Of course, the timing of the soundtrack’s release couldn’t have been worse—something no one could have foreseen. People didn’t go see the movie. I still believe Glitter was ahead of its time. People may not have been ready to deal with the eighties in the early 2000s, but I knew it was going to be a thing. And then it was! And I still love that soundtrack. I am so glad and so grateful that almost two decades later, the Lambs and I got #JusticeForGlitter, making it go to number one in 2018. I’m also glad I get to perform those songs now. The fans gave Glitter new shine, new dazzle—the life it deserved.
It was late in the summer of 2001. The few critics who were able to preview the Glitter movie almost unanimously panned it. The anxiety caused by its bad reception, and the label’s reaction to the single only hitting number two, was seeping into my psyche. Honestly, the only other artist I’ve seen under so much pressure to perform above and beyond their own phenomenal success was Michael Jackson. Like him, I was also used to having unquestionable smashes. It was my idea to make a whole-ass album called #1’s! But still, number two on a new label, on a soundtrack (not a studio album) didn’t seem so tragic, if you ask me.
And still the stress was mounting. It didn’t seem like the label had a strong promotional strategy, and I didn’t have a coordinated management team in place yet. I didn’t see anyone around me taking control of what was becoming the “single situation.” Worry seemed to outweigh planning and problem solving; internally the project was looking a mess. So my creative survival instincts kicked in. I felt like I had to do something—somebody had to do something.
High anxiety made what little sleep was allotted for in my schedule nearly impossible. I couldn’t get to sleep. I couldn’t find my things. I couldn’t seem to get anyone to pull it together.
So I made my own move. Admittedly, it was too late and a bit messy, but it was some kind of action. I concocted a last-minute little publicity stunt to garner excitement for “Loverboy”: I staged a “crash” of TRL on MTV.
In keeping with the vibe of the video and the audience, I thought it would be festive to have a little nostalgic summer moment. Running on pure panic and excitement, I showed up on set with a spunky ponytail, pushing an ice-cream cart full of Popsicles and wearing an oversized airbrushed “Loverboy” T-shirt with a surprise underneath: an eighties Glitter look. It was an innocent and silly stunt and highly unrehearsed. I very much freestyled my dialogue, as I tend to do, and I was hoping Carson Daly could play off of me, riff, and involve the audience (as one would expect a host to do). But he didn’t play along. (I know he was probably told to act surprised, but he didn’t act at all.)
I realized I was living in the moment all by myself. So I thought, Okay, let me pull out a little costume trick to get the energy going. I awkwardly removed the T-shirt to reveal gold sparkly hot pants and a “Supergirl” tank top. But in response, Carson, acting all aghast, said, “Mariah Carey is stripping on TRL right now!” (Oh, now he decides to act.) I certainly was not stripping—I was revealing. Granted, my performance was a bit sloppy, and came off as silly. But instead of ad-libbing, Carson was looking at me like I was crazy. My adrenaline was dialed up to 1,000, and Carson asked me, “What are you doing?” Really?!
I nervously answered, “Every now and then, somebody needs a little therapy, and today is that moment for me.”
The truth is, my fans are a part of my therapy. Some people have retail therapy, some have chocolate therapy; I have fan therapy. I have always gone directly to my fans for energy and inspiration. I established an independent relationship with my fans before social media was even created. I used my website to personally talk to them; I would leave voice messages for them and tell them what I was doing and how I was honestly feeling.
It was unfiltered, how I communicated with my fans, and how we communicated with each other. So when I made that infamous call to my fans, while freaked out and feeling alone on a boat in Puerto Rico, leaving a sad message saying I was taking a break—they understood. The way it was reported in the press was as if I had a meltdown and made a desperate, random call. Back then, people didn’t understand, and wondered why I talked directly to my fans. The media had no concept of the bond I had with my fans. None.
My fans care, and they take note of everything I do and make it their own. The press didn’t understand how the fans named themselves “Lambs.” The fans paid attention to when Trey Lorenz and I would go into our old-Hollywood affectation and say things like, “Be a lamb and fetch me a splash of wine.” We would call each other “lamb” as a term of endearment all the time—and that’s how the Lambs (the deeply devoted fans) were born! Now we are Lambily! My fans saved my life and continue to give me life every day. So honestly, I don’t give a fuck if publicists or press thought I was crazy for bringing Popsicles or making phone calls to my fans. The Lambs are everything, and every song, every show, every video, every post, every festive moment, everything I do as an artist is for them.
TRL. Was. A. Stunt. Gone. Awry. And let’s be clear and logical, there’s no way I, Mariah Carey, or anyone could actually crash any MTV show, with an ice-cream cart no less. Maybe Carson Daly didn’t
