The music business is designed to confuse and control the artist. Later, seasoned music executives told me that Ben’s deal was truly a golden ticket. I was trying to be loyal to someone who believed in me at a crucial time, but in my naïveté, I didn’t realize the enormity of what I had signed away. I was informed, and what I remember, was that he got 50 percent of the publishing on all songs we worked on together for my first album. Okay fine. But additionally, he received 50 percent of my artist’s royalties for the first album, 40 percent for the second album, 30 percent for the third, and so on. It went on that way from 1990 until about 1999. Even though Ben didn’t write one word or note with me after the first album. Out of loyalty to him and the hard work we put in together in that little studio, I never looked back and tried to reset or recoup.
So yeah, a photocopy: that’s the unceremonious origin of my first “official deal.” What a welcome to the music business! Which I was so eager to get into, but I soon came to believe that my first signature was on a pretty shady piece of paper—and one that would be hard to get out of. But it certainly wouldn’t be the last. A whole forest full of shade was yet to come.
One must pick one’s battles wisely, and I wasn’t about to come for someone who I had already left behind. I was on my way. I’ll be eternally grateful, and I wish him well.
At least we made The Demo.
That demo stayed in my Walkman, which stayed on my hip, and the music stayed in my ears. Aside from the radio, the songs we laid down were all I listened to. And the offers from the major publishing houses gave me confidence that things were going to happen. I just had to keep the faith and keep working. I didn’t stop. I kept going to more sessions, doing more connecting, and getting more background vocal work. I began doing vocals for the musician and producer T. M. Stevens, who’d written with Narada Michael Walden and played bass with James Brown, Cyndi Lauper, Joe Cocker, and other major artists. It was through him that I had the good fortune to meet the amazing Cindy Mizelle at a session.
Since that first background gig at twelve years old, I’d gained a respect for the specific skill and talent it takes to be a good background vocalist. I would listen specifically to background on the radio. I’d study the liner notes on albums and CD jackets to learn who was doing the background vocals (especially on dance records, as I believe backgrounds are what make those songs). I became familiar with all those exceptional singers, like Audrey Wheeler and Lisa Fischer … and Cindy. To me, she was one of the absolute greatest. Cindy Mizelle was the background singer. She sang with the most gifted vocalists of all time—Barbra Streisand, Whitney Houston, Luther Vandross, and the Rolling Stones. She was a real singer’s singer. Cindy was that girl to me. I looked up to her so much.
I remember in the beginning of the session, we were at the microphone, doing a part that I was having a difficult time getting right. Cindy’s such a perfectionist (as I am now), but she had patience with me. When you first learn how to do background vocals—different tones and styles—it’s not easy. Producers liked my tone, but I had to learn how to really get in the pocket, to get it exactly how they wanted it. Precision takes practice. Cindy had a new gig practically every day; she was a master. When I first started singing alongside her, I had to work hard to keep up. Now, background vocals are one of my favorite elements in building a song. I love the textures and layers and how lush they can make a song; backgrounds get into your bones.
Once, while Cindy and I were recording and standing very close to each other at the microphone, she could hear my stomach rumbling. She looked down and saw the sad shoes I was wearing, scanned my crumpled outfit, and then looked up at me with pity and recognition. I was too excited to be self-conscious—at that point in life, my ambition was stronger than my shame. Who cared if I arrived a little hungry and a little shabby? I was finally singing for a living, right next to a consummate professional.
Cindy gave me her number that night and told me if I ever needed anything, I could call her. I didn’t know what to do with that. She’d sung with huge acts all around the world—what business did I have calling her? What would I say? I didn’t call, and the next time I saw her she called me out on it. It wasn’t easy for me to ask for help. I didn’t want to bother or burden her, I explained. Cindy looked me in the eye and said, “Mariah, you need to call me.”
Suddenly it struck me. Oh, I get it. I was supposed to call her. I hadn’t understood right away that this was part of the process: the initiation, the mentoring, the nurturing, the entry into a society of sister-singers. These rituals were all new to me. And I was unfamiliar with being welcomed into a family of artists—into a family of any kind.
Once I had broken into the inner circle of elite background vocalists, recommendations started to come in. Background vocalists are hired by word of mouth—one singer will recommend another, and good singers like to work together. If the squad is strong, the session is strong, and if
