You Have No Idea: A Famous Daughter, Her No-Nonsense Mother, and How They Survived Pageants, Hollywood, Love, Loss (21 page)

Keith was amazing to work with, and I credit him with really finding my sound. He had a bunch of mikes and I settled on a rebuilt vintage C-22 with a heated tube inside. It has a warm sound and complements my tone. Keith also handed me a big bag of Lay’s Potato Chips.

“Chip up.”

“Huh?”

“Grab a chip.”

Keith’s theory was that the oil and salt of the Lay’s chips gives your vocal cords a shimmer. He used the chip trick with all his singers.

When
The Comfort Zone
debuted, I was traveling. I sang on television shows in Germany, Hong Kong, Taiwan, and Australia plus all over the States. I was so focused on the work that I hardly noticed that “Save the Best for Last” was steadily climbing up the Billboard charts. It knocked my childhood idol Michael Jackson’s “Remember
the Time” out of the number one spot on
Billboard
’s pop, rhythm and blues, and adult contemporary singles charts.

The song stayed there for five weeks and pulled my second album into the top twenty.

I was touring and traveling and performing, so there didn’t seem to be any time to reflect. I didn’t have a chance to savor the success. There wasn’t a moment when I jumped up and down and screamed. It was always like,
What’s next? How do I top this?

I did notice that when deejays announced my songs on the radio, they called me “Vanessa Williams, singer,” or “Vanessa Williams, pop star.” At some point along the way, while my songs were climbing the charts, the public had finally put my scandal in the past.

I was nominated for four Grammy awards. “Save the Best for Last” was up for Best Song; Best Record; and Best Pop Vocal Performance, Female. The song “The Comfort Zone” was nominated for best R & B Vocal Performance, Female.

I was thirty-three weeks pregnant with my third child when I performed “Save the Best for Last” at the 1993 Grammys at the Shrine Auditorium in Los Angeles. I sang while sitting on a stool in a black lace blouse with black chiffon pants. Afterward, while I was still backstage, Bonnie Raitt announced the winner for Best Song. I was up against Eric Clapton’s “Tears in Heaven,” Billy Ray Cyrus’s “Achy Breaky Heart,” Celine Dion and Peabo Bryson’s “Beauty and the Beast,” and k.d. lang’s “Constant Craving.”

“And the song of the year is … ‘Tears in Heaven’…”

I know it sounds cliché, but it really is an honor just to be nominated; just to be in the same category as a legend like Eric felt great. “Tears in Heaven” was Eric Clapton’s beautiful ballad about his four-year-old son, Conor, who had accidentally fallen out of an apartment building window and died.

For five weeks “Tears in Heaven” had been neck and neck with “Save the Best for Last” on the Billboard charts. “Save the Best for
Last” was number one and “Tears in Heaven” was right behind. I had missed Clapton’s acceptance speech. When I returned to my seat, Keith excitedly nudged me. “Did you hear what he said? Eric Clapton just talked about you!”

“I think Vanessa Williams should have got it because it kept [“Tears in Heaven”] out of the number one spot for two months,” Clapton had said.

Wow!

Even though I didn’t win any awards that night, it was pretty cool having Clapton talk about me onstage. Almost as good as a win.

I wasn’t an outsider anymore.

CHAPTER

16

Being with her children is when Vanessa’s the happiest. Being on the Broadway stage takes a pretty close second.

—HELEN WILLIAMS

T
he last few years had been wonderfully successful. Besides having another baby—a boy, Devin Christian (conceived in Devon, England, while promoting
The Comfort Zone
) on April 14, 1993—my 1991 album,
The Comfort Zone,
was a multiplatinum seller. I’d racked up a total of two NAACP Image Awards and seven Grammy award nominations. I’d starred in a few television movies, including
The Kid Who Loved Christmas
and
Stompin’ at the Savoy
. I’d had a part in the TV miniseries
The Jacksons: An American Dream
. I’d also appeared in
Another You
with Richard Pryor and Gene Wilder, as well as in
Harley Davidson and the Marlboro Man
with Don Johnson and Mickey Rourke. Plus, I was working on another album,
The Sweetest Days
.

