Most of them don’t make it out. There are some famous exceptions — Ryan Gosling, Natalie Portman, Neil Patrick Harris. But, by and large, child stars struggle with the transition. Now, if you go back further, before social media and cable TV, before Mickey Rooney or Shirley Temple, you can probably find some outliers. But, I suspect you’ll also find a whole lot of carnage. And, more recently, for every Drew Barrymore or Jodi Foster, who barely survived, we have our Corey Haims, our Dustin Diamonds, our Dana Platos and our long tail of kids who were asked to perform like adults but who were then punished for their inevitable adulthoods. It’s the tragedy of child stars — caught between infantilization and parentalization and doomed for choosing either. 

While Hollywood might have the goriest child star tales, the music industry is not far behind. Little Stevie Wonder is the unicorn pegasus — continuous evolution and relatively scandal free. Justin Timberlake survived NSYNC and hair gel and a denim tuxedo. But, after that, the list gets more complicated. There are the tragedies — Aaron Carter. There are hot messes — Britney. And there are keep our fingers crossed, works in progress — Billie Eilish. But in every single case, the pressure of having to constantly, professionally perform — to be adorable and precocious — conflicts with social (rebel!) and physiological (grow up!) imperatives. Child stardom is the ultimate trap. 

At the very top of that list of child Pop stars — or the very bottom, depending on how you look at it — is Michael Jackson. The most successful recording artist of his generation and the youngest, most talented, most adorable, most everything member of the Jackson Five, spent fifty years arrested between childhood and young adulthood. His life and death are the cliche of child stardom. He shined so bright and cast a shadow so dark that everyone else pales in comparison.

Everyone, except for Billy Preston.

Many people either do not know who Billy Preston is or would not think of him as a child star. In fact, I’m guessing that there are some who would not consider Billy Preston a star at all. He’s more famously known as the lanky, gap toothed, smiling, afroed pianist who made the late Sixties Beatles and the early Seventies Stones sound better than any Rock bands have ever sounded. He’s also known as the teenager who played alongside Ray Charles and Little Richard. And as “The Fifth Beatle” — the guy who walked into “Get Back” and made George, Paul, John and Ringo smile again. The guy who made every single song better with the feel and action of his playing and the joy of his spirit. And all of those things are true — I suppose. But only in the same way that his private misery and child star tragedy were also true.

According to his own telling, Billy Preston was six years old when he first played piano in front of an audience. For the five years that followed, he was the main attraction at his family’s church in Southern California. By ten, he was accompanying Mahalia Jackson. By eleven, he was on TV, playing alongside Nat King Cole. By sixteen, he was touring Europe with Little Richard. And before he was twenty-one he’d played with Sam Cooke and Ray Charles. Preston was, by every standard, a child prodigy.

He was also, by most accounts, a born introvert, a victim of childhood sexual assault, a drug addict and, for most of the 1970s, a massively successful Pop star in his own right. What we saw with our own eyes and what we hoped for — an extra-joyful, impossibly talented, Willie Mays of Rock and Roll — was certainly true. It’s a much happier version of the story. But it is obviously not the truth. The truth of Billy Preston is so much more than the story of the greatest hired hand in the history or Rock and R&B. It’s the story of a generational talent whose public joy and success betrayed the private misery of childhood trauma and lifelong supression.

Though George Clinton was more influential and Led Zeppelin more popular and Stevie Wonder more transcendent, I’m not sure if any artist or band had a better 1970s than Billy Preston. He released nine solo albums during the decade, all of which are worthwhile and the first of which (“Encouraging Words”) is a remarkable companion to Sly Stone’s best work from the same period. Preston scored six top forty hits as a solo artist, including "Will It Go Round in Circles" and "Nothing from Nothing” — both of which reached the top of the charts. And, in 1975, Joe Cocker’s version of “You Are So Beautiful” reached number five on the Billboard Hot 100, surviving to this day as the most beloved Billy Preston song that most people don’t know is a Billy Preston song.

While he was breaking out on his own, and even more so than he was The Fifth Beatle, Preston was also The Sixth Rolling Stone. He appeared on virtually every Stones album from the Seventies, including their two greatest achievements — “Sticky Fingers” and “Exile on Main Street.” On “Goats Head Soup,” from 1973, it’s hard to tell exactly where Keith is (or if he is even there), but it’s impossible to miss Billy. As he’d done with The Beatles, Billy provided a shot of exhilaration to The Stones at a time when they were most strung out and hung over.

But the Seventies was not all gap-toothed grins, magnificent afros and Hammond B3 organ runs. Early in the decade, he discovered that his girlfriend (Kathy Silva) was having an affair with his best friend (Sly Stone). And for all the success he enjoyed as a solo artist in the first part of the decade, his success waned during the second half. Unthinkable amounts of alcohol and cocaine were involved — some of which was a sign of the times but most of which, in retrospect, seems like self-medication for social anxiety and (not very) repressed sexuality.

