Whitney Houston’s National Anthem at 30
The first time I heard the national anthem performed in a way that mesmerized me was when Marvin Gaye sang it in 1983 at the NBA All-Star Game. Just four months after the release of what would be his last album, Gaye was riding the wave of a tremendous comeback, with “Sexual Healing,” his chart topping single, which spent 27 weeks on the Billboard charts. Central to the song is the TR-808, making the bedroom anthem one of the very first to utilize the pioneering drum machine. He used it again for his wholly original “Star-Spangled Banner“ performance, effortlessly floating in and out of phrases like the greatest living crooner that he was. Through his genius, he turned an anthem into a groove. It was completely fresh. “I felt that singing it with that kind of music in the background gave me an inspiration,” Gaye said in an interview. “I asked God that when I sang it, would He let it move mens’ souls.”
In the wake of football player and activist Colin Kaepernick’s protest of police brutality demonstrated through kneeling before games during the anthem, a lot more has been more widely understood about the racist roots of the song, written by Francis Scott Key in 1814. The stanza that is left out of the anthem when sung in stadiums and schools, references Key’s problematic sentiments regarding slavery.
No refuge could save the hireling and slave
From the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave,
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.
Key, a descendant of a wealthy plantation family who enslaved black people, wrote the song based on his experience during the War of 1812. The omitted stanza is in reference to the British promising refuge to enslaved Black people who escaped their enslavers and fought on their side, raising fears among White Americans of a large-scale revolt. He spoke of Black people as “a distinct and inferior race” and supported emancipating the enslaved only if they were immediately shipped to Africa. [1]
When Gaye speaks of his prayer that his rendering of this song would “move men’s souls,” I believe it is safe to say that he is not romanticizing the song in the ways typical of those who call themselves patriots. A deeply spiritual being, raised in the church, who had only twelve years prior, masterfully indicted America through his magnum opus, What’s Going On, Gaye once again enmeshes prayer and politics with his performance of the national anthem. By interpreting the song through the lens of his iconic legacy, it was yet another mirror he was holding up to those in power to see the hypocrisy of empty patriotism and the distance that black people must constantly negotiate between who America says it is, and the reality of who it is. His acclaimed performance became the prototype for every black person who performed it henceforward. Especially Whitney Houston.
I find the coincidence of Juneteenth becoming a federal holiday the same year as the 30th anniversary of Whitney Houston’s earth-shifting performance of the national anthem to be quite stunning. Only two short weeks separate the holidays but the space is immeasurable when we consider that the Fourth of July represented freedom exclusive to white men, and that freedom for black people would be delayed for nearly a century. Immeasurable distance, when we examine the fact that “justice delayed,” is as American as apple pie. That we continue to celebrate a holiday that marks independence and freedom of white men only, two weeks after we honor the emancipation of my enslaved ancestors is one of many consistent mind-f***s that come with being black in America. In the words of the formerly enslaved great abolitionist Frederick Douglass, “What have I or those I represent to do with your national independence?” When it was announced that Juneteenth — an event commemorating the official end of slavery, which has been celebrated by Black Americans for the last 155 years —had been declared a federal holiday this year, for many Black people the observance felt empty, when we consider that the U.S. government has yet to pass the Emmett Till Antilynching Act; legal scholarship like critical race theory and journalism projects like The 1619 Project and its creators are facing attack, and voting rights are being stripped before our very eyes. Houston’s national anthem performance arriving at this thirty-year milestone, is a reminder that to quote Nikole Hannah-Jones, “America wasn’t a democracy until Black Americans made it one.” And we are still doing that costly work.
As a New Yorker, I remember being very excited about the showdown between The New York Giants and The Buffalo Bills. It was the first Super Bowl in which both teams were from the same state, and it was the first trip to the Bowl for the Bills. It was the only Super Bowl decided by one point and the first Super Bowl in which neither team committed a turnover. The Giants, who had only been to the Bowl once before, also set a Super Bowl record-holding possession of the ball for 40 minutes and 33 seconds.[2] In what is widely considered to be one of the greatest Super Bowl games in NFL history, when the Giants won, I remember the way New York City celebrated and somewhere around here, I still have the commemorative tee shirt. But the win paled in comparison to Houston’s stunning, platinum-selling performance.
By 1991, Whitney Houston was on top of the world. She was America’s sweetheart and simultaneously represented an ocean of possibility for young black girls everywhere. She had just recently released her third album, the L.A. and Babyface produced I’m Your Baby Tonight, which was starkly more urban that her first two pop smashes. I’m Your Baby Tonight was, in a way, a reminder that Whitney was indeed still ours — a fine line Houston would have to dance, certainly up until The Bodyguard in 1992. Although Whitney had reclaimed her black voice (and audience) with I’m Your Baby Tonight, her national anthem performance made her a patriot in the eyes of white America. She didn’t merely sing the anthem; in the context of world-stage events, Houston had a weight on her shoulders that far surpassed landing the high notes.
