The press devoured my silly TRL stunt and me right along with it. It was the first time I had experienced the phenomenon of a public fail that woke the monster in the media, that vicious vampire that gains its strength by feeding on the weaknesses of the vulnerable. The bombed stunt mushroomed into a big, nasty, never-ending story. Some mainstream media is a glutton for negative energy and fear. It places a mask over pain and presents it as entertainment news. It was visible, and I was vulnerable. And when the Cinderella of Sony took a fall, no king’s horses or men tried to set the record straight, pick me up, or put me back together again. Rather, they fed on the spectacle and just wanted more—more stumbles, more embarrassment, more breaks, more ridicule. The monster in the media is only satisfied when you are destroyed.
This was all happening before the phenomenon of social media. There was no clapping back on Twitter. No “Drag them, Queen!” No organic love mob of the fiercely loyal Lambily to rush to my defense. Thousands of fans and Lambs did show me love and support through letters and comments on my website, but the “outside” world didn’t take note of that. There was no YouTube and no ’gram. (Although a surprising ally also rose to my defense: Suge Knight (who was so powerful then), in an interview on Hot 97, said, “Everybody needs to leave Mariah alone, or they’re going to have a problem with me.” Trust, back then nobody wanted to have a problem with Suge.
Today it’s easy to coordinate a promo moment or change the narrative through social media. It was freaking hard to penetrate pop culture back then. It was a huge undertaking to get on major TV shows and devise my own “moments”; practically every move you made as an artist was controlled by the “corporate morgue” (as I lovingly call them). Now, when some celebrity mishap goes viral, there’s generally a twenty-four-hour media takeover; then it’s over. Back then, you did one thing, and it dominated the press for what seemed like an eternity. TRL was that one thing.
And the press hunted me, ferociously. This was five years after Princess Diana’s death by tabloid. I studied how the press hounded her like hyenas. I once had a brief but unforgettable moment with Lady Di when our eyes locked at a Vogue party. She was in a stunning sapphire-colored gown, neck dripping in the same blue gems. And she had that look—the dull terror of never being left alone burning behind her eyes. We were both like cornered animals in couture. I completely recognized and identified with her. We shared that understanding of how it felt always being surrounded by people, all of whom might not be trying to hurt you, but all of whom are trying to do something. They all want something. I didn’t know she would be caught and killed shortly after our encounter. I certainly didn’t know I would soon be in a dangerously similar position. The hunters were closing in.
With the August heat, my troubled sleep quickly deteriorated into no sleep at all. Sleep had disappeared, as had proper meals. I was barely eating. The panic around “Loverboy” at the label was real, and they were desperate to make another video for the second single right away. We had just spent several exhausting days shooting the “Loverboy” video in the scorching California desert, in harsh conditions, with no water or basic necessities. There had been no covered area to wait in and block me from the sun between takes, which not only fried me, it wasted time, because my makeup kept melting and had to be reapplied. I may have looked super peppy, but “Loverboy” was a technically grueling shoot, and the label wanted me to get on a plane right away, fly back to New York, and start shooting another video for “Never Too Far” the following day!
I was utterly exhausted, baked, fried, and frayed, and certainly wasn’t in any condition to make another video. I should have had, at the very least, a three- or four-day buffer between shoots. Besides, there was a whole glamorous performance of the song in the film, which they could’ve and should’ve used as a video (ultimately they did). But the label wasn’t hearing me.
It didn’t matter that I was completely spent—what mattered was that they had spent more than a hundred million dollars on “Mariah Carey.” They wanted all their glittery products ready for sale now. There was no one around to intervene, to help coach the label on how to pace the projects and my productivity. No one had the strength or power to say no to unreasonable requests on my behalf, and the pressure was steadily rising. I was exhausted. And the most difficult part was the diabolical delight the tabloid media was milking out of my moment of weakness. It was a nonstop, never-ending circus. I recall watching one entertainment show after the TRL debacle where they were talking about me in the past tense. It was so surreal, as if I was watching an “In Memoriam” of Mariah Carey. And all I really wanted was to rest in peace.
This, on top of dealing with Tommy and my family, was just
