I don’t know if there was ever a time when I thought listening to Whitney Houston was cool. In the eighties, her music and her videos were the essence of pop. And for a young man growing up with hair that was a little too long exploring everything from Springsteen to Def Leppard, Houstin wasn’t on my musical roadmap.
It was reported today that the singer died. She was only 48-years-old.
Only 48. Certainly the latter part of her life stole the spotlight from what was an impressive career. Her torrid relationship with Bobby Brown, her reported drug use and consequent abuse, and the questionable decline of the state of one of the most powerful voices in music – it all became almost more listenable than her music.
It’s always a shame when someone so young and so talented dies. But a couple of things flew through my mind as my smartphone sung out a tone telling me and the world that she was gone.
First she was labelled by the press as the Queen of Pop. The King of Pop was dead. Now, the Queen. Sadness revisited.
Second, she was only 48-years-old. Two-and-a-half years older than me. That’s it.
Mortality is the kind of thing that has the power to stop you in your proverbial tracks and make you think about where you’ve been and where you want to be. After all, she was just two-and-a-half years older than me when she was at the height of her fame. While she was ruling the world, I… wasn’t.
She sort of did rule the world, didn’t she? And she proved that she was more than just another pretty voice with a pretty face. Kevin Costner’s stone-cold stare aside, she really held her own acting-wise in ‘The Bodyguard.’
But eventually she would become fodder for Perez and The Soup; and her fame would eventually become infamy.
Remember her how you will – but remember her. Hell, I dare you to forget.
It was reported today that the singer died. She was only 48-years-old.
Only 48. Certainly the latter part of her life stole the spotlight from what was an impressive career. Her torrid relationship with Bobby Brown, her reported drug use and consequent abuse, and the questionable decline of the state of one of the most powerful voices in music – it all became almost more listenable than her music.
It’s always a shame when someone so young and so talented dies. But a couple of things flew through my mind as my smartphone sung out a tone telling me and the world that she was gone.
First she was labelled by the press as the Queen of Pop. The King of Pop was dead. Now, the Queen. Sadness revisited.
Second, she was only 48-years-old. Two-and-a-half years older than me. That’s it.
Mortality is the kind of thing that has the power to stop you in your proverbial tracks and make you think about where you’ve been and where you want to be. After all, she was just two-and-a-half years older than me when she was at the height of her fame. While she was ruling the world, I… wasn’t.
She sort of did rule the world, didn’t she? And she proved that she was more than just another pretty voice with a pretty face. Kevin Costner’s stone-cold stare aside, she really held her own acting-wise in ‘The Bodyguard.’
But eventually she would become fodder for Perez and The Soup; and her fame would eventually become infamy.
Remember her how you will – but remember her. Hell, I dare you to forget.
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