More Than a Woman: Reflecting On Aaliyah 20 Years Later
As a little girl growing up in the 1980s in a profoundly musical household, almost every song carried a story with it. Rarely was the music merely “playing.” There was most always some kind of oral context accompanying the sounds that were permeating the home. One of the talking points of these family commentaries that would particularly capture my attention was death. Especially untimely death.
I think all children, as they become increasingly aware of their own mortality, find the subject of death both powerful and elusive. Mostly, it shifted the way I heard the music. They’d talk about the premature passing of Otis Redding. Buddy Holly, The Big Bopper, and Ritchie Valens. Clifford Brown. Billie Holiday. Sam Cooke. John Coltrane. Tammi Terrell. Jimi Hendrix. All of these artists were played in my home, and the stories of these artists gone much too soon tinted the hues of the art they left with us. The elders would recount these losses . . . sometimes in great detail. Sometimes, the stories were particularly close to their hearts.
I can vividly recall the first time I would experience this kind of loss first hand: April 1, 1984. I was a little girl when the Motown legend Marvin Gaye was gunned down in his home by his father (a detail that was and remains really difficult to wrap my head around), but it was no less affecting. In 1984, Gaye was everywhere thanks to his hugely successful comeback after a long, curious hiatus. I remember how devastated my mother and her siblings were. For them, it understandably hit different. They’d lost an artist who shaped their youth — their coming of age. Before that, I would hear Minnie Riperton’s “Memory Lane” in our house all of the time, and there seemed to be a thick, detectable air of sadness every time it played. I understood it more when I learned that Minnie had passed away only a few years before . . . the emotions still appeared to be raw. Aside from these two events, I hadn’t much first hand experience with loss — neither personal, nor through the passing of my musical loves.
That would drastically change during the 1990s, when my generation would experience so much terrible — and often senseless — loss. The passing of Tupac Shakur and The Notorious B.I.G. were akin to tectonic shifts for the culture. A tragic culmination in a decade’s worth of losses we endured as a collective, as violence ravaged so many of our communities. But I can tell you that with all of the painful losses we experienced, particularly in the mid to late 90s, nothing prepared me for the death of Aaliyah. Her passing remains in a category unto itself.
I was in 10th grade when her debut single, “Back & Forth,” hit the airwaves. We were the same age, my birthday just a few months before hers. I immediately identified with her. As a teenaged Scorpio, I found her dark, enigmatic energy alluring and mysterious — her shoulder length dark hair crowned with a black bandana; the shades; her predilection for black clothing and her intangible vibe. I was a voice major at LaGuardia/Music & Art High School in New York City when Aaliyah came on the scene. Her feather-light voice made me feel like it was OK that I didn’t have the big, boisterous voice characteristic of the girls I sang with every day. Her tiny, straight-up-and-down frame made me feel a lot less insecure about my own. Sometimes people compared me to her aesthetically, which always felt like high praise. When Aaliyah came on the scene, I felt seen, heard, and just a bit cooler because I identified with her so much. Her quiet but strong presence, her down-to-earth demeanor that felt equally feminine and masculine, and her “old soul” vibes were super resonant. In my head, she was the sister I always wanted. I felt like we’d get along famously.
Aaliyah’s debut shot up the charts and was the hottest thing smoking in the Spring of 1994, with “Back & Forth” becoming almost anthem-like. Her take on the 1976 Isley Brothers classic “(At Your Best) You Are Love” remains a benchmark as it pertains to the art of cover song interpretations. She had this way of rendering a song that felt so grounded and unpretentious. It was easy but intentional. As the voices of women like SWV’s Cheryl “Coko” Clemons, Faith Evans, Mary J. Blige, Brandy and Monica would collectively shape and define the sound of a generation and an era, Aaliyah’s ethereal sound took up rightful space, rounding out the decade’s breadth of style and sound.
When Aaliyah released One In a Million in 1996, I was a senior in high school, and when the title track dropped, it felt like a coming of age for the both of us. Her collaborations with Timbaland and Missy Elliott were like a hand in glove. Much like Janet Jackson with producer cohorts Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis, Aaliyah’s evolved sound, laden with futuristic elements and lushly layered harmonies, were a clear declaration of her arrival as a total artist. Interspersed were some of her signature themes; in particular, her brilliant interpretations of 1970s ballads, including another Isley’s classic, “Choosy Lover,” and a laid back version of Marvin Gaye’s party smash, “Got To Give It Up.” It was a sophomore success that solidified her staying power and established her as a defining artist of our time.
By the time she released her third and final album, Aaliyah was at the height of her powers, becoming a Hollywood superstar during her almost six year hiatus from the recording studio. Like Jackson, who paved the way a few years earlier, Aaliyah enjoyed the simultaneous success of a blockbuster film and a hit soundtrack, with Romeo Must Die and songs like “Try Again” and the infectious “Back In One Piece,” an idiosyncratic motif that samples Parliament’s “Sir Nose D’Voidoffunk,” showing off Aaliyah’s versatility and collaborative genius via the recently departed DMX.
She was just getting started.
Twenty years. Where has the time gone? But, then again, what is time, really? Interestingly, I think it’s the illusive nature of time that helps ease the hurting. It reminds us that we are all but precious moments. I remember in the wake of Aaliyah’s passing, watching the “More Than a Woman” video, when it debuted on BET. I was in Los Angeles visiting relatives when she came across the screen in an all white jumpsuit, looking particularly angelic. I became overcome with sadness. Through a flood of tears, I desperately asked my mother, “When is this going to stop hurting?” It had been a few months, and I was still moved to sobbing at the sight and sound of her. I was entirely unaware that the hurting never actually stops, but rather ebbs and flows. Twenty years later, recounting her life and departure to my son, the way the lives and departures of Otis Redding and Tammi Terrell were recounted to me, reminds me that none of us get to escape the experience of bearing witness to the premature fade-to-black of our best and brightest. In her twenty-two years, from Star Search to establishing the career which would garner her own star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, Aaliyah’s life was clearly lived with a level of intention and commitment to her talent.
And yes, there is a part of me that’s still angry. She was a black girl like me. A girl whose options were, at times, taken from her. A black girl whose tests and resilience were monitored under the show business microscope. She rose like a phoenix with grace and she kept her love and her laughter. At what cost, I will never know. She was so young, navigating such cunning waters. She managed to become the author of her own story and her brilliant elusiveness and triumph in an industry which doesn’t make that easy for black girls and women made her a hero. My hometown hero. She embodied liberation. That was something really important for a girl like me to behold. To leave this earthly dimension so soon . . . it still vexes me. I suppose it always will. As the rollout of her catalogue on streaming platforms begins this month, I feel that much more protective of her. She fought too fiercely for her serenity to now have her body of work shrouded in disputes and power struggles.
When I listen to her self-titled posthumous release — an artistic pinnacle — it’s so evident that she was poised to become one of the most essential artists of our generation. Twenty years later, despite her earthly absence, it’s clearer than ever before that she is just that. She didn’t need to be anything more than a woman. Yet, indeed, she was so much more. She was a vibe. A movement. A beacon. A mood. A force. And she remains so.
Forever grateful, baby girl.
Header Photo: Juan Algarin