The Adventures of Mimi tour was so much fun. It had its share of typical mishaps, but largely it felt like a liberation. Emancipation had so many hits that at each show the energy was just fire the whole time, thousands of people singing every single word of all the new songs on the album, and some of the hottest artists would come through and do surprise guest appearances. It was a huge commercial success, and it was a real blast.
We took an old-school, almost Motown review approach of packing up a small fleet of buses and driving across America. We did big shows in twenty-five cities (we also did seven in Canada, seven in Asia, and two in Africa). Though there were plenty of people on the road with me—a full band, background singers, dancers, and crew—I was lonely. I was on a huge upswing moment and, as usual, responsible for everyone’s livelihood. I had to make sure I was in top condition; my voice was rested so I could do my best for my fans first, of course (I never take for granted the money, effort, and time it takes to come to a concert), but also all the folks who depended on me to eat. While I was certainly really friendly with everybody (of course Trey and Tots were there), after each show I would generally retreat to my bus to quietly decompress and rest. This was usually a simple ritual of taking a long, hot, steamy shower and sipping tea with honey. While my big silver bullet of a bus was completely tricked out and outfitted with all the comforts and everything I needed, it didn’t provide me with company.
The other performers and crew would have a more typical tour atmosphere on their bus—it’d be rocking with raucous laughter, liquor, card games, smoke, jokes, movies, and music. When musicians and dancers ride for hours together down little highways for days, they develop a rowdy family-like culture. And as the “boss” I was often on the outside of the camaraderie they created.
One night I decided I just needed a little levity, and I went to the dancers’ bus, which was by far the most popping in our fleet. It was like a basement party happening up in there, just very lively. I easily slipped into the shenanigans. It felt like I was in high school sneaking out with friends and not on my own massive sold-out tour. It was simple and festive.
One dancer stood out. I had seen him before, but something about this night felt different. He was playful and certainly commanding the center of attention with his expressive gestures and buoyant laugh. I’d always thought he was cute, but that night it felt different. There was something really compelling about him—serving a delicious blend of grown-man gorgeousness and boyish charm. I was going to stay on this bus for a while. It was a joy ride, for sure.
It was past the middle of the night, probably close to dawn. We had all been drankin’ and singing and carrying on for a few hours when we stopped to go into an all-night diner in some little town in the middle of almost nowhere. We burst into the quiet little local joint about a dozen deep, all loud, laughing, and extremely colorful. What few folks there were in there—maybe a truck driver, a couple of late-shift workers—there were definitely not any of color of any kind. They all stopped chewing and sipping to stare at what probably appeared to be the UniverSoul Circus that had rolled into town and barreled into their spot.
We were all a little too lit to realize we’d lit up that sleepy little diner with our theatrics and flavor. We sprawled out over several tables and booths. That dancer’s name was Tanaka. We’d already started shooting flirty glances at each other in the bus about twenty miles back. We sat across from each other in a booth like eighth graders. We softly touched each other’s legs under the table, undetected while the rest of the party roared on.
Tanaka and I quickly became friends, and over time a meaningful relationship was built. He is always right there, the effortless life of the party, and when everyone looks to you for something, that can mean everything.
Thank God for the transformational “Mimi” era. I needed to have such massive success for the public to finally forgive me for the “sin against humanity” that was Glitter.
After Glitter, many people wrote me off. But as Jimmy Jam said, “Don’t ever write Mariah Carey off.” And I say, “Don’t ever write anyone off.” You don’t ever know where strength will come from. I always go to my main source for strength—faith in God, but also love from my fans and all the people who didn’t give up on their faith in me. This is not to say I don’t struggle with PTSD from the collective events in my childhood, my marriage, and the dark Glitter years. I work on my emotional recovery daily. But it is truly fascinating how insignificant the press has become in making or breaking an artist’s career, in shaping our narratives. I still feel like parts of the media are patiently waiting for me to have another spectacular meltdown (actually, I’ve noticed now some people stage breakdowns for publicity), but the difference is, in today’s world, they don’t matter. Now, all artists have an
