I love watching home videos of today’s superstars performing on stage before they were famous. They are my lifeblood. If I were a vampire, these videos would definitely be the thing that keeps me alive. They are everything to me. They bring me immense amounts of joy, even though they double as my own form of self-inflicted torture.
I’ve been obsessed with the medium for a long time now, but it wasn’t until I saw this video of an 8 year-old Olivia Rodrigo singing “Don’t Rain On My Parade” a few months back that I realized just how drawn I was to this genre of content. Before then, I had watched hours of blurry footage of our greatest singers giving their most dedicated pitchy performances before they knew how to do long division, and never thought anything of it. From Beyoncé and Kelly Rowland perfecting their harmonies on “I Wanna Be Where You Are” in 1993, to Ariana Grande still workshopping “The Wizard and I” before she ever dared to throw her hair in a pony tail, it didn’t matter what generation they were from—if there was a video on YouTube, I had seen it.
My obsession can be directly traced back to the first time I saw Lauryn Hill’s infamous performance of “Who’s Lovin’ You,” where she was booed at the Apollo at just 13 years old. It’s a tough video to watch, and to be honest I’ve never been able to sit through the whole thing. I come back to it every so often just to see if it’s not as bad as I remember, but I always end up X-ing out around the 1:20 mark. My inability to watch the catastrophe in full is not what imprinted on me, though. It was the fact that that could’ve been, and probably should’ve been, me.
“Who’s Lovin’ You” by The Jackson 5 is my uncontested favorite song of all time. All singers have their go-to party trick song, and “Who’s Lovin’ You” was mine. It was my audition song, it was my warm up song, I even sang it in class a couple times. I have a history with that song that I don’t have with many others. So when I saw that upsetting video of Lauryn Hill for the first time, it stuck with me. Was this her favorite song, too? How do you build a relationship with performing after something like that?
By far, the pre-fame childhood performance I covet the most is this video of Jazmine Sullivan singing “Home” from The Wiz in 1999. There’s so much to appreciate about this performance, from her adorable braces-induced speech impediment, to the vocal acrobatics she accomplishes with her one-of-a-kind runs. She manipulates the song in a uniquely-Jazmine way, and in the process she demonstrates an understanding of musical theory that would be considered impressive at any age, let alone at age 11. And the jaw-brato…don’t get me started on the jaw-brato.
Jazmine Sullivan is an interesting case study of the Artists Performing Before They Were Famous canon, because there are actually quite a few videos of her singing as a child floating around the internet. This video of her performing at the Apollo is just as, if not more, awe-inspiring as her performance of “Home” (the ad-lib “I might only be 11 years old but I come and tell you that He’ll lead you” is legendary to me), and her rendition of “He Needs Me” from Oliver! blows both of these performances out of the water easily.
But there’s something about her performance of “Home” that resonates with me the most. It’s the comfort video I run to when I need a reality check from my anxiety, but it’s also become an emotional cornerstone for me as well. It probably helps that “Home” is one of my favorite songs of all time, but there’s just something about her nonchalant delivery that makes me marvel with every viewing. It’s the kind of performance you give during a tech run—the kind where you phoned in the effort at 67% to save your energy, and yet still managed to be the best performer of the day. This isn’t to say that she didn’t get up there and give it all she had, because that is very much not the case. What I am saying is that even at 11 years old, this girl knew she had a voice, knew what she had to do to be great, and most importantly, recognized the value of her talent.
I did not have that. Not at 11, not at 13, not at 17, not at 20. What’s worse: At 24, I finally can recognize the value, but I no longer have the voice to match.
When I watch that video of Lauryn Hill at the Apollo, I see someone who knows she has a great deal of talent, but doesn’t know how to demonstrate it to the audience. I see someone who showed up with her go-to party trick song, the song that her parents would make her sing every time they had guests over, and thought there was no way she could fail. She doesn’t have the innate command that Jazmine has in her performances, or the passion that Ariana has in hers, or the charisma Olivia has in hers. When I watch that video at the Apollo, I don’t see Lauryn Hill, I see me.
I used to be a singer, but I always, always, always despised the “performing” part of the gig, and unfortunately I let that negatively effect my relationship to singing for a long time. I devoted years of my life to perfecting this talent I pretended not to like, all because I didn’t like the obligations that came with it. I didn’t like the humiliating auditions, I couldn’t stand the conceded competitions, and I hated the banal recitals. I liked my voice lessons—loved them, actually—but as soon as someone put a spotlight on my voice it made me feel like it was no longer mine. I was doing what other people expected me to do with my talent for their own pleasure.
I couldn’t even begin to count the amount of times I performed as a kid, but I can count that amount of times I enjoyed it: zero. Now, at 24 years old, after years of neglect, the vocal capability I have left feels like little to none, and I wish more than anything I could go back and make little teenage me appreciate what she had, because she was really, really good. It’s only now that I realize I lamented before every performance because I never thought there would come a day when I would be struggling to make it through my lip trills. Back then, I could run up the scale for hours if you let me. Today, I have to tap out after 15 minutes.
I watch these videos and think, “if only I could’ve been more like Jazmine. Or Olivia, or Ariana.” I wish I could’ve looked past the uncomfortable anxiety and the tacky stage makeup and seen those performances through a macro lens instead of micro one. If I had just a little less contempt in me, maybe I could’ve added myself to my arsenal of favorite pre-fame performances. I have the video tapes, but they don’t have the same effect as these other videos do. They’re not a testament to where I ended up, they’re a reminder that the most impressive part of me no longer exists, and an even worse reminder that it didn’t have to be this way.
I’ve been working up the courage to start taking voice lessons again, but I’m afraid of the feedback I might receive if I do. My vocal chords could be in worse shape than I think, and I don’t know what I’ll do if they are. It’s almost easier for me to pretend that this is all just a passing phase, and that next week I’ll wake up feeling healthy, open, and resonant again. Until then, I can watch my favorite artists sing their hearts out on these low quality recordings and enjoy them for what they are, while also teaching myself a lesson in appreciation in the process.