After moving out of my mother’s house I crashed at Morgan’s empty apartment on top ofCharlie Mom Chinese Cuisine1 in Greenwich Village, while he was in Italy pursuing amodeling career (and Lord knows what else). I fed his two cats, Ninja and Thompkins,and tried my best to feed myself. The first decision of every day was whether I was goingto get a bagel from H&H or buy a subway token.
I was surviving on a dollar a day, and something had to give—it was either breakfastor transportation. H&H bagels were sublime2: soft, warm, and plump to perfection, aclassic NYC morning staple3 that would keep my stomach occupied until three o’clock(H&H stood for Helmer and Hector, the two Puerto Rican owners, who arguably made thebest kosher bagels in the world). But then again, getting around is pretty important, andthe New York City subway was the rowdiest but most direct route to anywhere in town.
The token was slightly bigger than a dime4, a dirty gold disc with “NYC” stamped in themiddle and a distinctive5 slim Y cutout. This was the people’s coin, and it could get youanywhere, at any time. But if I could walk to where I needed to go, breakfast would win.
I found a job right away. I didn’t have a choice. So I did what every other brokedreamer does when they get to New York City. I grabbed the free newspaper of real NewYorkers, the Village Voice, and checked out the job ads. I took what I could get—andwhat I got was work at a sports bar on Seventy-Seventh and Broadway, cleverly namedSports on Broadway.
I began as a waitress, but as management soon discovered, I was still a teen andcouldn’t legally serve drinks, so I was moved to the cash register. Boy, was that a disaster.
I was a hard worker, but I had spent most of my working time in a recording6 studio, andworking a register isn’t like recording background vocals8. I wasn’t picking it up fast. Andthis was a neighborhood joint9 with regulars and no-nonsense waitresses, like “Kiss MyGrits” Flo in Alice but New York tough. Those broads hated me for messing up theirmoney!
Eventually, I got moved to the coat check. Simple. But while I was hustling10, I was alsogetting hustled11: I wasn’t allowed to keep my tips, which is pretty much the entire allure12 ofbeing a coat-check girl. I got a dollar for every coat. I knew it wasn’t fair, but I also knewit was temporary. When summertime came around, the coat check was converted into amerchandise booth, and I became the “Sports on Broadway” T-shirt girl. The booth wasright at the front door, so the first thing the men would see was me with a welcomingsmile, in a white T-shirt with the word “Sports” printed across my boobs. I was gratefulfor the simplicity13 of it all: the uniform was the bar’s T-shirt and jeans, and since I only hadone pair of jeans, it was one less thing for me to struggle to buy.
Not more than three short years ago
I was abandoned and alone
Without a penny to my name
So very young and so afraid
No proper shoes upon my feet
Sometimes I couldn’t even eat
I often cried myself to sleep
But still I had to keep on going
—“Make It Happen”
I also only had one pair of shoes, and they were a size and a half too small. They hadbeen my mother’s—pitiful flat black leather lace-up ankle boots. They were basic andutilitarian, and I made them work. At some point, the top of the shoe separated from therubber sole, creating a flap that would slap the unforgiving city pavement as I poundedtoward my destiny. The swelling14 of my feet from standing15 all day in too-small shoessurely contributed to their demise16. Snowy days were the worst; ice would slide into theflap, melt, and seep17 through my thin socks, and the clammy sensation of wet, cheap leathertraveled up my spine18. And that year New York had a big, newsworthy snowstorm! But I’dpull myself together, as cute as I could manage, and flash a smile, pleasantly doing my joband just hoping no one would look down at my feet. I had years of training for livingthrough humiliation19, but now, I wasn’t in school; I was living in The City. I believed inmy heart that one day I would make it and have some of the most fancy and well-fittingshoes imaginable.
I had my mighty20 faith, but I was also blessed with so many signs and acts of kindnessfrom folks along the way. Like Charles, the cook at Sports, who would fry me up a greasycheeseburger and sneak21 it to me with a glass of Sambuca. It wasn’t glamorous22, but I had ameal, an outfit23, and a few dollars. Every day that I made it through, I knew I was closer tomy dream. I would drop down on my knees each night and thank God for another daywhen I didn’t give up or get taken down.