Super Bowl XXV was actually a game that almost didn’t happen. Only ten days prior, President George H. W. Bush set Operation Desert Storm into motion, and the first air attacks were launched on Iraq and Kuwait. Many wondered if moving forward with the Super Bowl would be safe from a national security perspective, and if the celebratory nature of the event was appropriate amidst the beginning of an active and controversial war. Bush’s stony remarks only added to the heightened sensitivity. “And so, life goes on,” he famously stated. “We’re not going to screech everything to a halt in terms of the recreational activities, and I cite the Super Bowl. And I am not going to screech my life to a halt out of some fear about Saddam Hussein. And I think that’s a good, clear signal for all Americans to send halfway around the world.”
The stakes could not have been higher.
“We talked about how it should feel,” recounts Ricky Minor, who was Houston’s musical director from 1989-1999. “We talked about Marvin Gaye, and how he’d done the national anthem at the NBA All Star Game.” Houston confessed to Minor that, in fact, the only version of the anthem she’d ever liked was Gaye’s. She particularly appreciated the 4/4 time signature, the tempo, the ease of the performance and she was inspired by the freedom of his phrasing.
Produced by Minor and Houston, they changed the meter to 4/4 to allow for a more soulful approach to the song. But it was John Clayton’s arrangment paired with Whitney’s vocal genius, which made this the greatest anthem of all time. Clayton, a profoundly gifted bassist, composer, arranger, conductor, producer, and educator, created a soundscape that I literally cannot listen to without weeping. I have tried. Thirty years later, it remains impossible. Ironically, all of what I love about this version of the anthem – and presumably what most of you love about it – is what was initially resented about it, when it was first presented to the orchestra.
Clayton’s arrangment paints the song with colors of the Black American story. Within the backdrop of pomp and circumstance, his reharmonization draws you to a spiritual source. He amalgamates gospel, R&B, jazz, classical, and military marches, weaving a prose deeply resonate with the black experience. The use of dissonance, the chord progressions, the harmonic intricacies, and the time signature shook the foundation of the song. These elements suddenly made the anthem ours, too. The initial criticisms of the arrangement are therefore not merely musical. What was sensed in the music — its blackness — and the knee-jerk need to reject it, reveals much about the American psyche. Extraordinarily, the arrangement challenged the psyche, without changing the words, to see America for more clearly. In the 2018 documentary, Whitney, writer Cinque Henderson says, “Black people always had a very fraught relationship to ‘The Star Spangled Banner.’ It’s a song about war, and the organs of state violence in the US have just as often been used against black people as they have against enemies. She had the radical impact of highlighting the theme of freedom.”
Watching the live performance, everything about it remains astounding, down to the wardrobe. Interestingly, the now-iconic look wasn’t the original intention. In Robyn Crawford’s memoir, A Song For You, Houston’s best friend and closest confident shares how the famous outfit came to be. “The plan was for her to stand on a podium, backed by a full orchestra all dressed in black tie,” Crawford explains. “And she was to wear a sleeveless, black cocktail dress and heels.” The Tampa weather had gotten far too cool, and after sound check while back at the hotel, Crawford recalls Houston coming to her concerned about the wardrobe. Crawford suggested she wear the track suit still packed in her suitcase. She took the advice, did her own hair and make up for the occasion and added the white headband on her own, finishing the look with pair of white and red Nike Cortez sneakers.
Over a roaring crowd and through the palpable surging energy, the announcement commenced:
“And now to honor America, especially the brave men and women serving our nation in the Persian Gulf, and throughout the world, please join in the singing of our national anthem. The anthem will be followed by a flyover of F-16 jets from the 56th Tactical Training Wing at MacDill Air Force Base and will be performed by The Florida Orchestra under the direction of maestro Jahja Ling, and sung by GRAMMY-award winner… Whitney Houston.”
It opens with a mammoth wave of drum rolls, followed by a series of E-flats (I assume to give Houston a point of reference to come in on the right key) and she begins. “Oh, Say Can You See…” her commanding voice seeming to overpower the thousands of cheering football fans. Her phrasing over the 4/4 time signature immediately grabs you, in the ways that it did when Gaye sang it eight years prior. But with Houston, she’s like the eye within a sonic hurricane, surrounded by a massive orchestral wonderland. She is strong… full-throated and projecting the song with almost studious attention. And then something astounding happens.
The second stanza.
Houston, pulls her voice back to an utterly angelic space. “Whose Broad Stripes / And Bright Stars,” she swoons as the orchestra grounds itself. The percussion fades almost completely out, and the strings glisten with a beautiful countermelody, and the bass (or perhaps the cello?) cuts through with this gorgeous swell.
“Through The Perilous Fight…”
HOLE UP! HOLE UP!
That. Part. Right. There?!?! This is where Clayton’s genius orchestration launches the song into the heavens. On that second measure of the second verse, Clayton places an Ab7SUS over the first syllable of “perilous”.
WHAAAAAT?!?!?
