Moonwalk

MICHAEL

JACKSON

MOONWALK

Chapter One

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I've always wanted to be able to tell stories, you know, stories that came from my soul. I'd like to sit by a fire and tell people stories - make them see pictures, make them cry and laugh, take them anywhere emotionally with something

as deceptively simple as words. I'd like to tell tales to move their souls and transform them. I've always wanted to be

able to do that. Imagine how the great writers must feel, knowing they have that power. I sometimes feel I could do

it. It's something I'd like to develop. In a way, songwriting uses the same skills, creates the emotional highs and lows,

but the story is a sketch. It's quicksilver. There are very few books written on the art of storytelling, how to grip

listeners, how to get a group of people together and amuse them. No costumes, no makeup, no nothing, just you and

your voice, and your powerful ability to take them anywhere, to transform their lives, if only for minutes.

As I begin to tell my story, I want to repeat what I usually say to people when they ask me about my earliest days

with the Jackson 5: I was so little when we began to work on our music that I really don't remember much about it.

Most people have the luxury of careers that start when they're old enough to know exactly what they're doing and

why, but, of course, that wasn't true of me. They remember everything that happened to them, but I was only five

years old. When you're a show business child, you really don't have the maturity to understand a great deal of what is

going on around you. People make a lot of decisions concerning your life when you're out of the room. So here's

what I remember. I remember singing at the top of my voice and dancing with real joy and working too hard for a

child. Of course, there are many details I don't remember at all. I do remember the Jackson 5 really taking off when I

was only eight or nine.

I was born in Gary, Indiana, on a late summer night in 1958, the seventh of my parents' nine children. My father, Joe

Jackson, was born in Arkansas, and in 1949 he married my mother, Katherine Scruse, whose people came from

Alabama. My sister Maureen was born the following year and had the tough job of being the oldest. Jackie, Tito,

Jermaine, LaToya, and Marlon were all next in line. Randy and Janet came after me.

A part of my earliest memories is my father's job working in the steel mill. It was tough, mind-numbing work and he

played music for escape. At the same time, my mother was working in a department store. Because of my father, and

because of my mother's own love of music, we heard it all the time at home. My father and his brother had a group

called the Falcons who were the local R&B band. My father played the guitar, as did his brother. They would do

some of the great early rock ‘n' roll and blues songs by Chuck Berry, Little Richard, Otis Redding, you name it. All

those styles were amazing and each had an influence on Joe and on us, although we were too young to know it at the

time. The Falcons practiced in the living room of our house in Gary, so I was raised on R&B. Since we were nine

kids and my father's brother had eight of his own, our combined numbers made for a huge family. Music was what

we did for entertainment and those times helped keep us together and kind of encouraged my father to be a family-

oriented man. The Jackson 5 were born out of this tradition - we later became the Jacksons - and because of this

training and musical tradition, I moved out on my own and established a sound that is mine.

I remember my childhood as mostly work, even though I loved to sing. I wasn't forced into this business by stage

parents the way Judy Garland was. I did it because I enjoyed it and because it was as natural to me as drawing a

breath and exhaling it. I did it because I was compelled to do it, not my parents or family, but by my own inner life in

the world of music.

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There were times, let me make that clear, when I'd come home from school and I'd only have time to put my books

down and get ready for the studio. Once there, I'd sing until late at night, until it was past my bedtime, really. There

was a park across the street from the Motown studio, and I can remember looking at those kids playing games. I'd

just stare at them in wonder - I couldn't imagine such freedom, such a carefree life - and wish more than anything

that I had that kind of freedom, that I could walk away and be like them. So there were sad moments in my

childhood. It's true for any child star. Elizabeth Taylor told me she felt the same way. When you're young and you're

working, the world can seem awfully unfair. I wasn't forced to be little Michael the lead singer - I did it and I loved it

- but it was hard work. If we were doing an album, for example, we'd go off to the studio after school and I might or

might not get a snack. Sometimes there just wasn't time. I'd come home, exhausted, and it'd be eleven or twelve and

past time to go to bed.

So I very much identify with anyone who worked as a child. I know how they struggled, I know what they sacrificed.

I also know what they learned. I've learned that it becomes more of a challenge as one gets older. I feel old for some

reason. I really feel like an old soul, someone who's seen a lot and experienced a lot. Because of all the years I've

clocked in, it's hard for me to accept that I am only twenty-nine. I've been in the business for twenty-four years.

Sometimes I feel like I should be near the end of my life, turning eighty, with people patting me on the back. That's

what comes from starting so young.

When I first performed with my brothers, we were known as the Jacksons. We would later become the Jackson 5.

Still later, after we left Motown, we would reclaim the Jacksons name again.

Every one of my albums or the group's albums has been dedicated to our mother, Katherine Jackson, since we took

over our own careers and began to produce our own music. My first memories are of her holding me and singing

songs like "You Are My Sunshine" and "Cotton Fields." She sang to me and to my brothers and sisters often. Even though she had lived in Indiana for some time, my mother grew up in Alabama, and in that part of the country it was

just as common for black people to be raised with country and western music on the radio as it was for them to hear

spirituals in church. She likes Willie Nelson to this day. She has always had a beautiful voice and I suppose I got my

singing ability from my mother and, of course, from God.