I know life can be so tough
And you feel like giving up
But you must be strong
Baby just hold on
You’ll never find the answers if you throw your life awayI used to feel the way you do
Still I had to keep on going.
—“Make It Happen”
The job at the sports bar was a means, but the studio was the end. Everything went intomy demo. One day while I was eating downstairs in the Chinese restaurant, gratefullysavoring the cheap morsels25 of the day’s only meal, I noticed a familiar face. It wasClarissa, the now ex-girlfriend of my brother’s producer friend Gavin Christopher. Wehugged like old friends. I told her that I had officially relocated to the city. When I gaveher the rundown on my chaotic26 living arrangements, like an angel, she invited me to comelive with her.
Though she identified as a “struggling artist,” fortunately for me, Clarissa wasn’t reallystruggling that hard. She lived with a gay couple in a huge classic Upper West Sidebrownstone on Eighty-Fifth Street between Central Park West and Columbus Avenue. Isuspected that she was one of those kids who had a trust fund waiting for her once she gotover her starving-artist phase. My music was my life. Music was the only plan, ever.
While it was certainly an upgrade from my previous crowded crash pad, living withClarissa still had its challenges. She had a room (with a whole door, which closed) wherethere was a loft-style bed set up with recording equipment underneath27 it. Her room was offto the side of the larger parlor28 room. My situation was a ragtag loftlike structure builtabove the kitchen in the communal29 area that we shared with the couple. To get to mysleeping cranny I had to climb up onto the kitchen counter and hoist30 myself up into theteeny nook. It was barely more than a crawl space and had just enough room for a twinmattress, outfitted32 with a single pillow and a blanket (a “house” warming gift from mymother). The space was so shallow and the ceiling was so close that I couldn’t fully24 kneelon the bed without bumping my head (so there, I prayed on my back). It was “decorated”
with the only remnants from my life in Long Island: my journals and diaries, my MarilynMonroe poster, and a handful of books on Marilyn. I still looked up to her.
Connecting with Clarissa proved to be quite the blessing33. She helped me find work andcovered for me when I couldn’t make my share of the five hundred dollars a month rent—a fortune to me then. Occasionally she’d take me out to eat. We even did somesongwriting in her mini studio. She had a few connections in the music scene from hertime with Gavin and would sometimes introduce me to other musicians who also lived onthe Upper West Side. On these special occasions, she’d even loan me a little black dress towear (not dissimilar to what I’m wearing on my first album cover). I certainly didn’t haveanything of my own that was appropriate for mingling34.
Like everything during that time, nothing lasted long. Eventually the addition of somecrazy roommates meant that Clarissa and I fled for our lives (I really can’t get into thedetails of that) and had to move on and out. We joined my friend Josefin (whom I had metwhen she was in an open relationship with my brother). She was living with a few othergirls from Sweden. So it was five random36 girls living in a random apartment on top of aclub called Rascals37, on East Fourteenth Street. I was downgraded to a mattress31 on thefloor, but I was now living “downtown,” in the heart of the New York art scene of the late1980s. It was thrilling, if precarious38, and my eyes were always focused upward. I was ableto gain a bit of stability and a lot more faith. I knew more than ever that it was going tohappen for me.
I once was lost
But now I’m found
I got my feet on solid ground
Thank you, Lord
If you believe within your soul
Just hold on tight
And don’t let go
You can make it! Make it happen
—“Make It Happen”
After a few months, the other girls from Sweden moved out, and it was Josefin and I.
She helped me get odd jobs, but I was also beginning to pick up more background vocalwork. For this work, I’d settled on my young singer ensemble39: a little black knit tankdress, black tights, and fat, slouchy socks over a pair of white Reebok Freestyle sneakers(my mother’s hand- me- down black shoes having finally been reduced to shreds).
Previously40, Clarissa had encouraged me to ask my mother to buy me new shoes. Mymother then asked Morgan, who, she reported to me, said, “She has to learn to do thingsby herself.” I was a teen living on my own in the city, but whatever. Eventually,reluctantly, Morgan did buy me a pair of white Reeboks (why not black, I wondered,which goes with everything—but I was grateful to have shoes that fit and were withoutinvoluntary air-conditioning). I wore this outfit to nearly every session; it was like myuniform.