Traditionally, if we consider the key that Whitney is singing in, the chord would have been a basic F minor (then going to a Bb7 to Eb). But Clayton, instead of utilizing the F minor, as he does in the first stanza, chooses an Ab7SUS chord. SUS chords, or suspended chords, especially those voiced this way, are often used in various genres of black music, particularly gospel and R&B — two places where Houston’s musical pedigree are firmly rooted. You hear her laying into these changes, completely in her bag. I find it fascinating that Clayton wrote an Ab7SUS here. Think of the word “perilous”: unsafe, treacherous, life-threatening. These are the descriptives that could come to mind. The stringency of the original chord denotes this sort of traditionally patriotic description of a heroic, American scene. Yet, Clayton writes an arrangment here which elevates your entire soul. For me, the lyric becomes different. For me, the peril in this context is now that of my ancestors fighting for their freedom. It sounds like a salve for their wounds. It is a lyric/music juxtaposition that makes perfect sense when I hear it in that context. Houston’s delivery and the way she draws on the word… you can hear both the exhaustion and the determination connected to this fight.
“O’er The Ramparts We Watched”
WAIT… STOP…
Clayton ascends the song once again. Traditionally, “ramparts” would have been sung over an Ab chord. Clayton now deepens the hue of the phrase, assigning a DbMAJ7 there instead. It’s over this phrase — “O’er The Ramparts We Watched” — that we hear Whitney do the first of what would be very few riffs in this performance… it’s a delicious moment where you can feel she is totally moved and compelled to place a beautiful, soulful inflection over the lyric.
If you watch the video of the broadcast, when she hits that second stanza, there are three camera shots strung together. The first is a row of flags, including a confederate flag, blowing in the Tampa breeze. The next shot zooms in on a beautiful, dark complexioned military person who is obviously deeply moved by the moment, and whose intense eyes seem to carry the history of our journey on this land. It then cuts to a white woman with Saved By the Bell-esque hair (it was the 90s), waving a hand sized American flag back and forth, as she proudly mouths the words. It is in these few seconds of a real-time montage, that we witness the ingrained violence of this country, the enduring patriotism of Black people, rooted in the belief that America’s best ideals will one day coming to pass, and how white America gets to smile through it all, obliviously. It is one of the most compelling ten-seconds of footage I’ve ever seen.
“And The Rockets Red Glare”
Whitney brings it home in a way that foreshadows the solidifying of her “The Voice” epithet. Jumping from that celestial second stanza, into a thunderous home stretch, she takes the crowd to an unfathomable pinnacle, singing a resplendent high Ab at “O’er The Land Of The Free,” and by the time she gets to “And The Home Of The Brave,” where she holds “brave” for almost ten seconds, we are forever changed.
I have always found it particularly difficult to participate in the trappings of American patriotism. When I was a schoolgirl, I would reluctantly stand for the Pledge of Allegiance every day as it was broadcasted over the loudspeaker into the individual classrooms, but I refused to recite it, and I refused to place my hand across my chest to my heart. To me, there was never anything fundamentally endearing about America, so that gesture felt particularly uncomfortable. In fact, I knew that when I found myself in a neighborhood where there were too many American flags hanging from front porches, that I was on the wrong side of town, and absolutely unsafe. Those bold banners were a sign of patriotism for some; a signal to panic for others.
When Whitney Houston performed the song — brown, woman, beautiful, captivating — it was almost like an extension of what Marian Anderson did in 1939 at the Lincoln Memorial. Much had changed, yet so much had not. By 1991, the black community was still reeling from the Reagan administration, the crack epidemic was at its peak, and within weeks of the anthem, 15-year-old Latasha Harlins was murdered, and Rodney King was beaten to within an inch of his life by the Los Angeles Police Department. America was still going to America. Houston’s world-shattering performance wafted in the air throughout these pivotal moments in American history. It echoed and it hovered and it haunted. It held up that mirror which Anderson held, and which Gaye held. And America continues to refuse to look itself in the eyes.
Throughout her career, Whitney Houston managed two distinct audiences. By and large, white people loved Whitney Houston for an entirely different reason than black people loved Whitney Houston. Much like in the way this nation’s anthem represents two very different things to the citizens of this country. Houston’s rendition became a chart-topping success but moreover, it was seen as a way to bring the country together during a difficult time of war. Black people have historically been tasked with the responsibility of seeing America through troubled times, which I find most ironic. If only America would task itself with living up to its founding ideals. Imagine that anthem.
What, to the American slave, is your 4th of July? I answer: a day that reveals to him, more than all
other days in the year, the gross injustice and cruelty to which he is the constant victim. To him,
your celebration is a sham; your boasted liberty, an unholy license; your national greatness,
swelling vanity; your sounds of rejoicing are empty and heartless; your denunciations of tyrants,
brass fronted impudence; your shouts of liberty and equality, hollow mockery; your prayers and
hymns, your sermons and thanksgivings, with all your religious parade, and solemnity, are, to him,
mere bombast, fraud, deception, impiety, and hypocrisy — a thin veil to cover up crimes which
would disgrace a nation of savages. There is not a nation on the earth guilty of practices, more
shocking and bloody, than are the people of these United States, at this very hour.
– Frederick Douglass