We started our going-out ritual in her large bathroom. Brenda had all the mousse, hair spray, combs, and curlers you could imagine. With her mixed Puerto Rican and Jewish heritage, I could certainly work with what she had. I attempted to create one long, uniform coil all around my head by twisting sections of hair around the rod of a curling wand. I finished it off with a straight bang. I borrowed a little black dress from her (what else!). I had brought a pair of my own opaque black tights, but I couldn’t fit into her shoes; they were too small. So I layered my black Vans sneakers with ribbed slouchy socks. I topped off the ensemble with my one statement piece—that Avirex jacket from high school.
I really tried with my look, and it was all right. Brenda told me the party was to celebrate a new record label, but since, by this time, I was interested in the big labels with the big boys and big artists, I didn’t have high expectations about who would be in attendance. The new label was the collaboration of three well-known industry guys who had come together to form their own label, WTG Records. “WTG” stood for Walter, Tommy, and Gerald. It sounded like a tire business to me; I didn’t really know who anybody was yet. But Brenda knew Jerry (Gerald Greenberg), who she told me was a big shot in the industry (in 1974, at thirty-two, he became the youngest-ever president of Atlantic Records). When she explained this, the party started to get a bit more interesting.
I now understood why Brenda wanted me to bring my demo with me (not that I ever went anywhere without it)—she’d brought me there to meet a guy from Atlantic Records. When we got to the party, I was surrounded by “industry people,” though I still had no clue what that meant. As I walked around, I took in the scene. Some handlers were traipsing a female artist around, like a show horse. She was very blond, very pretty, very white, and very dolled up and coiffed, with a flurry of label folks forming a tight, buzzing cloud around her. There were large blown-up pictures of her all over the room. I guessed we were supposed to ooh and ahh in her presence. But I wasn’t interested in her. I was just thinking, Who is she, why should I be excited? To me she was just someone they were toting around. Frankly, I was unimpressed by the whole scene.
Brenda and I sat down at a table. We were trying to have a good time in the room full of suits, but all I could think was that I could be at the studio working on songs or something. That was where I always wanted to be. We got up to go to the bathroom, making our way through the crowd to get to the staircase that led to where the restrooms were.
As we bounced up the stairs, I saw him.
He wasn’t anyone I would have normally noticed: not particularly tall or short, not stylish or tacky. I’m pretty sure he had on a suit. He would’ve been totally forgettable if it weren’t for his eyes. Our eyes locked, and an energy instantly rushed between us, like a mild electric shock. He had a piercing stare.
He looked into me, not at me. I was a little shook—not in a bad way, but not in a love at first sight way, either. I kept going up the stairs, this time at a slower pace, as I adjusted to what had just happened. When I closed the bathroom door, the odd sensation was still pulsing through me. What had happened? I didn’t know who he was, but I recognized him somehow. I knew it wasn’t from TV or anything like that. It wasn’t his face; it was something else. I recognized his energy, and I think he recognized mine.
Brenda was all excited. “Did you see how Tommy Mottola looked at you? I did!” she said, her eyes wide.
“Who’s Tommy Mottola?” I asked.
“Girl.” She looked at me quizzically, a sense of seriousness about her. “‘Who’s Tommy Mottola?’!” She began to sing a familiar refrain: “Tommy Mottola lives on the road … You don’t know who that is; you don’t know that song?” I shook my head. She sang a little bit more: “Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh cherchez, cherchez—”
It hit me. “Oh! Yeah, I know that song!” I joined in: “Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, cherchez, cherchez.” It was “Cherchez la Femme / Se Si Bon,” by Dr. Buzzard’s Original Savannah Band.
I let her know that I used to like that song when I was a little girl.
Brenda said, “That is the Tommy from that song. He’s one of the biggest record guys, ever.” Brenda and I headed over to the spot where they were all standing.
I was standing by wondering, if he was such a big shot, what did he want with me? The party was filled with prettier girls, with professional makeup and far better footwear. Tommy said to Brenda, “Who’s your friend?”—the most intense three words I’d ever heard.
Brenda directed her answer to Jerry. “She’s eighteen years old; her name is Mariah. You gotta listen to this!” Just as she went to hand Jerry my demo tape, Tommy’s hand swiftly cut her off mid-extension. He snatched the tape, got up, left the table, and left the party. It was bizarre and bewildering. I was like, What kinda shit is that?
That was an important demo. It had some of my best songs—“All in Your Mind,” “Someday,” and “Alone in Love.” Had this Tommy guy just taken all that work (and money!)? I wasn’t sitting there thinking, Yay, I just gave my demo to a big-time record executive. I was focused more on the fact that I was out one more copy of my demo. I know this Tommy guy’s never going
