Don’t Leave Me This Way was originally recorded by Harold Melvin & the Blue Notes, but Houston's rendition took on a life of its own, especially within the emerging 1970s disco scene.
The song reached number one on the Billboard Hot 100 and earned her a Grammy for Best Female R&B Vocal Performance.
So, here's to Saturday Night. And how only your good lovin' can set me free.
http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/lanow/2012/02/whitney-houston-dead-beverly-hills.html
From the article: "Singer Whitney Houston, who reigned as one of the world's top pop stars in the 1980s and '90s but suffered from recurring bouts with drugs and alcohol, was found dead in a Beverly Hills hotel room Saturday.
Law enforcement sources told The Times that paramedics arrived at the Beverly Hilton hotel, where Houston was staying, and found her dead. Her cause of death was unknown, said the sources, who asked to remain anonymous because the investigation is ongoing.
Houston, 48, was in the Los Angeles area for a musical tribute for music executive Clive Davis and had performed earlier this week."
And so that is how it ends.
Yet another of the world's great talents found dead in a hotel room. At 48 years old.
I'm really trying to process this - this has kind of hit me hard.
For two reasons, I imagine. For one, growing up in the 80's, Whitney had THE VOICE. I mean, it was the gold standard, the highly raised bar, the measure which most other singers looked at and then slumped their shoulders in dispair.
And that really never left. Whitney, even on her worst day, seldom sank to the depths of embarrassing performances like, say, a Jim Morrison or Amy Winehouse. Through it all, Whitey still had the pipes that made most challengers think again, then go back to waiting tables.
And, therein lies the second part. I, and I think the collective "we", were all secretly rooting for her to comeback. Really come back. Not just make some half-assed performance every once in a while, but to really grab the throne of Queen Of Pop, sit on the throne and reign again. We were egerly awaiting the second act.
The redemption. We were all waiting with our arms outstreatched saying, Another album, Whitney, another video, another tour, something, ANYTHING from you please! God save us from the Ga Ga's and the Perry's and the Rihanna's and the Clarksons and all the other subpar shit that dominates the airwaves these days. Come back to us, sing us a song and all will be forgiven.
I guess, for me at least, that's what makes this so hard. The second act was coming, I was sure of it. Hell, I would have bet real money on it.
But, instead, we get another pop star past their glory getting stiff on the floor of some hotel room. And that hurts too. Doesn't any pop star die in a plane crash anymore?
Fucking hotel rooms. Shit.
And at 48. And maybe, just maybe, that hurts the most.
What a huge drag.
