To be clear, Porter follows the example not only of Vandross himself, but also that of several lifelong friends interviewed in the film, by leaving the exact nature of his sexuality unclear. (Others, most notably close friends Patti LaBelle and Bruce Vilanch, have previously said that Vandross was gay.) Still, at almost every turn, the documentary shows that Vandross is a person whose tastes and sensibilities are immediately recognizable to many gay men , well, himself. For gay men, it’s a compelling argument to accept Vandross as one of us, and to understand him as a figure not unlike George Michael: a virtuosic talent, that embodied all the many contradictions that come with taking a critical look at gay culture at a time when the world was beginning to take a critical look at gay culture as a hidden musical superstar.

With Luther: Never too muchwe get something like the reversal of a traditional story: Here we start with the pot of gold and are then led to the rainbow. We learn early on that Vandross was obsessed with the Supremes as a child. While sitting in math class, he scribbled figures of Diana, Maria, and Florence in his notebook. After the group finished their performance The Ed Sullivan ShowVandross called his best friend to critique the trio and note which members had missed steps in their choreography. We see songwriter and producer Richard Marx accepting the Song of the Year award for his and Vandross’ collaboration “Dance With My Father” at the 2004 Grammy Awards. (Eleven months earlier, Vandross had suffered the stroke that ultimately took his life.) Marx tells the audience that if Vandross could be there, he would “whisper to me what everyone is wearing.”

We discover that Vandross is deeply committed to sensationalism. He personally designed many of the outfits his singers wore on tour, sparing no expense to bring his imagination to life. We see close-ups of the immaculately hand-embroidered dresses they wore, with pink and purple glass dripping onto the floor. We watch as singers glide across the stage in voluminous Victorian gowns sparkling with jade green jewels. We see numerous clips of Vandross as a Liberace-esque vision, in which he appears in gold and diamond-encrusted blazers and sparkles conspicuously in the lights.

In Luther: The Life and Longing of Luther VandrossIn an unofficial but widely reported biography from 2004, author Craig Seymour writes that Vandross once said that if he weren’t a musician, he would have been an interior designer. Vandross decorated his homes in New York and Los Angeles as carefully as his singers, and covered his Manhattan apartment in cotton candy pink. In the foyer of his Beverly Hills mansion, Seymour notes, Vandross displayed David Hockneys Two men in the showera painting that he regularly loaned to some of the world’s leading art museums.

This is to say that Vandross wasn’t just a singer who happened to be gay; Instead, he was an artist with distinctly gay sensibilities, whose rise to fame played out against the backdrop of gay culture more clearly than most realize. Vandross got his first big break when he arranged vocals for Bette Midler’s solo Broadway debut. Shells in the Half Shell Revueshortly after she built a following by performing in bathhouses across Manhattan. Vandross had previously dabbled in theater and written songs for a musical that would later become a success The magicianincluding one of his centerpieces, “A Brand New Day”. Before he found solo fame, he fronted disco classics from Chic and Change, including their effervescent “Glow of Love,” which is still a regular at gay parties in the form of Janet Jackson’s “All for You.”

The contours of Vandross’ rise have long been enshrined in legend, including the fact that he was the most sought-after session singer of his time, singing backup for artists like Barbra Streisand and Diana Ross. But for Vandross, supporting such artists was akin to a higher calling. He worked on intricate vocal arrangements, weaving himself into the fabric of the music, not so much collaborating with these women as communicating with them. Gay men have always been known for supporting divas, but Vandross took his devotion a step further, using one of the greatest singing voices of all time to highlight the icons that enlivened his life. When he was later chosen to produce albums by Aretha Franklin and Dionne Warwick, Vandross viewed himself as nothing less than a caretaker.

Such a classification of Vandross’s sexuality – taking into account the gayness that flows through the screen – would undoubtedly make the man himself uncomfortable. But it offers us a new way to celebrate an artist who, as Porter’s documentary makes clear, felt misunderstood by the public even at the height of his fame. Vandross, a brilliant songwriter and producer who poured millions of his own dollars into his performances, always felt demoted, reduced to a mere velvet voice with the talent to help conceive. Porter’s film particularly highlights Vandross’s desire to reach a mainstream white audience. From the artist’s perspective, his career was characterized for years by his failure to land a crossover pop hit and break out of a different mold.

In fact, Vandross’s invisibility to white America was not just a perception. In 1986, with several platinum albums under his belt, Vandross was tried in LA for involuntary manslaughter (his victim was a passenger and close friend); Seymour reports that none of the 40 potential jurors, all white, said they had even heard of the singer. Unfortunately, this sense of non-existence extends to the gay musical canon, which has historically been attuned to, if not determined by, white men. When Pitchfork gave a comprehensive overview of the history of queer music in 2018 and listed the “50 Songs That Define the Last 50 Years of LGBTQ+ Pride,” it didn’t even mention Vandross’ name in passing, despite his collaborations with several artists.

Luther: Never too much It’s a wonderful 100 minutes, and there’s a distinct feeling that the discography Vandross left behind would merit additional consideration through a gay lens. The longing for love that defines Vandross’s music takes on a deeper, richer meaning when one realizes the likelihood that his loneliness was in a joyful tone. His cover of Brenda Russell’s “If Only for One Night” – verse 2: “I won’t tell a soul / No one has to know / If you want to be totally discreet” – is bursting with hidden meaning. The documentary ruminates on the 1988 single “Any Love,” particularly the first word of the title, which defies the idea that a man’s salvation can only come from a woman. Vandross’ version of Warwick’s “A House Is Not a Home” now has the staid feel of an American standard, but is delivered with a pathos that suggests an inner turmoil that goes beyond a mere standoff between partners. At nearly seven minutes, Vandross’s cover extends Warwick’s original until it contains vast open spaces, a trick he repeated often. His long-time collaborator Marcus Miller tells Porter that Vandross’ music unfolds its power right there, in these gaps, and captivates the listener with every word.

And it’s in these seconds of pause that Vandross teases out the power of something that still needs to be said, a kind of pain that gay and queer people feel acutely. This feeling quietly pulses throughout Vandross’s discography – his music has a frequency that should resonate specifically with gay men, but our collective cultural antenna has never picked up the signal. But by putting Vandross back in the spotlight, this time as a truer version of himself, Porter’s documentary gives us a reason to wrap our arms around him again.