The Imperial Whitney Houston

At her height, her power and reach was the stuff of royalty.

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AP Images

The Queen is dead. Long live the Queen.

Whitney Houston was arguably the most important woman in pop music for 10 years, and for the next 15 years watched the world she had made over in her image slowly unravel in beauty, heartbreak, and eventual squalor.

Between 1985, when "How Will I Know" and "Greatest Love of All" announced a powerful new voice in both dance-pop and balladry, and 1995, when her imperium began to fade into the complacency of soundtracks, the compromise of collaboration, and the indignity of having every new record called a comeback, her only peers were called the King and Queen of Pop—which would have made her also a Queen (or, perhaps, an Empress) if such jockeying for titles weren't beneath her dignity.

To some, her radiance papered over the injustice of American society—a reading borrowed from British punk's attitude towards an actual Queen.

And dignified she was—she even explicitly said so in "Greatest Love of All"—as was fitting of the daughter of gospel, soul, and disco royalty, whose cousin was the eternally poised Dionne Warwick and whose godmother was the ferociously righteous Aretha Franklin. But it was a dignity without hauteur: That smile, both intimately warm and supremely confident, shone out from hundreds of millions of record covers around the globe and mitigated the marble perfection of her voice. She became, if not the girl next door, then the trusted avatar of our best selves, who embodied her songs of heartbreak, fear, and solitude in widescale productions that erupted into extravagant pirouettes of melody and sleek coruscations of rhythm.

Or so the royalist history goes. There are always revolutionaries in the realm, people who don't believe in the benevolence or utility of the monarchy. The cruelly ironized use of her image and music in Bret Easton Ellis's spiteful satire American Psycho came to stand in for an entire subcultural critique of the hyperpolished, precision-engineered music of the '80s mainstream, against which white men who considered themselves disaffected intellectuals raged. In their reading, the bounding, whirling joy of "I Wanna Dance With Somebody (Who Loves Me)" or "So Emotional" falsely papered over the injustice, violence, and destructiveness of American society, and she was a convenient figurehead propping up a corrupt system—a reading borrowed from British punk's attitude towards an actual Queen.

Whitney was not a literal queen, but the theory of monarchy—that while most people are contingent upon the world, there are some people on whom the world is contingent, who define the world, and on whose sufferance the rest of us exist—isn't a bad metaphor for the feelings that Whitney Houston inspired in many of my generation. Whether we were adoring pop-dance royalists (which as often as not meant that we could see ourselves in her; we were women, or black, or queer), or raging indie-punk roundheads (which as often as not meant that our own structures of power were threatened by her metaphorical realm), we understood her as a constant, to be done homage or to be fought against, but always, eternally, there.

Her voice allowed no other understanding. It not only "filled the room" in the ordinary sense of being easily heard—especially when she pushed into her belting range, hard-edged and indomitable—but in the sense that there was no space for anything else; you felt crushed against the walls by the dominating, obliterating power of her voice. This could be ecstasy, or it could be intolerable; not unusually, as in the operatic grandeur of The Bodyguard soundtrack, it was both.

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Jonathan Bogart is a writer based in Chicago whose work was included in Best Music Writing 2011. He is on Tumblr at

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