Gavin and I were working on a song together. While we were recording, he introducedme to a producer in the city, Ben Margulies, who was hired as a drummer on the sessionfor our song called “Just Can’t Hold It Back.” Ben had his own studio, and I had begunworking with him occasionally during my singer-student Long Island commuter41 days. Hisstudio was in Chelsea, on Nineteenth Street between Sixth and Seventh Avenues. Locatedin the back of his father’s cabinet making factory, it was about the size of a pantry. Itcould’ve been a chicken coop for all I cared—and it honestly wasn’t far from that. Whatmattered was that it was almost a full recording studio, the place where I belonged. Forme, the studio is part sanctuary42, part playground, and part laboratory. I loved being there,writing, riffing, singing, dreaming, and taking risks. I’ve slept many a night on many astudio floor, beginning with this humble43 yet magical place.
Ben and I worked incessantly44 over the course of a year or so. Occasionally his partnerChris would be there, helping45 with the programming. I was coming up with a lot of ideas,and we were recording, but I still felt the guys weren’t going fast enough. I was hitting anew stride. I was coming up with all these lyrics46 and melodies and was frustrated47 becauseit seemed to me like it should be going faster. Maybe because I was only seventeen andextremely impatient, but I felt I was differently invested, like I was on a differenttrajectory than they were. Music was my whole life—so much of my belief system, mysurvival, was entwined in my songs. There was an urgency in my air, in the moment, andin me. This was my time, and I could feel it. I felt like I was running fast toward somethingor someone soon, and I was not about to let anyone or anything slow me down.
Ben and I were both excited by the songs we were working on but ultimately oursensibilities and ambitions were incompatible48. I think he thought we were going to form aduo, like the Eurythmics, with him as co-lead, the Dave Stewart to my Annie Lennox. Iwas like, “Um, good luck with that; can we just focus on putting down my songs, please?”
We were able to create a full demo that I thought really showcased my songwritingand vocal7 styles. My most vivid memory of being in that studio is of me sitting by myselfon the floor in the corner writing lyrics and melodies, or staring out the window dreamingof the day I would break through. Look, Ben was very committed and I spent a lot of timeworking with him, and we got a lot done. But I had a vision, even back then, that mycareer had the capacity to go way beyond what he or most people around me were evencapable of imagining.
Ben suggested we have some “security” in place, by way of a formal agreement, so hephotocopied a contract out of the book All You Need to Know About the Music Business(co-written by Don Passman, who would, ironically enough, several years later becomemy lawyer). With no parent, legal counsel, manager, or even a good friend, I signed it. Iwas maybe eighteen years old. Obviously I didn’t know much about contracts and dealsthen, but what I did know was that there was value in my lyrics and the songs. (Iremembered seeing a documentary on the Beatles when I was growing up and beingshocked that they didn’t have complete ownership of the songs, they’d written — theBeatles!) So I knew not to give away all my publishing. Some of the lyrics to songs like“Alone in Love” I had begun writing in early high school.
We started setting up meetings with record companies and things began to move fast.
We got an initial offer from a major publishing company for a song called “All in YourMind” to be placed in a movie. I remember they offered me five thousand dollars for thepublishing.
Come closer
You seem so far away
There’s something I know you need to say
I feel your emotions
When I look in your eyes
Your silence
Whispering misunderstandings
There’s so much you need to realize
You’ll feel my emotions
If you look in my eyes
Hey darlin’
I know you think my love is slipping away
But, baby, it’s all in your mind
—“All in Your Mind”
I refused, even though back then five thousand dollars seemed like a million (whichwas how much I got for my first real publishing administration deal). Thank God I had acautionary Beatles tale fresh in my mind. I didn’t sell because I believed my songs camefrom somewhere special inside of me, and that selling them would be selling a piece ofme.
The music business is designed to confuse and control the artist. Later, seasoned musicexecutives told me that Ben’s deal was truly a golden ticket. I was trying to be loyal tosomeone who believed in me at a crucial time, but in my na?veté, I didn’t realize theenormity of what I had signed away. I was informed, and what I remember, was that hegot 50 percent of the publishing on all songs we worked on together for my first album.