And best of all, we were living in Chappaqua, New York, which was just a few miles from where I grew up. Home! Even though I’d lived in Los Angeles for seven years, I
never felt like I belonged. I never felt truly comfortable or at home there. Maybe it’s the vibe of transience. Los Angeles is the epicenter of the entertainment industry, so people are always in and out, coming and going. Deep down, I was one of those people, too. I always thought I’d be on the West Coast for three years, at the most. That had been my plan. But it seemed that another day, another month, another year had zoomed by. And suddenly I had been living on the West Coast for seven years.

The last few years in Los Angeles hadn’t been easy. I felt like Ramon and I were drifting apart. To break away from just being known as “Vanessa’s manager,” Ramon had started R&B Live, which showcased African-American pop and R & B performers. Operating out of the 20/20 Club in Century City each Wednesday night, it had quietly built a reputation as the hippest ticket in town for music-industry insiders, Hollywood celebrities, sports stars, and studio executives.

It was a huge success, attracting such talents as Stevie Wonder; Chaka Khan; the Brothers Johnson; Thelma Houston; and Earth, Wind & Fire. Ramon was on top of his game—as a manager and as the creator of R&B Live. But I began to dread Wednesdays because Ramon would disappear all night, sometimes not returning until late the next morning. I had no idea where he was, but I’d be home with two young children and I was pregnant with my third. I’d take the girls to preschool the next day—just as Ramon would be pulling into our driveway.

“Get it together or I’m going back to my parents with the kids,” I said.

A few months later on April 29, 1992, Los Angeles was turned into a war zone when a jury acquitted three white cops and one Hispanic cop accused in the videotaped beating of black motorist Rodney King. Ramon, the girls, and I had been on a promotional tour in Germany when the verdict was announced. We saw the
chaos on the news but we didn’t know what mayhem awaited us. Our plane was diverted to Las Vegas for a while because of the gunfire near the Los Angeles airport. When we finally descended into Los Angeles, you could smell the smoke.

Los Angeles looked like a ghost town enveloped in smoke and flames. I was heartbroken by what had happened and couldn’t believe the destruction. As we drove to our home, we passed a gas station and saw the owner standing outside, alone, holding a lead pipe to protect his business. It really felt like the apocalypse had arrived.

It was time to get out, time to start anew. Ramon agreed that we needed a change.

Melanie was nearly five and I’d always planned to be back on the East Coast in time to enroll the girls in kindergarten. I wanted the kids to be raised in a place where they could have a normal life, without the constant glare of Hollywood and all its artifice. I wanted them to appreciate the beauty of the seasons—the colorful array of leaves in the fall; sleigh rides through snow in the winter; the smell of blooming flowers in the spring; fireflies lighting the skies in summer. I wanted them to have the kind of life I knew as a child.

Those were the wishes for my children, but I had some of my own. I wanted to be closer to my parents so they could have a more active, consistent role in the children’s lives. After months of searching all over Westchester County—from as far north as South Salem to as far south as Scarsdale—we landed in Chappaqua, just one town over from my old stomping grounds.

When my parents found their Millwood home, they had fallen in love with the property—not the house. I felt the same way when I drove along a windy path toward this turn-of-the-century fieldstone farmhouse. There was a huge, sloping front lawn that had once been a pasture. At the base of the hill were towering evergreens and a row of apple trees (where deer often grazed) as well
as a pond filled with ducks and geese. The property—once owned by A. H. Smith, the one-time president of the New York Central Railroad—was beautiful, with so much potential. I imagined putting in a swimming pool, Jacuzzi, and tennis court. I also pictured a beautiful English garden where I could pick my own herbs and flowers.

The property was perfect. The house, however, needed a lot of work.

When we bought the place, there was a guesthouse, a carriage house, and a stone barn, which I knew we’d eventually combine into one house. I didn’t know at the time what a daunting task this would actually be. All I knew was that I was finally home.

My career was soaring, I was back east, yet something was missing and I knew exactly what it was. Ever since I was a young girl watching Stephanie Mills light up the stage in
The Wiz
, I wanted to be on Broadway. “See you on Broadway,” I’d written in my senior yearbook at Horace Greeley. I wanted to be onstage more than anything, but I was beginning to wonder when this would come to fruition.

