In 1985, I was invited to a small reception in a Toronto hotel to meet a young woman who was already creating a major industry buzz. Besides being gospel great Cissy Houston’s daughter, Dionne Warwick’s cousin and Aretha Franklin’s goddaughter, Whitney had been signed by Clive Davis, a man with proven ears for talent. The moment Whitney walked into the room, I was struck by her natural beauty and youthful innocence. Just 22, she was fresh-faced and shy, yet already so poised. Sweet and soft-spoken, we chatted together about her new album and upcoming tour. There was an air of barely contained excitement about her, like a debutante at her coming-out ball. Less than a year later, Whitney had b...
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