Luther Vandross, the velvet-voiced crooner who soundtracked countless romantic moments, remains an enigma in many ways, particularly when it comes to his personal life and the crucial partners, both professional and personal, who shaped his journey. While celebrated for his songs of love and intimacy, Vandross himself maintained a carefully guarded privacy, especially concerning romantic relationships. A new documentary, Luther: Never Too Much, now offers a fresh perspective, subtly suggesting that understanding Vandross’s life through a queer lens enriches our appreciation of his artistry and the partnerships he cultivated throughout his career.
The documentary, directed by Dawn Porter, doesn’t explicitly label Vandross’s sexuality. Instead, it delicately explores the nuances of his life, drawing on archival footage and interviews with lifelong friends. This approach mirrors Vandross’s own public stance. Throughout his career, he deftly deflected direct questions about his personal life, asserting that his artistry and dedication were all he owed his fans. Yet, Luther: Never Too Much subtly reveals aspects of Vandross’s personality and artistic choices that resonate deeply within gay culture, prompting a re-evaluation of his image and the nature of his partnerships – both those acknowledged and those implied.
Close friends like Patti LaBelle and Bruce Vilanch have previously hinted at Vandross being gay. The documentary, while maintaining a respectful ambiguity, paints a portrait of a man whose sensibilities and passions align with a distinctly gay aesthetic. From his childhood fascination with The Supremes, meticulously critiquing their choreography, to his later-in-life attention to detail regarding stage costumes and interior design, Vandross displayed a keen eye for visual presentation and a deep appreciation for female artistry – hallmarks often associated with gay male culture. Richard Marx, in his Grammy acceptance speech for “Dance With My Father,” recounts Vandross’s imagined backstage commentary on celebrity fashion, further illustrating this aspect of his personality. These anecdotes, presented in the film, subtly build a case for understanding Vandross not just as a singer, but as a multifaceted artist whose identity, and perhaps hidden partnerships, were integral to his creative expression.
Vandross’s commitment to showmanship extended beyond his own performances. He meticulously designed costumes for his backing singers, utilizing luxurious fabrics and intricate beadwork, demonstrating a dedication to visual splendor reminiscent of Liberace. His personal spaces, like his Manhattan apartment swathed in pink and his Beverly Hills mansion adorned with David Hockney’s Two Men in a Shower, further underscored a curated aesthetic. These details, highlighted in both the documentary and Craig Seymour’s biography, Luther: The Life and Longing of Luther Vandross, paint a picture of an artist whose creative partnerships extended to all aspects of his life, from music to visual presentation.
Vandross’s early career is interwoven with significant partnerships within gay culture. His vocal arrangements for Bette Midler’s Broadway debut, following her bathhouse performances, and his contributions to The Wiz, including the iconic “A Brand New Day,” reveal an early immersion in and contribution to spaces that were culturally significant for the LGBTQ+ community. His involvement with disco classics by Chic and Change, particularly “Glow of Love,” a staple in gay clubs even today through Janet Jackson’s “All for You” interpolation, further cements his unexpected, early partnerships with sounds embraced within gay culture. These collaborations, often unacknowledged in mainstream narratives of his career, highlight the hidden threads connecting Vandross to a broader cultural landscape.
Beyond these specific projects, Vandross’s role as a sought-after session vocalist, backing divas like Barbra Streisand and Diana Ross, can be seen as another form of partnership. He didn’t merely provide background vocals; he crafted intricate arrangements, elevating their performances and considering himself a “steward” when producing albums for Aretha Franklin and Dionne Warwick. This devotion to divas, a well-documented facet of gay male culture, was taken to an exceptional level by Vandross, who used his extraordinary talent to uplift the female icons who inspired him. These musical partnerships were not simply professional collaborations; they were acts of artistic devotion.
While Vandross may have been uncomfortable with explicit labels regarding his sexuality, examining his life and work through this lens offers a richer understanding of his artistry. His desire for mainstream success, his frustration at being pigeonholed, and his yearning for love, all take on deeper resonance when viewed in the context of a potentially closeted gay man navigating the music industry in a less accepting era. The documentary highlights his longing to reach a wider, whiter audience, revealing a career-long struggle for crossover success and recognition beyond R&B categories. This ambition, juxtaposed with the subtle hints of his personal life, reveals the complexities of his public persona and private self.
Despite his immense success, Vandross experienced a form of invisibility, particularly in mainstream white America and even within the historically white-dominated gay musical canon. The anecdote of prospective jurors in his 1986 vehicular manslaughter trial being unaware of his fame underscores this point. Similarly, Pitchfork’s 2018 list of defining LGBTQ+ pride songs omitted Vandross entirely, despite his collaborations with featured artists. This absence highlights a historical oversight, the documentary argues, and a missed opportunity to recognize Vandross’s contributions within a broader queer cultural context.
Vandross’s solo breakthrough came with songs that diverged from the house music dominating gay dance floors. His “quiet storm” sound, characterized by pillowy textures and inoffensive melodies, became synonymous with a different kind of intimacy – one often associated with heterosexual romance. Jamie Foxx’s anecdote of using Vandross’s music to romance women reinforces this perception. However, Luther: Never Too Much encourages a deeper listening, suggesting that the longing and vulnerability in Vandross’s music, particularly when considering the possibility of a hidden personal life, resonate on a different, perhaps more profound level for gay audiences.
The documentary encourages a re-examination of Vandross’s discography through a queer perspective. His cover of “If Only for One Night,” with lyrics about hidden encounters, and “Any Love,” questioning the necessity of a female partner for salvation, take on new layers of meaning. Even his rendition of “A House Is Not a Home,” extended and imbued with pathos, suggests a deeper inner turmoil, transcending conventional interpretations of romantic discord. Marcus Miller, Vandross’s long-time collaborator, points to the power in the silences and spaces within Vandross’s music, the unspoken emotions that draw listeners in.
It is in these unspoken spaces, in the ache of longing and the carefully constructed persona, that Luther: Never Too Much invites us to find a truer understanding of Luther Vandross. By bringing him back into the spotlight, the documentary offers a chance to embrace him anew, not just as a voice of romance, but as a complex artist whose music, and whose partnerships both seen and unseen, resonate with a depth previously unexplored. The film suggests that within the velvet tones and romantic ballads lies a richer, more nuanced story waiting to be heard, particularly by those who understand the unspoken language of longing and the complexities of identity.
