Houston was a singular talent, a three-octave wonder. Again, yea yea we know.
The point is not about her singing talent. The predictable dive from pinnacle of fame to the diving depths of drug disabling degradation had been a spectacle since the early 90's. It was just a matter of time. And that time came, a little sooner maybe, but it came nonetheless.
Born in 1963 in Newark, New Jersey, Whitney’s mother was the well-liked gospel singer, Cissy Houston. Her cousin was Dionne Warwick and Aretha Franklin was her godmother. She had it all. The best female voices of her era were in her genes and in her network of friends.
Houston went thru at least $150 million bucks, having sold over 200 million records.
But behind the glamor exterior was a flimsy, decadent, bisexual, drug-prone mess. Nothing in Houston's personal life was 'right'. Not her marriage, not her narcissism, not her immature, inability to stay off drugs - cocaine the primary culprit. In the end, she died in a hotel room, in a rented bathtub on a tab others picked-up.
One daughter, the sole bequeathed, and a battering ex-husband now her legacy. Millions of 'fans' willing to bypass Houston's weak personal life in favor of the records she left behind are a testament to the tragedy that was her life.
Sad. Senseless. Apparently unavoidable.
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