Carey met Tommy Mottola in 1988 at a record label party in Manhattan. She'd moved to the Big Apple right after
graduating high school, armed with a demo tape that her big brother, Morgan, financed. A girlfriend of one of the
musicians on the tape hooked Carey up with singer Brenda K. Starr, who hired the teen as a backup vocalist. Starr took a
special interest in Carey's fledgling career and invited her to a shindig celebrating the opening of the now defunct WTG
Records. There the two ran into WTG president Jerry Greenberg and his friend Mottola, who had just been appointed
president of CBS Records, Columbia's parent company before Sony took over.
"Brenda knew them both," Carey remembers, grinning slyly. "And she had a copy of my demo. She handed it to Jerry, but
Tommy grabbed it! He just put out his hand and snatched it away."
The rest is legend: Mottola left the party, got into his car, popped the tape in his cassette deck, and heard the voice of the '90s.
He turned the car around, but by the time he got back to the party, Carey was gone. Using his considerable contacts, he
tracked her down.
"We started working together," Carey says, "and gradually, a relationship developed."
Mottola's first marriage was effectively over by the time they met, she insists, and other
sources confirm that it was, as one put it, "in a state of long-term dissolution."
Carey adds that the record mogul's genuine love of music-Mottola had a brief career as a
professional singer many years ago-played a big role in their friendship and courtship: "He's
more connected to music than a lot of label people are. He's not just some guy who does the
paperwork." As it turns out, Carey has business ambitions of her own; there's a
yet-to-be-named record company in the works that will be distributed by Sony, and she's
already signed a hip hop girl group called Blue Denim, which features Salt's (of Salt-N-Pepa)
sister.
In fact, despite the 20-odd-year age difference between them, the Mottolas seem like a
pretty compatible pair. And the second Mrs. Mottola gives a convincing portrait of a woman in love, raving about her
husband's cooking and giggling effusively when I ask her if they ever sing together around the house. (The answer is no.)
But Carey knows that being married to the boss makes her vulnerable to scrutiny and what she describes as jealous
accusations. "Some critics have had their issues with me, which they work in to the reviews. They have things they don't like
about my personal situation. But it doesn't matter who's in control of putting your records out." Plainly, whatever you think of
her music, to credit Carey's success at this point to the man she lives with seems bogus. "That person can't go into stores and
make people buy [records]. Only the music can do that." Plus, she says, she doesn't mind "valid" criticism.
"On my first tour, I did a show in Florida that was bad. This reviewer ripped me to shreds, and while it upset me, it helped me
too. The next show, in Boston, was the best show of the tour. I let myself go more."
Carey's skin is definitely thicker now than it was when she started. The personal stuff still hurts a lot, though. "It's hard to be
someone that people talk about and write about, you know? They don't know me." The toughest dilemma she's had to deal
with recently involves her sister, who was diagnosed as HIV-positive over a year ago and with whom Carey was recently
involved in a "legal situation" that she can't discuss. "I'll just say that my family has problems, and some are more intense than
others. This one falls into the much-more-intense category."
Carey knows now how success changes people. "It's changed me, because I've grown up doing this. But a lot of weird
jealousy crap also comes into play, from people I thought were true friends, people I brought all over the country with me and
did all I could for, who then turned out to be vicious and back-stabbing." She pauses. "I have a few close friends left over. Not
many."
But Carey quickly adds that she doesn't want to be pitied. She chose this life for herself and has done quite nicely with it.
Cinderella sweated a lot before the glass slippers and the handsome prince, as she takes pains to remind me. "If you see me as
just the princess, then you misunderstand who I am and what I've been through," she says. From her earnestness, and her
occasional defensiveness, you can tell that this new life still feels strange and precious to her. While she doesn't take the good
parts for granted, she's ambivalent about success in general.
It's not that the glamour or the financial rewards make her feel guilty. That kind of guilt is for the bourgeois alternative rock set,
not for working-class girls like Cinderella or Mariah. It's about craving attention your whole life, getting it, and then realizing
that with that attention comes judgment and with judgment often comes condemnation. When that happens, she says, "I just
hold my breath until it passes, and then I move on." Before we leave the restaurant, she touches up her makeup a bit. There
are only a few people scattered about the main dining area, but Carey's not taking any chances.
Minutes later, we're in front of her huge, spotless garage. "Sometimes I walk around this place in the middle of a sleepless
night," she says quietly, "and I think, You didn't do so badly for yourself, kid." Mariah Carey stands for just a moment at the
top of the hill, staring at her Blazer as if she half-expects it to turn into a pumpkin. But it doesn't. So she goes in the house to
take off her makeup-and relax.
Vibe Cover Story, April 1996
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