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I had the good fortune to see Whitney Houston perform at the top of her game. At that performance, she was the backup act to Jeffrey Osborne. She looked terrific, in a yellow dress that didn't quite reach her knees. I always thought the promoters wisely paired the acts, as JO was highly professional and all business. His crossover audience also neatly dovetailed with the big plans in store for Ms. Houston.
Whitney came from gospel royalty. Her mother, Cissy Houston, made her name with sacred music. Whitney's godmother, Queen of Soul Aretha Franklin, also happened to be a splendid gospel singer. (For a fascinating post script to the Houston strum und drang, read Aretha Franklin's comments about Whitney at a recent Radio City Music Hall event.) At her finest, Whitney could bring gospel fire and skill to tried and true lyrics. Suddenly a song's human drama, commingled with belief in the divine, became transfigured into something beautiful and moving. Whitney's vocal range, ability to musically emote, and raw energy made her best efforts worth listening to over and over again.
Recently, I attended a nonfiction reading in which an author made an observation about song lyrics that lacked "subtlety." What the author didn't understand was how the singer's voice could lift everyday words into those very areas of "subtlety." I had a very similar argument with a writer after the Whitney Houston/Jeffrey Osborne concert we attended. My companion's mantra was the primacy of the word; I championed the voice.
Tonight, I lament with words the loss of Whitney Houston's voice, her heart, and her soul. If only my words could sing!