If 1979 marked the end of Preston’s commercial run, it was a beautiful finish. “Late at Night,” his first record for Motown and his last of the decade, found The Fifth Beatle after dark, conjuring a quiet storm. “With You I’m Born Again,” the album’s hit single, was a duet with Syreeta Wright that explained everything from Barbra Streisand to Luther Vandross. He and Syreeta quickly followed up the hit with an album of duets, but Preston ultimately struggled to find his place in Eighties Soul or R&B. By 1982, Lionel Richie, Prince and, mostly, Michael Jackson, had taken over his corner. Solo albums became more sporadic. Then they stopped altogether. Guest appearances were slow, but steady. But then, simply slow. By the end of the Eighties, Billy Preston was practically gone, buried under a mountain of cocaine and bad decisions.

While not much has been written about Preston’s restless 1980s, his 1990s was a matter of very public record, marked by reports of cocaine possession, drunk driving, insurance fraud, kidnapping and molestation. Between 1986 and 1995, while spiraling towards his bottom, he released no new music. Old friends — Little Richard, Ringo Starr and Mick Jagger — invited him in for guest appearances. But, otherwise, the man who was once the most in demand player in LA was persona non-grata. And so, in 1997, as legal and financial problems mounted and rumors and innuendo swirled, Billy Preston escaped six thousand miles from the bright lights of Hollywood.

Novecento were (kind of are) an Italian Electro Pop band formed by the Nicolosi family in 1984. Their debut single, “Movin’ On,” set the Italian Pop charts ablaze. By 1987, however, having made their way through Disco, Synth Pop and House, they were at the end of their line. Without any future, the family looked far back and to the west — where they found Billy Preston trying to outrun his distant past and his daunting future. United by their dim prospects, Preston and Novecento got together to make “You and I,” the last album of secular music Billy Preston ever made.

While the union of a broken, drug addled prodigy and an aging Euro-Pop family band should have portended disaster, “You and I” was actually (amazingly) nothing of the sort. In the same way that child stardom can arrest development, so can drug addiction. As a result, the Billy Preston that we hear in Italy in 1997 sounds an awful lot like the Billy Preston from “Late at Night,” from in 1979. Same voice. Same vibe. The keyboard action was traded for synthesizer mood. The heavy Funk urned light as Muzak. And the playful joy of youth aged into mature romance. But, against any reasonable expectation or logic, “You and I” was a startlingly effective, entirely forgotten example of Quiet Storm.

It’s not particularly surprising that Novecento would welcome Billy Preston into their fold — they needed a gimmick if they were to alter their fading fortunes. Similarly, it tracks that Preston, who’d run out of options, would respond to safe harbor far away from the noise (and law) of his home country. What makes so much less sense is how good the two — Billy Preston and Novecento — sound together.

“You and I” is by no means spectacular. To the contrary, its success lies in the modesty of its ambition — warm, lite, cocktail party Funk and warmer, post-cocktail party ambiance. But it is astounding in its competency. It’s a tribute to all parties involved that they sound like a group — like men and women who’d been playing together for years. As he’d done with The Beatles and The Stones and dozens of other bands, Preston just stepped in, started playing and — poof — everything sounded better.

From the very first notes of the very first track (“Getting it On”) you can feel the feel. The neatest, warmest of Funk. The steadiest of grooves. The organ is so subtle, mixed back for mood, but so as not to disturb. And the singer — always known for his hands and fingers more than his throat — sounds positively delightful, purring in his lower register, but occasionally letting out squeals of delight. In 1997, George Clinton and Sly Stone were out of their minds. Luther Vandross and Keith Sweat, meanwhile, were standing atop Slow Jam mountain. Billy Preston, however, was frozen in ember, making the spiritual follow-up to “With You I’m Born Again” as though the eighteen years between had never happened. As though he was of full mind and in good health. As though nothing had changed.

“You and I” is nothing if not consistent. The title track could reasonably pass for a B-side (or A-side) from Preston’s 1981 album of duets with Syreeta — with a middle-aged Italian chanteuse playing the parts of Stevie Wonder’s ex. And the pulse of “Right Now,” with its faint Moog and locked bottom, sounds like a hot night between forty-somethings who’ve honed their steamy tricks but who also don’t want to pull a muscle. It’s sexy but never wild.

Occasionally, the Funk perks up. There’s Salsa in the rhythm of “Supernatural Thang” and there’s earth, wind and fire all over “I’m In Love With You.” But,  for the most part, “You and I” succeeds on account of its patience and perseverance. “Dream Lover,” for instance, blurs the lines between Muzak and Slow Jam. It’s the rare track that would work equally well inside a bank, an elevator or a bedroom draped in satin and velvet.

For all of its tasteful restraint, however, “You and I” was ultimately a rushed job. The professionalism of the band and the product did not diminish the obvious lack of budget and time. When the clock struck twelve in the recording studio, Preston and his Italian family had to return to a much colder reality. The final track on the album, “Sweet Senseous Sensations,” complete with its (hopefully intentional) misspelling, reminds us that “You and I” was a very temporary reprieve from the inevitable. Shortly after the album (which sold poorly and produced no hits) was released, Novecento broke up and Preston was sentenced to four years in prison.

by Matty Wishnow