Luther Vandross Doc: Five Things We Learned

Nearly 20 years after his death, it’s easy to forget the ways that R&B legend Luther Vandross impacted pop music. His suavely rhythmic hits, many from the Eighties, don’t get the same amount of airplay as new-wave classics of the same period. It’s also easy to forget how complex and mysterious his life was: For most of his career, Vandross was dogged by rumors about his sexuality and the reasons for his ongoing weight issues. He was both in our faces and behind a curtain at the same time.

Director Dawn Porter’s new doc Luther: Never Too Much sifts through the music, image and legacy of the pop star who died of a stroke, at age 54, in 2005. Mariah Carey, Dionne Warwick, Jamie Foxx, Clive Davis, and Richard Marx are among the talking heads in the film (currently available on demand). Here are a few things we learned (or were reminded of) in the film.

Long before his first hits, you probably heard Vandross before you even knew it was him.
One of the real finds in Luther: Never Too Much is footage of Vandross, then an up-and-coming studio backup singer, working with Bowie during his Young Americans era. We hear the now-familiar story of Bowie overhearing Vandross suggesting a “young Americans, young Americans…” vocal part for that song, and how Bowie took him up on the suggestion.

Vandross’ time with Bowie, on Young Americans and the subsequent Diamond Dogs tour, is well documented. But Vandross’ backup-singer work was omnipresent: He sang on albums by Chic and Sister Sledge (“he was a big part of it,” Chic head Nile Rodgers admits in the doc) and learned about the art of live performance while backing Bette Midler (those clips are fun too). And thanks to Vandross, commercials for Miller Lite beer, Juicy Fruit gum and Gino’s Pizza, all seen here, were some of the funkiest jingles in Madison Avenue history.

Your memory bank isn’t faulty: Yes, that was Vandross on Sesame Street.
When he was a member of the vocal group Listen My Brother, Vandross wound up on the first season of the classic children’s show. It’s a kick seeing the young Vandross on that familiar street set, stepping out for vocal solos. But a dark side also lurks. Future David Bowie guitarist Carlos Alomar, who co-founded Listen My Brother and is seen in the same footage, says Vandross faced judgment even then: “too Black or too fat,” Alomar says, issues that would dog Vandross for the rest of his life.

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Vandross’ weight was more exploited than we remember.
For most of his career, Vandross, who was diabetic, dropped pounds and added them back almost cyclically. He admitted to a friend that he thought about food from the moment he woke up to the minute he went to sleep. That addiction made him the butt of some cruel gags, from Eddie Murphy calling Vandross a “big KFC-eating motherfucker” in Raw to Cedric the Entertainer joking that he had no use for what he called “little Luther.” Clip after clip of morning show hosts asking Vandross about his weight issues, becomes painful to watch.

Luther: Never Too Much doesn’t fully explore the psychological reasons for this addiction, but it does dive into the times his problem was set off. In 1986, Vandross faced jail time after he lost control of his car and crashed into two oncoming vehicles, resulting in a death of a friend in his car. (After pleading no contest, Vandross was put on probation, dodging a major bullet.) But afterward, his weight, which had stabilized, ballooned again. In another tragic moment, his former assistant recalls how upset Vandross was when his record company used his weight issue to promote an album — after which he again gained it all back.

Vandross’ crossover dreams were never fulfilled.
As someone who’d grown up worshiping the Supremes, both their music and fashion, Vandross longed to break free of the limitations of Black radio, where his records were promoted and played. Writer Danyel Smith gives a wonderfully evocative description of the way Black music was often relegated to the dusty back bins of record stores (complete with the smell of mice droppings). According to Marx, who collaborated with the singer on a few occasions, Vandross “felt very strongly like he was being treated in a racist way by the executives,” like short-changing him on recording and promotional budgets.

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Many Black artists had genuine issues with that type of radio segregation. But Luther: Never Too Much shows that Vandross’ issues were not only valid but baffling. We see him losing out on one annual Grammy after another until finally, in 1991, he wins one — but in the Best R&B Vocal, Male slot, not one of the major categories. We hear “Any Love” and “Never Too Much” or his remake of the Carpenters hit “Superstar” and wonder why they didn’t make a bigger mark on Top 40.

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Vandross may have been the last discreet pop star or celebrity ever.
Rumors about Vandross’ sexuality trailed him as much as weight jokes, but Vandross never took the bait and never publicly came out. “He’d rather be alone than have that stigma attached,” remarks a friend, who, like others close to him, dodge the question of his sexuality in the doc. In a sly bit of editing, Marx expresses his displeasure at Vandross friends talking about his sexual preferences, followed by a clip of Patti LaBelle telling Andy Cohen that Vandross “had a lot of lady fans and he told me he didn’t want to upset” them.

We can debate Vandross’ decision and how it benefited (or didn’t) the LGBTQ community. But in the era of social media — which started soon after his death — it’s incredibly refreshing to see a pop star or celebrity who actually wants to focus on art and not reality-TV-ready moments. Whether Vandross could have survived online stans and haters is another question entirely.