I never doubted it would happen, but what was taking so long?

And then the call came. Finally! It was the phone call I always knew I’d get one day.

“
Show Boat
is coming to Broadway and they want you to audition for the part of Julie LaVerne, the leading lady,” Emily Gerson-Saines, my agent at William Morris, told me.

I was thrilled.
Show Boat
, a musical by Jerome Kern and Oscar Hammerstein, was being produced and directed by Harold Prince. It had premiered in Toronto with Lonette McKee, an actress and singer, starring in the lead role. It was scheduled to open at the Gershwin Theatre in October. Lonette hadn’t signed on for the Broadway run, so the part was available.

I sang “Can’t Help Lovin’ Dat Man” for Garth Drabinsky, one of the show’s producers.

“That was great, wonderful,” he told me. “But it looks like Lonette is going to stay with the show after all.”

But Garth wasn’t finished.

“How about replacing Chita Rivera in
Kiss of the Spider Woman
?”

What? Me, replace the legendary Chita Rivera? It sounded like a dream.

I hadn’t seen the show, but I knew the buzz around it. The Harold Prince–directed play had won seven Tony Awards, including Best Musical, Best Performance by a Leading Actor, and Best Performance by a Leading Actress—Chita Rivera. It was the hottest show in town, but the original cast was leaving the production. Chita and the other leads were going on tour with the show.

A few days later I headed to the Broadhurst Theater and was blown away by the show. Chita—at sixty years old—was fantastic. She kicked her legs over her head and spun around the stage. I also loved the premise of the show—Aurora, Chita’s character, exists only in the memory of Molina, a gay window dresser who is incarcerated in a Latin American prison. To escape his world, he brings Aurora to life, where she dances and smolders, all in fabulous, colorful costumes.

“This is fantastic. I love it! I can’t wait to do it,” I told Garth.

I was in rehearsals for three weeks, singing and dancing and feeling more alive than I’d felt in a long time. Theater performers work harder than anyone in the business and the bonds you make with the other actors are immediate and strong. Everyone wants the same thing—to put on a killer show.

Being a recording artist is great, but I never thought I’d have a career as a recording artist. Acting is what I love—what I’ve always loved. The people—the cast, the crew—are the people I admire and respect the most in the business. When you’re rehearsing with stage
actors, you almost immediately become family because you just have everything in common. They get your song and dance references; you don’t have to explain anything. They have the same work ethic. They value time. They value art. On Broadway, the attitude is “How can I make the scene work best for everyone?” Whereas in film and television, many actors want to make sure they alone look good. Their attitude is “To hell with the scene.”

We were rehearsing nonstop. It was exhausting but exhilarating. I performed solos as well as strenuous dance numbers that required harnesses to climb up the prison bars.

I was part of a group of performers—and we all had so much to prove. The original cast had done such an amazing, amazing job, so there was a lot of pressure on us to do just as well or better. Chita was wonderful. I trailed her one night. She was extremely accessible, but if she didn’t want to be disturbed she’d put a stuffed gorilla in front of her dressing room door. Then people knew to leave her alone!

I was in a cast with veteran Broadway actors Brian Mitchell (he didn’t use Stokes as a middle name yet) and Howard McGillin. We were the “B” team. But instead of just taking over the parts and doing the same show, we got a chance to reinvent it. My interpretation of Aurora was very different from Chita’s. We weren’t the fifteenth cast of
Chicago
doing the same choreography, the same interpretation. We made it hotter and sexier. The heat onstage was incredible. The male dancers were shirtless most of the time, dancing these passionate tangos while gyrating their hips. I was thirty-one—nearly half Chita’s age. Howard McGillin, who had been married, had just come out as a gay man, and he was cast in a flamboyantly gay role. He was proclaiming his sexual identity in the role of Molina. It was steamy, sexy, and hot, hot, hot.

But would it work?

To me, there’s nothing scarier than the “put-in.” The put-in is the
one and only rehearsal where the actors replacing other actors get the opportunity to run through the entire play from start to finish with the full performing company, orchestra, lights, sound, and costume. It is both nerve-racking and a huge adrenaline rush. But it’s terrifying because if something doesn’t work well, can you really fix it by the next night—opening night?