Okay fine. But additionally, he received 50 percent of my artist’s royalties49 for the firstalbum, 40 percent for the second album, 30 percent for the third, and so on. It went on thatway from 1990 until about 1999. Even though Ben didn’t write one word or note with meafter the first album. Out of loyalty50 to him and the hard work we put in together in thatlittle studio, I never looked back and tried to reset51 or recoup.
So yeah, a photocopy52: that’s the unceremonious origin of my first “official deal.” Whata welcome to the music business! Which I was so eager to get into, but I soon came tobelieve that my first signature was on a pretty shady piece of paper—and one that wouldbe hard to get out of. But it certainly wouldn’t be the last. A whole forest full of shade wasyet to come.
One must pick one’s battles wisely, and I wasn’t about to come for someone who I hadalready left behind. I was on my way. I’ll be eternally grateful, and I wish him well.
At least we made The Demo.
That demo stayed in my Walkman, which stayed on my hip35, and the music stayed inmy ears. Aside from the radio, the songs we laid down were all I listened to. And theoffers from the major publishing houses gave me confidence that things were going tohappen. I just had to keep the faith and keep working. I didn’t stop. I kept going to moresessions, doing more connecting, and getting more background vocal work. I began doingvocals for the musician and producer T. M. Stevens, who’d written with Narada MichaelWalden and played bass53 with James Brown, Cyndi Lauper, Joe Cocker, and other majorartists. It was through him that I had the good fortune to meet the amazing Cindy Mizelleat a session.
Since that first background gig at twelve years old, I’d gained a respect for the specificskill and talent it takes to be a good background vocalist. I would listen specifically tobackground on the radio. I’d study the liner notes on albums and CD jackets to learn whowas doing the background vocals (especially on dance records, as I believe backgroundsare what make those songs). I became familiar with all those exceptional singers, likeAudrey Wheeler and Lisa Fischer?… and Cindy. To me, she was one of the absolutegreatest. Cindy Mizelle was the background singer. She sang with the most giftedvocalists of all time — Barbra Streisand, Whitney Houston, Luther Vandross, and theRolling Stones. She was a real singer’s singer. Cindy was that girl to me. I looked up toher so much.
I remember in the beginning of the session, we were at the microphone, doing a partthat I was having a difficult time getting right. Cindy’s such a perfectionist (as I am now),but she had patience with me. When you first learn how to do background vocals—different tones and styles—it’s not easy. Producers liked my tone, but I had to learn howto really get in the pocket, to get it exactly how they wanted it. Precision takes practice.
Cindy had a new gig practically every day; she was a master. When I first started singingalongside her, I had to work hard to keep up. Now, background vocals are one of myfavorite elements in building a song. I love the textures54 and layers and how lush they canmake a song; backgrounds get into your bones.
Once, while Cindy and I were recording and standing very close to each other at themicrophone, she could hear my stomach rumbling55. She looked down and saw the sadshoes I was wearing, scanned my crumpled56 outfit, and then looked up at me with pity andrecognition. I was too excited to be self-conscious—at that point in life, my ambition wasstronger than my shame. Who cared if I arrived a little hungry and a little shabby? I wasfinally singing for a living, right next to a consummate57 professional.
Cindy gave me her number that night and told me if I ever needed anything, I couldcall her. I didn’t know what to do with that. She’d sung with huge acts all around theworld—what business did I have calling her? What would I say? I didn’t call, and the nexttime I saw her she called me out on it. It wasn’t easy for me to ask for help. I didn’t wantto bother or burden her, I explained. Cindy looked me in the eye and said, “Mariah, youneed to call me.”
Suddenly it struck me. Oh, I get it. I was supposed to call her. I hadn’t understoodright away that this was part of the process: the initiation58, the mentoring59, the nurturing60, theentry into a society of sister- singers. These rituals were all new to me. And I wasunfamiliar with being welcomed into a family of artists—into a family of any kind.
