I remember album release days the same way I remember birthdays – where I was, who I was with, and what I did. They’re usually busy days, jam-packed with press appearances, performances, and signings, but also filled with fun, excitement, and an overwhelming feeling of accomplishment.
We were in Germany for our first album release and New York City for our second. When Millennium came out, we did a big MTV thing and shut down Times Square, and for Black & Blue, we traveled around the world in a hundred hours. To celebrate my first solo album, Now or Never, I was in Times Square again to make appearances on TRL and at the Virgin megastore across the street. We were also in New York on the days Never Gone, Unbreakable, and This Is Us were released, although most of our appearances for the last one were cancelled on account of Brian getting swine flu. It wouldn’t be the last time illness put a damper on our plans, but none of us could have guessed I would be diagnosed with cancer five months later, or that it would be our last album release as a group.
For the release of my final studio album, I’m Taking Off, it only seemed appropriate to go back to New York, probably for the last time. Even though it was my solo record, I didn’t go alone. While Cary stayed in LA to work, the guys came to NYC with me, all four of them, and we stayed together in a penthouse suite overlooking Times Square, where we could gaze down and look back on the history we’d made there.
It was bittersweet. Although the MTV studios were still there, TRL was no more. The Virgin megastore had closed. And the five of us could walk through the Square without causing pandemonium. That part was a relief, but still, I missed the good old days, when we were young and healthy and on top of the world, when just waving through the window of the TRL studio was enough to incite mass hysteria down on the street below.
That day, the twenty-fourth of May, was the first release day I could remember that wasn’t scheduled down to the minute with an itinerary of appearances, interviews, and performances I had to follow. According to my publicist, all the talk shows were still clamoring for an interview, but we’d booked only one appearance, on Live with Regis and Kelly, the same show on which we’d made our US TV debut back in 1997, when the co-host was Kathie Lee. The guys and I had been on the show a number of times since then, and I’d performed there to promote my first solo album. It seemed like the right place to acknowledge my last one.
I agreed to a short interview, on the condition that we stuck to talking about the album and the upcoming tour. I had talked enough about my disease and death with Oprah; I wasn’t going to go there again. Really, I just wanted to perform.
The producers allowed time for me to perform twice, once on my own and once with the Boys. Everyone on the show was sympathetic toward me, but I could tell they were also eating up the tragedy of the five of us coming together to perform on TV one last time. I didn’t talk much backstage, focusing my thoughts and energies on the performances ahead.
The hair and makeup people went to work on me, making sure I’d have a fake, healthy glow under the studio lights, and by the time they were done, I looked like my old self again. They had styled my short hair and penciled in the gaps in my sparse eyebrows. Using makeup, they’d filled out my hollow cheeks and erased the dark circles from under my eyes. Foundation smoothed out the lines of worry on my face, and bronzer brightened my pale complexion. The makeup artists had worked their magic and created an illusion of health to hide the fact that I was sick and dying.
It was no big secret anymore, though.
My stomach was in knots as I waited for my cue onstage. I hadn’t performed for an audience since the last show of the This is Us tour… No, that wasn’t right. My last time on stage had been a couple of weeks later, at the Relay for Life in Cary’s hometown. A lump rose in my throat as I remembered singing for that small, close-knit crowd, all connected by the same disease that had brought me and Cary together. I wished I could go back to that day, to that feeling of hope I’d felt when I’d believed I might actually survive.
The studio audience was even smaller, and although they’d been on their feet, giving me a standing ovation as I walked out to take the stage, they sat quietly now, looking as grim and nervous as I felt waiting. Even without an interview, everyone seemed to be aware of what I was going through, behind the scenes. It made me glad I hadn’t picked a ballad to sing. My favorite track on the new album was called “Falling Down,” and even though I’d written it before I got cancer, it seemed the most fitting. But I didn’t want to sing anything depressing, so I’d gone the opposite route and chosen an upbeat song, the title track. I wanted to get this crowd on their feet again and make them smile, make them forget. I wanted to forget, too.
“Places, everyone!” shouted the producer from the side of the stage. The show was about to come back from a commercial break. “We’re live in three… two…”
I looked to Regis and Kelly, who were standing together on the other side of their set. Regis held up a copy of my CD in front of one of the cameras and said, “Here to perform a song from his new solo album, I’m Taking Off, please welcome… Nick Carter!”
I swallowed hard and sucked in a deep breath as I heard my track start to play. I found the camera that was filming a close-up of my face and gave it a sultry stare as I tilted the mic toward my lips and started to sing. “You’re just a chemical reaction… a love the galaxies erased. I thought that I was goin’ crazy… You took me to another place. Another big bang explosion… don’t even know who you are… ‘cause somethin’ ‘bout you is strange; girl, you’re actin’ like an alien…”
On the chorus, I ripped the mic out of its stand and raised my free hand over my head, punching the air. “I think I’ll put my spacesuit on… so I can jump into my rocket,” I sang, crossing the stage, wanting to look like I was full of energy and having the time of my life. “Call ground control ‘cause something’s wrong…” I tried to get the audience to stand up and wave their arms. I wanted them to have as much fun as I was. “I-it’s your gravity, that’s holding onto me… gotta break free and take me halfway to the sun; countdown’s begun; I’m taking off... I’m taking off.”
