Like everyone else, I suppose, I’m not terribly surprised yet very sad today after the death of Whitney Houston, once a super-talented singer, gone way too young at 48. I had the pleasure of seeing her in person three times, very early on. The first time was before she even had a record deal. I think it was Eliot Hubbard, one of the music business’s eagerest early adopters, who encouraged me to check her out when she sang with her mother at a tiny club right around the corner from my apartment in the West Village. I wrote a tiny review of the show for the Village Voice. When her first album came out, I reviewed it for Rolling Stone, and Stephen Holden and I saw her perform at Sweetwater’s, a now-defunct nightclub near Lincoln Center. Probably not even a year later, Stephen reviewed her Carnegie Hall debut, by which time her meteoric ascent had begun — what I remember most from that concert was that she tore up “I Am Changing” (from Dreamgirls), getting a standing ovation in the middle of the song. After that, I was content to keep my distance and enjoy that glorious voice on record — my favorite memory being dancing on a party boat in Hamburg and hearing several thousand German leathermen sing along to “I’m Every Woman.” Those were the days, my friend….