Once I had broken into the inner circle of elite61 background vocalists, recommendationsstarted to come in. Background vocalists are hired by word of mouth—one singer willrecommend another, and good singers like to work together. If the squad62 is strong, thesession is strong, and if the sessions are strong, the money is good and steady. I was nowin the tight and talented community of working musicians in New York City. Though Iwas invariably the youngest in the crowd, I also often hung out with some of them outsideof work hours, mostly on Manhattan’s Upper West Side. I wasn’t into drinking or hookingup at all; the hang, to me, was about networking—emphasis on work. It paid off.
I got an offer to do a demo session for a group called Maggie’s Dream. When I got tothe gig I was told I would be singing for a male vocalist. In walked this sexy, serene,toasted-almond-colored artsy young man—he just looked like the definition of an artist.
His thick, dark hair was just in the beginning phases of dreadlocks. He had a perfect fiveo’clock shadow, with a thick stripe of goatee down the center of his chin. He was dressedrock star casual: heavy black leather vintage motorcycle jacket, black jeans, black T-shirt.
He had a thin ring in his nose and smelled how I imagined ancient Egyptian oils wouldsmell. His face was kind and fine, with a boyish smile. He went by the name of RomeoBlue. His friends called him Lenny. And about a year later, the world would know him asLenny Kravitz.
Maggie’s Dream had a drummer named Tony, who was also the drummer for the bandof a singer named Brenda K. Starr. Brenda had a big R & B pop hit out called “I StillBelieve,” which the record company was looking to rework. There was an opening forbackground singers, and Tony got me a slot at the audition63. I was excited because Brendahad a big song on the radio—and you know how much I loved the radio. At the audition,we were asked to sing Brenda’s song right in front of the table where she sat. I gave it myall.
I sang for my life. I did all kinds of runs and belted out the last note. When I wasfinished, I stood perfectly64 still, returning back to Earth, heart on fire. Brenda gave me along, flat stare, then suddenly broke into a mischievous65 little giggle66. In her clipped, nasallyaccent, she said, “You trying to steal my job?” I didn’t move. But her giggle turned intohearty laughter. I didn’t realize you weren’t supposed to outsing the singer who could hireyou!
“Mariah is my new best friend,” she said, breaking my trance. Wait. She knew myname! I couldn’t believe someone who had a major song on the radio now knew my name.
Immediately after the audition, Brenda had to fly somewhere to perform, but as soon asshe returned, I was hired. She kept saying, “I told everybody about this girl Mariah!”
Brenda was a spicy67 mix, in the true meaning of the word. She grew up in the projectson Ninetieth and Amsterdam Avenue, and the culture of the projects grew in her. She toldme her mother was Puerto Rican and Hawaiian and her father, Harvey Kaplan, was Jewishand in a band called the Spiral Starecase. They had a hit song: “More Today ThanYesterday.” Brenda was a bit older and more street savvy68 than I was and had an effortlessand silly sense of humor. It was easy to become friends.
My life as a professional singer was moving swiftly, but at the same time, I was still ateenager. One time I was hanging out with the guys from Maggie’s Dream, and one ofthem started teasing me because I was a virgin69. (Apparently, Clarissa had told them Iwas.) Everybody was laughing, but I didn’t get why it was funny. I was a kid. I wasalways the youngest and clearly the most idealistic, so I had to suffer through some of themore crass70 amusements of adult musicians.
I may have been young and na?ve, but Brenda knew my songs were good, and wisebeyond their years. When I let her listen to my demo, she said, “Oooh, Mariah, I wanna dothis on my next album.” She currently had a song that was still in active rotation71 on theradio, and every time we were together and I heard it play, it was mind blowing. I couldn’tbelieve I was working with her and she was my friend, not to mention that she had givenme my biggest gig to date.
Yet I said, “I know I don’t have anything big going on yet, but I’m sorry, I have tokeep these songs. These songs are the ones I wrote for me.”
I may have been insecure about my money, my clothes, my family, and a whole hostof other things, but I knew my songs were valuable. I was really excited to finally be in thecompany of young and some struggling current musicians and artists, but the truth wasthat I had always believed this would happen to me. Brenda never pushed me to use mysongs after that.
Singing background with Brenda while she toured with her big song was big fun.