It worked. Soon the fans were on their feet, arms swaying, faces shining, and I was back in my element, lost in the song, all depressing thoughts shoved into the depths of my mind, where they couldn’t surface anytime soon. There was no place for those kinds of thoughts onstage. I’d succeeded in making everyone forget.
But as I neared the end of the song, something changed. The audience was still up and dancing, and I was still singing my heart out, but the words had taken on a new meaning. “Countdown’s begun; I’m taking off…” This wasn’t a song about outer space and aliens, and it wasn’t just a metaphor for a relationship gone wrong. This song was about a journey, a journey that, in some ways, was almost over and, in another way, was just about to begin.
“I’m taking off, baby, and not coming back… ‘cause I’m taking off, baby, and I’m moving fast…” As I belted out those words, I gave myself over to them, knowing they were true. “Destination unknown…” I didn’t know what lay ahead or what was waiting for me on the other side, but I accepted my fate and, in some weird way, looked forward to finding out. “Taking off…” I sang, my eyes and arms raised toward the bright, white lights beaming down from above. “I’m gonna break away… Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah…”
“Five… four… three… two… one,” the distorted voice in my backing track counted down, and I thought, My time’s almost up. But I was still hell bent on making every last second count, and so far, I’d gotten my way.
“Thank you,” I mumbled into the microphone, as I was rewarded with another standing ovation. The live feed cut to another commercial break, giving me a chance to mop the sweat off my face before I sat down with the Boys for our brief interview segment. After just the one song, I was breathing hard, and it occurred to me that I might not have enough stamina left to make it through a whole, two-hour concert, let alone the six we were planning. I played it off, though, refusing to let them see any signs of weakness from me. After the tour, I was prepared to curl up and die, but not before. Not before.
True to their promise, Regis and Kelly kept the interview quick and only asked me about my album, while the rest of the guys answered questions about our six, sold-out shows around the world. Then Regis looked out at the audience and said, “Now, you folks may not know this, but these guys made their US television debut when they performed right here on our show back in 1997.” Turning to Kevin, who had easily fallen right back into his old role as spokesperson for the group, Regis added, “Would you fellows be willing to take us out with one of your old songs?”
“You bet, Regis,” said Kevin, with a tight-lipped smile that looked more like a grimace. I could tell by the look on his face and the tone of his voice that he was struggling to hold it together. In a way, I’d thought this last appearance would be easier for him than for the others, since he’d already moved on from the group, but in that moment, I saw that he was having as hard a time as anyone, maybe even harder.
We moved quickly to the five stools that had been set up on the stage at the other side of the studio, as our guitarist, sitting behind us, started strumming out the opening chords to “I Want It That Way.” We had debated between singing this song and “Show Me the Meaning of Being Lonely,” both singles from Millennium, both songs that featured all five of us singing lead, but in the end, the thought of doing “Show Me the Meaning” on TV that day was just too goddamned depressing. “I Want It That Way” was a classic. It was the song we would probably be best remembered by, after all of us were dead and gone. It seemed like the right note to end on.
But as AJ drew out his final, “’Cause I want it… that way…” I couldn’t help but think that this wasn’t the way any of us would have wanted it. We’d all thought we’d have years, whole decades left to perform together. Even after Kevin left, there was no end in sight for the rest of us. We expected to keep on going as a group until we were old men. I never thought my body would betray me well before I hit middle age, or that I would be the first to leave them permanently. And no matter how many times we sang “Tell me why,” we would never know the answer.
That night, as we sat around our hotel suite together, I said, “You know, if you guys wanna keep going after I’m gone, I’d be okay with that.”
Brian, Howie, and AJ all looked up at me. Kevin stared down at his lap. No one said anything back.
“I mean it,” I added. “There’s no reason the group has to die, too. You guys could still perform as a trio, or Kev could come back and-” But I stopped and trailed off, because Kevin was already shaking his head, and slowly, the other three shook theirs, too.
“This isn’t like when Kev left – no offense, man,” AJ said quickly, looking over at Kevin, who just waved his comment off. “We won’t be the Backstreet Boys anymore with just three of us.”
“There is no Backstreet Boys without you, Nicky,” Howie added quietly, without looking me in the eye.
“Aw, c’mon, Howie. You can have all my leads – and all my fans…” I tried to grin, even though I felt like crying. No one else smiled at my attempt to joke around.
“Howie’s right,” said Brian. “I think this tour’s gonna be it for the Backstreet Boys.”
I guess I should have known they would react that way, but even though I was touched, I also felt disappointed and even a little guilty, like it was my fault the group was falling apart. I knew it wasn’t, not really, but still, it was because of me there would be no more Backstreet Boys. I felt bad for the guys, who had the whole rest of their lives and careers left ahead of them. I knew they would find other things to do, solo projects and acting gigs and that kind of stuff, and there was no doubt in my mind they would be successful at whatever they did. But I had always envisioned us walking along the same road into the future, not taking totally different routes, separate from each other. Where my path came to a dead end, theirs would continue on in different directions, without me, and without the group.
The tour seemed more important than ever. Six shows, on six different continents, spread out over two weeks. A chance to say goodbye to our fans around the world. A way to celebrate the success we’d shared as a group and, at the same time, let go. I couldn’t wait for it to start, but I dreaded it ending, because the end of the tour would mean the end of so much more.
Still, I was excited about going back on the road, just for a little while… and for the last time.
***
