfect night to have options!)
“Yeah, let me see the dress,” Diana said.
This was a woman who had been in countless gorgeous dresses, made fashion statements in every language, and I was humbly offering my dress (fabulous as it was) to her. Needless to say, I was nervous. I presented the tiny, backless dresses to her, and she took the silver one. Yes.
“I promise not to bend over.” Those were her first words as she tiptoed out on the stage like a diva nymph with an Afro in the mini metallic silver sheath. She made it her own. I joined her in the gold version, and we stopped! in the name of love for the people. The memory of having her teaching me the hand choreography for the song is sitting in my treasure box of all-time precious moments. I felt a Love Supreme.
Recently, I’ve been reflecting on something Ms. Ross said to me that time in London. I had sold tens of millions of records, and I was rolling deep, with a big team—makeup artist, hairstylist, wardrobe stylist, publicist, manager, and various assistants. As she was flawlessly putting on her own makeup (she went to beauty school too!), she said, “Mariah, someday, you’re not gonna want to have all these people around you.”
I believe that “someday” is not far away.
* * *
One final “diva” moment. For the 1998 MTV VMAs, Whitney and I were opening the show and presenting the Best Male Video award. It was supposed to be a whole staged “Clash of the Divas” stunt where we would enter from opposite sides of the stage and meet in the middle, only to discover we had on the same dress—a chocolate Vera Wang slip-style gown. We did some cute banter: “Nice dress,” and “They told me it was a one of a kind.” Then I said something like, “It’s a good thing I come prepared,” and reached behind me to detach the long skirt portion of the dress, revealing an asymmetrical mini as I declared, “Try it on me!”
Then Whitney said, “I can do better” and also ripped away the long piece of her dress, showing a new and different shape. We had a great laugh about it, but the gag is the moment that almost didn’t happen. When I showed up at the venue, my dress had not arrived. Because the whole opening revolved around the dresses, it wasn’t like I or anyone could just whip out a replacement. There was a panic! Apparently the dress was still at the showroom, and so production arranged for a police escort for the dress, clearing the streets to get it up to the theater on time.
That day, the police saved my one-of-a-kind-dress moment. If only someone could have saved our once-in-a-lifetime Whitney Houston.
A LITTLE BIT ABOUT A FEW GOOD MEN
-Karl-
Karl Lagerfeld was always very nice to me, which was not the case with some of the more hauty haute-couture houses. We did a fashion shoot together for America magazine—which was a new “luxury urban” publication launched in the early 2000s, when the words “luxury” and “urban” were not common neighbors. The magazine and Karl were willing to go to a newer, fresher visual place with me. Karl produced and photographed the cover shoot. He captured me in both an intimate and a very glamorous light, giving you a little Marilyn-Monroe-by-Eve-Arnold vibe. They are, to this day, some of my most cherished portraits. Karl also photographed my “V Belong Together” V Magazine cover during the launch of The Emancipation of Mimi. The giant V logo was designed with the pattern from my Dior diamond bracelet—absolute perfection (Love Stephen Gan).
Once, Karl made me a very special couture dress for a big event. It was just beautiful—black satin with a deep V in the back. I wore it with my hair parted down the middle, slicked back (I very rarely wear it this way) and held with an ornament. It was giving a very classic high-fashion look. Because the dress was made of silk satin, though, which can be reflective, it requires proper lighting (in my opinion, every situation really does). I looked heavier in most of the photos as I featured the details in the back. The flashes made my ass look huge. Keep in mind, these were the days before ample booties—faux or authentic—were accepted or celebrated in the mainstream. Back then I wasn’t allowed to have an ass.
The traditional press was very “Oh. My. God. Becky, look at her butt!” It was beyond frustrating. I was in this gorgeous dress, serving a classic couture look, and the press had to criticize my butt and foil the moment. I wasn’t that far removed from the time when I couldn’t afford actual food and so I had no curves to attack. Mercifully, my then hairdresser Lou Obligini took the picture of me in the dress, sitting with my friend Rachel, and superimposed Marilyn Monroe on the other side of me, altering my original bad feelings about being photographed looking curvy—and illustrating how creativity and vision can change perceptions, people, and points of view. That little black dress had a big impact, as did Mr. Karl Lagerfeld himself, both one of a kind to me.
-Mandela-
When Oprah invites you to go to South Africa, you drop everything and go. (When Oprah invites you anywhere, you go, but this was super major.) It was something pretty extraordinary even for her—the opening of her Oprah Winfrey Leadership Academy for Girls. It was a once-in-a-lifetime privilege to be among the few people she invited (including Tina Turner, Sidney Poitier, Mary J. Blige, and Spike Lee), and then I was one of the even fewer people she selected to personally meet the phenomenal transformational figure Nelson Mandela.
I was brought into a small, simple, elegant room where Mr. Mandela was sitting in a lone gray wingback chair in one of his signature patterned shirts. He looked like a king. He looked like a father. I was with him for just a moment, but what an incredible, powerful moment. I leaned down to hug him, and in that brief embrace I felt the energy of ancient ancestry and of the future, of struggles and sacrifice, of unshakable faith and vision—of revolutionary love. Mr. Mandela smiled at me, and in an instant I felt my very constitution chan
ge.
-Ali-
Muhammad Ali was turning sixty years old, and a CBS television special was being produced in celebration of his triumphant life. It was 2002, right after Will Smith portrayed him in the film Ali. I was asked to close the show with the “Happy Birthday” song. I had admired Mr. Ali immensely since childhood. He was one of the few people my entire disjoined family came together on. If he was on TV, we would all gather around; all of us agreed Muhammad Ali was undeniably the Greatest. He was a big presence to me, like Michael-Jackson-status big.
Inspired by the Marilyn moment when she famously sang to President Kennedy, I did a little rearrangement of the classic and sang soft and breathy at the top: “Happy birthday to you / Happy birthday to you / Happy birthday to the Greatest”—after which I moved into a big, vocal gospel-choir-type rendition. Of course I was honored to have the opportunity. However, I did not realize my singing to an icon, inspired by another icon, might have been a bit improper. You see, I was dressed in a simple icy-pink-silk short slip dress, and I did a few kitschy winks and shimmies during my performance. I was thinking, of course, Everyone is in on the reference. What I didn’t take into consideration was that Mr. Ali was Muslim, as were his wife and daughters. I also didn’t know, at the time, that Muslim women dress and act modestly.