Once, we went to Los Angeles to appear at a popular radio station’s concert. It was thefirst time I’d ever been to LA and one of the few times I’d ever set foot on a plane. Now, Iwas boarding a plane as a professional singer, going to do a big outdoor radio-sponsoredconcert in LA! To me, being on the radio was being famous. For the show, Brenda was setto sing “I Still Believe,” with me as one of the background vocalists. Will Smith was theretoo, to perform “Parents Just Don’t Understand.”
Jeffrey Osborne (from the group L.T.D.) was also there; he did “You Should Be Mine(The Woo Woo Song)” as part of his set. I was in the audience, watching. Jeffrey, theveteran among us, began singing the chorus to his song with his seasoned, smooth voice:
“And you woo-woo-woo,” he started off. The crowd joined in. After a few rounds heoffered his microphone out into the audience.
“Pass it to her! Pass it to her!” Brenda chirped72, wagging her finger at me like a happypuppy’s tail.
I took the mic and gave that “woo-woo” a special Mariah remix, with all kinds ofvocal flourishes, and in the end I took the last “woo” way up into my high register, and thewhole crowd broke out in wild claps. That was the day Will Smith and I became friends.
Will and I were both really young, and looked it. Above my signature blown-outbangs, I had gathered the top portion of my unruly, crinkly hair into a yellow scrunchie,hair fanning out of it like a furry73 fountain, and let water and nature do their own thing withthe back half of my ’do. I was wearing a little bubble-gum-pink tank dress I had borrowedfrom Josefin. Will was tall and lanky74, dressed as if he expected a pickup75 game of hoopscould break out at any moment. He was incredibly friendly and funny, as was hischarismatic friend, Charlie Mack. Immediately I could tell that he was not only supertalented but really bright and laser-focused. I loved “Parents Just Don’t Understand” andwas very impressed with what he had accomplished76.
Will and I would sometimes hang out at Rascals, below the apartment I shared withJosefin. He was an uncomplicated friend. Both of us were absolutely ambitious and stillmaintained a childlike wonder and curiosity about the world. Our relationship was alwaysplatonic and never got weird77.
After he heard me sing, Will believed in my talent. He took me with him to Def JamRecordings, the hottest new hip-hop label at the time, where he was signed. As we walkeddown the street on our way to Def Jam, we saw this tall, thin white man approaching us.
He stood out because he was kind of dancing and bopping, with headphones on that wereblasting music so loud you could hear it: “It takes two to make a thing go right!”
I later found out it was Lyor Cohen, who managed Run-DMC and LL Cool J andsigned Eric B. & Rakim and DJ Jazzy Jeff & the Fresh Prince. It was a curious scene tome: this sinewy78 grown man, dressed kinda cool, singing aloud, “I wanna rock right now!”
I was thinking, How does he even know this song?
The Def Jam offices had a very “downtown” vibe. This was the label of many hot malehip-hop artists, so obviously there were a million girls going in and out. Most peopleprobably just assumed that I was a groupie, strolling in on the arm of the Fresh Prince.
Will had never heard my demo; he’d only heard me sing at the concert, but that wasenough for him, I guess. Upstairs we found ourselves with a junior executive who wantedme to sing. Once again, I may have looked a little shabby and young, but I was discerningenough to understand: I wasn’t going to sing for this random guy. I was grateful for Will’sconfidence, but I had my sights on a major label with a legacy79 of artists more in alignmentwith my singer- songwriter ambitions — somewhere huge, like Warner or ColumbiaRecords. That’s where I knew I belonged, and that’s where I believed I was going to be.
My faith and focus were strong, but there was also evidence of my hard work, like apossible deal moving at Atlantic Records. During this time the majors were reaping thebenefits of their teen stars—the Tiffanys and Debbie Gibsons of the world. As the storygoes, Doug Morris, the head of Atlantic, responded to my demo by saying, “We alreadyhave our teen girl,” referring to Gibson.
Clearly, he didn’t really get it. For that matter, most labels didn’t really get me. Theyreally didn’t know where I fit. They didn’t understand my sound; the demo had songs thatdidn’t fit neatly80 into an existing genre81. Though really young, I was definitely not teen pop.
