Oh, I can’t be elusive with you honey
’Cause it’s blatant that I’m feeling you
And it’s too hard for me to leave abruptly
’Cause you’re the only thing I wanna do
And it’s just like honey
—“Honey”
When I played “Honey” for Tommy, he quipped, “Well, I’m glad you were so inspired.” The bitterness! I was like, “What? Now you’re mad? Why didn’t you get mad about ‘Fantasy’ or ‘Dreamlover’?” It’s blatantly obvious I wasn’t talking about Tommy in that song! I wasn’t talking about him, or any actual person, in practically any romantic song. Before I met Derek, they were mostly imaginary characters. I’m sure Tommy could sense that the songs written for Butterfly were no longer about far-off, fictional lovers—these songs, though certainly poetically embellished, were full of specific details and sensual realness.
Tommy and the label were also resistant to what my new sound represented. Again I heard the refrain “too urban,” which of course was code for “too Black”—and yeah, I wasn’t ever going back.
“Honey” was the first time I felt I had full creative license in making a video. We were making a mini-comedy–action thriller, and it was possible thanks to an insane two-million-dollar budget. The video allowed me to really explore my kitschy humor, with Frank Sivero as the gangster character with the crazy hair. I also included Johnny Brennan from the Jerky Boys—“Honey pie, sweetie pie, cutie pants.” I lived for the Jerky Boys; they were so silly. Come on, I wasn’t trying to ridicule Tommy—I was just playing with cinematic stereotypes, juxtaposing Johnny’s character with Eddie Griffin’s. My Spanish line—“Lo siento, pero no te entiendo”—was delivered with a wink.
What I did in the “Honey” video is what I had always wanted to do. I got to explore creative and fashion influences without label restrictions. My look was inspired by Ursula Andress in the 1970s 007 movies. I wanted to look glamorous, dangerous, and badass, like a Bond girl. And I finally had the freedom to access the right creative team to achieve the looks. Emerging out of the swimming pool in the beige bombshell bikini? That was me. I was also finally able to work with a young, hot Black director, Paul Hunter, who got all my jokes and James Bond references, but who also made sure the video had a contemporary and stylish look. The whole crew and vibe was just young, fiery, and fun. The experience was such a contrast to all the videos I made while sequestered in upstate New York, where everything had to be done within a twenty-mile radius of Sing Sing. The whole message in the “Honey” video was that I was breaking free—although no one understood the insanity, toxicity, and abuse I was living inside. They had no clue.
While we filmed the video, in Puerto Rico, I could often see my manager in the distance on the shore, hard shoes off, khaki pants rolled up at the ankle, pacing along the beach with his phone glued to his ear—talking to Tommy incessantly. Even though we were technically separated at that point, I was still the top Sony artist. Plus, knowing my every move was a hard habit for Tommy to break. My manager was reporting but not giving him the blow-by-blow. It would’ve made Tommy nuts to know I was having such a good time.
As much as I loved “Honey,” my only major disappointment was that Biggie (the Notorious B.I.G.) never made it onto the remix. Puffy and I had talked about bringing to “Honey” a similar blend of my raspy, silky vocal texture with the kind of grit and flow ODB brought to the remix of “Fantasy.” I had never met Biggie, but there was a running story that I had beef with him because of his song “Dreams of Fucking an RnB Bitch”:
Jasmine Guy was fly
Mariah Carey’s kinda scary
Wait a minute, what about my honey Mary?
I was kinda scary? What does that mean? Fuck him. If he only knew some of the scary shit I’d actually been through. Puffy called him one day while we were working in the studio and put me on the phone. In true Biggie form—half pimp, half preacher—he said, “Naw, ma, you know, no disrespect,” assuring me the song was all in fun. So things were cool between us. On the call, we talked about the music and flow, and even clowned a little bit. It was a chill and creative conversation. He was confident about what he wanted to bring to “Honey,” and I had no doubt he would come in the studio and crush it; that’s what Biggie did. Tragically, he didn’t live long enough to make our studio date. The “Honey (Bad Boy Remix)” featuring Mase and the Lox was a smash, but there’s a part of me that still misses Biggie on that song, and certainly in this world.
Producing the songs for Butterfly was what got me through that period in my life. I was writing about everything that was actually going on. It was the beginning of another level in my
