Luther Vandross Doc “Never Too Much”: Five Things We Learned

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

New documentary directed by Dawn Porter Luther: Never too much examines the music, image and legacy of the pop star, who died of a stroke aged 54 in 2005. Mariah Carey, Dionne Warwick, Jamie FoxxClive Davis and Richard Marks 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 knew it was him.
One of the real finds in Luther: Never too much this is footage of Vandross, then an up-and-coming studio backing singer, working with Bowie during his Young Americans era. We hear the now familiar story of how Bowie overheard Vandross suggesting the “young Americans, young Americans…” vocal line for the song, and how Bowie supported his suggestion.

Vandross’ time with Bowie. Young Americans and beyond Diamond dogs tour, well documented. But Vandross’s work as a backup singer was ubiquitous: he sang on albums chic and sister Sledge (“he was big part of this”, Gorgeous head Nile Rodgers admits in the doc) and learned about the art of live performance while supporting Bette Midler (these clips are funny, too). And thanks to Vandross, the Miller Lite beer, Juicy Fruit gum and Gino’s Pizza ads featured here became some of the coolest jingles in Madison Avenue history.

Your Memory Bank Isn’t Broken: Yes, it was Vandross. Sesame Street.
As a member of the vocal group Listen My Brother, Vandross was cast in the first season of the classic children’s show. It’s nice to see a young Vandross on a familiar street stage performing vocal solos. But there is also a dark side lurking. Future David Bowie Guitarist Carlos Alomar, co-founder of the band Listen My Brother, who can be seen in the same footage, says Vandross was already facing judgment: “too black or too fat,” Alomar says, problems that would haunt Vandross for the rest of his life.

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Vandross’s weight has been exploited more than we remember.
For much of his career, Vandross, who suffered from diabetes, lost and gained extra pounds in an almost cyclical manner. He confided to a friend that he was thinking about food from the moment he woke up until the minute he went to bed. This addiction made him the butt of cruel jokes, such as Eddie Murphy calling Vandross “a big KFC-eating bastard.” Raw To Cedric the Entertainer, who joked that he didn’t need what he called “little Luther.” Clip after clip of morning show hosts asking Vandross about his weight problems is painful to watch.

Luther: Never too much does not fully explore the psychological reasons for this addiction, but dives into the moments when he had a problem. In 1986, Vandross faced prison time after he lost control of his car and crashed into two oncoming cars, killing a friend in his car. (After pleading no contest, Vandross received probation after dodging a large bullet.) But after that, his weight, which had stabilized, increased again. In another tragic moment, his former assistant recalls how upset Vandross was when his record company used his weight problem to promote an album, only to have him take it all back again.

Vandross’ crossover dreams never materialized.
As someone who grew up loving the Supremes, their music and fashion, Vandross sought to free himself from the restrictions of Black Radio, where his records were promoted and played. Writer Daniel Smith gives a surprisingly evocative account of how black music was often relegated to the dusty bins of record stores (along with the smell of mouse droppings). According to Marks, who collaborated with the singer on several occasions, Vandross “very much felt that he was being treated in a racist manner by executives,” such as shortchanging his recording and advertising budgets.

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Many black artists had serious problems with this type of radio segregation. But Luther: Never too much shows that Vandross’s concerns were not only valid, but also confusing. We see him lose one annual Grammy Award after another until he finally wins one in 1991—but for Best Male R&B Vocal Performance rather than one of the main categories. We hear “Any Love” and “Never Too Much” or his remake of the Carpenters hit “Superstar” and wonder why they didn’t have more top 40 success.

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Vandross may have been the last modest pop star or celebrity in history.
Rumors about Vandross’s sexuality plagued him as much as jokes about his weight, but Vandross never took the bait and never spoke out publicly. “He would rather be single than have that stigma attached to him,” notes a friend who, like others close to him, dodges questions about his sexuality in the doc. In a slight edit, Marks expresses his displeasure with Vandross’ friends talking about his sexual preferences, followed by a clip of Patti LaBelle telling Andy Cohen that Vandross “has a lot of groupies, and he told me he didn’t want to upset” them.

We can discuss the Vandross decision and how it has (or hasn’t) benefited the LGBT community. But in the age of social media that began shortly after his death, it’s incredibly refreshing to see a pop star or celebrity who actually wants to focus on the art rather than reality TV-ready moments. Whether Vandross was able to survive the online stans and haters is another matter entirely.