There was a bit of soul, R & B, and gospel infused into my music, and I had a hip-hopsensibility. My demo was more diverse than the music industry at the time.
Then, of course, there was always the blondish biracial elephant in the room.
Executives at Motown supposedly reacted to my demo by saying, “Oh, no, we don’t wantto deal with a Teena Marie situation again”— meaning they didn’t want to force thegeneral public to grapple with wondering if I was Black or white or what. They didn’tknow how to market me. Most record executives just didn’t know how they would workmy record. They weren’t sure it could “cross over.” But for the record, Teena Marie nevercared about crossing over. And I didn’t want to cross over either.
I wanted to transcend82.
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cuisine
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staple
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| n.主要产物，常用品，主要要素，原料，订书钉，钩环；adj.主要的，重要的；vt.分类 | |
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distinctive
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recording
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vocal
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vocals
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joint
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hustling
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hustled
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allure
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simplicity
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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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demise
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| n.死亡；v.让渡，遗赠，转让 | |
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seep
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| v.渗出，渗漏；n.渗漏，小泉，水（油）坑 | |
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spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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sneak
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| vt.潜行(隐藏,填石缝)；偷偷摸摸做；n.潜行；adj.暗中进行 | |
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glamorous
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| adj.富有魅力的；美丽动人的；令人向往的 | |
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outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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morsels
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| n.一口( morsel的名词复数 )；（尤指食物）小块，碎屑 | |
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chaotic
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| adj.混沌的，一片混乱的，一团糟的 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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communal
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| adj.公有的，公共的，公社的，公社制的 | |
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hoist
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| n.升高，起重机，推动；v.升起，升高，举起 | |
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mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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outfitted
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| v.装备，配置设备，供给服装( outfit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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rascals
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| 流氓( rascal的名词复数 )； 无赖； （开玩笑说法）淘气的人（尤指小孩）； 恶作剧的人 | |
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precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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ensemble
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| n.合奏(唱)组；全套服装；整体，总效果 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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commuter
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| n.(尤指市郊之间)乘公交车辆上下班者 | |
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sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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lyrics
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| n.歌词 | |
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frustrated
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| adj.挫败的，失意的，泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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incompatible
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| adj.不相容的，不协调的，不相配的 | |
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royalties
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| 特许权使用费 | |
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loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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reset
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| v.重新安排，复位；n.重新放置；重放之物 | |
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photocopy
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| n.影印本；v.影印 | |
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bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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textures
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| n.手感( texture的名词复数 )；质感；口感；（音乐或文学的）谐和统一感 | |
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rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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initiation
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| n.开始 | |
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mentoring
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| n.mentoring是一种工作关系。mentor通常是处在比mentee更高工作职位上的有影响力的人。他/她有比‘mentee’更丰富的工作经验和知识，并用心支持mentee的职业（发展）。v.（无经验之人的）有经验可信赖的顾问( mentor的现在分词 ) | |
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nurturing
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| 养育( nurture的现在分词 )； 培育； 滋长； 助长 | |
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elite
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| n.精英阶层；实力集团；adj.杰出的，卓越的 | |
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squad
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| n.班，小队，小团体；vt.把…编成班或小组 | |
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audition
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| n.(对志愿艺人等的)面试(指试读、试唱等) | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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66
giggle
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| n.痴笑，咯咯地笑；v.咯咯地笑着说 | |
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spicy
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| adj.加香料的；辛辣的，有风味的 | |
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savvy
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| v.知道，了解；n.理解能力，机智，悟性；adj.有见识的，懂实际知识的，通情达理的 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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crass
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| adj.愚钝的，粗糙的；彻底的 | |
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71
rotation
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| n.旋转；循环，轮流 | |
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chirped
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| 鸟叫，虫鸣( chirp的过去式 ) | |
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furry
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| adj.毛皮的；似毛皮的；毛皮制的 | |
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lanky
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| adj.瘦长的 | |
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pickup
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| n.拾起，获得 | |
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76
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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sinewy
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| adj.多腱的，强壮有力的 | |
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legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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genre
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| n.(文学、艺术等的)类型，体裁，风格 | |
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transcend
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| vt.超出，超越(理性等)的范围 | |
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