A Houston Masquerade

Date: November 18, 1998
By Deborah Wilker

From Sun-Sentinel (Fort Lauderdale, FL)
Submitted by: Rachel D.


WHITNEY HOUSTON: My Love Is Your Love. Arista Records.

There is one truly satisfying song on Whitney Houston's new album, an unassuming ballad, written -- inevitably -- by Diane Warren, one of the most dependable tunesmiths in the business.

I Learned From the Best comes more than halfway through the set, a welcome respite in an otherwise bland collection. The rest of My Love Is Your Love, Houston's first full studio effort in eight years, is little more than a meandering bass line in search of a melody. All groove, no heart.

While there's no disputing Houston's transcendent voice, the set doesn't live up to the media fanfare that's greeting it -- or the millions Arista Records is spending to promote it. Even the much-hyped duet When You Believe with new friend Mariah Carey (who do these ladies think they're fooling?), is nothing special.

In fact their vocals sound so much alike, it's nearly impossible to tell who's singing when. That there's no contrast between them is but one of several problems here.

An entire generation of music fans has come and gone while Houston, 35, has been out of the studio, skating by on soundtrack singles. In what looks like a desperate attempt to prove just how well she understands the vast changes in pop music, Houston and Arista chief Clive Davis hired an array of young hip-hop and r&b stars to co-write, co-produce, arrange and sing.

But the problem with hotshots Missy Misdemeanor Elliott, Wyclef Jean, Lauryn Hill, Faith Evans and Rodney Jerkins is that not one of them provides even one decent melody. While it's noble that Houston is embracing young talent and new trends, it can't work if the songwriting isn't there.

Even Kenny Babyface Edmonds, one of decade's most pleasing writer-producers, is off his form here, contributing the barely memorable Until You Come Back, and polishing up the melody (to little avail) on the Carey duet.

Warren's remaining contributions are also uncharacteristically weak, and out of sync with the album's funky vibe. It's as if she and Edmonds were summoned at the 11th hour to provide hit insurance, and they answered with crumbs from their cast-off pile.

There's simply nothing here for Houston to grab on to; no sweeping payoff notes; no dramatic crescendos. She deserves better than slapped-together chants masquerading as pop tunes.