The Rise and Fall of Whitney Houston

When I discovered Whitney Houston had passed away on Saturday evening, I happened to be cleaning up my kitchen while listening to my Classic R&B playlist on Spotify.  No, a Whitney song was not playing when I read the news (on facebook of course), but there are a few on the playlist.  And while the news can hardly be classified as shocking, given her  history of drug abuse, it still struck me as terribly upsetting on a few different levels.

I grew up listening to Whitney, as I assume many of you did.  She quite literally provided the soundtrack to many of my school dances, picnics, pool parties and dates.  I saw her in concert in 1987.  I was truly a fan, and remained so through the years.  Of course, things got crazy once she married Bobby Brown, and I never watched their reality show, save for a few snippets and whatever Joel McHale saw fit to show me on The Soup.  I was sad for what had become of Whitney, and always rooted for her to make a comeback.

2009 brought the infamous Oprah interview, which I watched with a healthy degree of skepticism.  She seemed pretty put together, but there was still something that was…off.  Her subsequent TV appearances and truncated world tour proved that her voice was a shadow of its former glorious self, ravaged by drugs and drink.  At least she never got back with Bobby, I thought.

The circumstances of her untimely death are not fully known yet, but it seems likely that she took some prescription medications, mixed in a little alcohol and got in the tub.  She may have had a heart attack; she may have passed out and slid under the water.  Regardless of the details, it doesn’t appear that she purposely killed herself, nor that she went on some kind of drug binge.  But it’s clear that all the years of hard living took their toll.

I’ve heard lots of talk about how wrong it is to celebrate this woman who was ultimately a druggie who’d willfully squandered her enormous talent and her fortune.  Well, I contend that the coverage of her death was magnified by a few things.  First and foremost, it happened on a weekend, when the 24 hour news cycle tends to slow down a bit.  And this particular Saturday was the night before the Grammy Awards.  On top of that, Whitney died in the very hotel where she was to attend an annual pre-Grammy party hosted by her mentor, Clive Davis.  It was all a little spooky.

Her industry’s biggest event took place the next day, and it would have been impossible for them to ignore what had happened and not to honor a fallen legend.  I think Jennifer Hudson’s quiet tribute was a dignified way to handle the situation.  The show in no way turned into a wake for Whitney.  Adele was the big winner, and the tributes to the other legends in attendance were well done.  The night was filled to the brim with performances that celebrated music, even if a few of them were really uncomfortable (Chris Brown and Nicki Minaj, I’m lookin’ at you.)

Much like Michael Jackson, I’m sure there will be more tributes, and the interest surrounding her terrible end will continue on for some time.  No matter how far she had fallen, there is no denying her body of work, or her place in the history of music and pop culture.  It’s quite possible that at 48, she was on the verge of making a real comeback, returning to her former greatness or re-inventing herself as a reality show judge.  It’s also possible she wasn’t.  But I for one was really hoping she still had a lot of years in front of her to try.  It’s hard to watch your idols age, lose a step or, worse, fall apart completely.  Her death should serve as a major cautionary tale; yet another reminder that money and fame can’t buy happiness, and they often buy just the opposite.

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