Mom played the clarinet and the piano, which she taught my oldest sister, Maureen, whom we call Rebbie, to play,

just as she'd teach my other older sister, LaToya. My mother knew, from an early age, that she would never perform

the music she loved in front of others, not because she didn't have the talent and the ability, but because she was

crippled by polio as a child. She got over the disease, but not without a permanent limp in her walk. She had to miss

a great deal of school as a child, but she told us that she was lucky to recover at a time when many died from the

disease. I remember how important it was to her that we got the sugar-cube vaccine. She even made us miss a youth

club show one Saturday afternoon - that's how important it was in our family.

My mother knew her polio was not a curse but a test that God gave her to triumph over, and she instilled in me a love

of Him that I will always have. She taught me that my talent for singing and dancing was as much God's work as a

beautiful sunset or a storm that left snow for children to play in. Despite all the time we spent rehearsing and

traveling, Mom would find time to take me to the Kingdom Hall of the Jehovah's Witnesses, usually with Rebbie and

LaToya.

Years later, after we had left Gary, we performed on "The Ed Sullivan Show", the live Sunday night variety show

where America first saw the Beatles, Elvis, and Sly and the Family Stone. After the show, Mr. Sullivan complimented and thanked each of us; but I was thinking about what he had said to me before the show. I had been

wandering around backstage, like the kid in the Pepsi commercial, and ran into Mr. Sullivan. He seemed glad to see

me and shook my hand, but before he let it go he had a special message for me. It was 1970, a year when some of the

best people in rock were losing their lives to drugs and alcohol. An older, wiser generation in show business was

unprepared to lose its very young. Some people had already said that I reminded them of Frankie Lymon, a great

young singer of the 1950s who lost his life that way. Ed Sullivan may have been thinking of all this when he told me,

"Never forget where your talent came from, that your talent is a gift from God."

I was grateful for his kindness, but I could have told him that my mother had never let me forget. I never had polio,

which is a frightening thing for a dancer to think about, but I knew God had tested me and my brothers and sisters in

other ways - our large family, our tiny house, the small amount of money we had to make ends meet, even the jealous

kids in the neighborhood who threw rocks at our windows while we rehearsed, yelling that we'd never make it. When

3

I think of my mother and our early years, I can tell you there are rewards that go far beyond money and public

acclaim and awards.

My mother was a great provider. If she found out that one of us had an interest in something, she would encourage it

if there was any possible way. If I developed an interest in movie stars, for instance, she'd come home with an armful

of books about famous stars. Even with nine children she treated each of us like an only child. There isn't one of us

who's ever forgotten what a hard worker and great provider she was. It's an old story. Every child thinks their mother

is the greatest mother in the world, but we Jacksons never lost that feeling. Because of Katherine's gentleness,

warmth, and attention, I can't imagine what it must be like to grow up without a mother's love.

One thing I know about children is that if they don't get the love they need from their parents, they'll get it from

someone else and cling to that person, a grandparent, anyone. We never had to look for anyone else with my mother

around. The lessons she taught us were invaluable. Kindness, love, and consideration for other people headed her list.

Don't hurt people. Never beg. Never freeload. Those were sins at our house. She always wanted us to give , but she

never wanted us to ask or beg. That's the way she is.

I remember a good story about my mother that illustrates her nature. One day, back in Gary, when I was real little,

this man knocked on everybody's door early in the morning. He was bleeding so badly you could see where he'd

been around the neighborhood. No one would let him in. Finally he got to our door and he started banging and

knocking. Mother let him in at once. Now, most people would have been too afraid to do that, but that's my mother. I

can remember waking up and finding blood on our floor. I wish we could all be more like Mum.

The earliest memories I have of my father are of him coming home from the steel mill with a big bag of glazed

doughnuts for all of us. My brothers and I could really eat back then and that bag would disappear with a snap of the

fingers. He used to take us all to the merry-go-round in the park, but I was so young I don't remember that very well.

My father has always been something of a mystery to me and he knows it. One of the few things I regret most is

never being able to have a real closeness with him. He built a shell around himself over the years and, once he

stopped talking about our family business, he found it hard to relate to us. We'd all be together and he'd just leave the

room. Even today it's hard for him to touch on father and son stuff because he's too embarrassed. When I see that he

is, I become embarrassed, too.

My father did always protect us and that's no small feat. He always tried to make sure people didn't cheat us. He

looked after our interests in the best ways. He might have made a few mistakes along the way, but he always thought

he was doing what was right for his family. And, of course, most of what my father helped us accomplish was

wonderful and unique, especially in regard to our relationships with companies and people in the business. I'd say we

were among a fortunate few artists who walked away from a childhood in the business with anything substantial -

money, real estate, other investments. My father set all these up for us. He looked out for both our interests and his.

To this day I'm so thankful he didn't try to take all our money for himself the way so many parents of child stars

have. Imagine stealing from your own children. My father never did anything like that. But I still don't know him,

and that's sad for a son who hungers to understand his own father. He's still a mystery man to me and he may always

be one.

What I got from my father wasn't necessarily God-given, though the Bible says you reap what you sow. When we

were coming along, Dad said that in a different way, but the message was just as clear: You could have all the talent

in the world, but if you didn't prepare and plan, it wouldn't do you any good.

Joe Jackson had always loved singing and music as much as my mother did, but he also knew there was a world

beyond Jackson Street. I wasn't old enough to remember his band, the Falcons, but they came over to our house to

rehearse on weekends. The music took them away from their jobs at the steel mill, where Dad drove a crane. The

Falcons would play all over town, and in clubs and colleges around northern Indiana and Chicago. At the rehearsals

at our house, Dad would bring his guitar out of the closet and plug it into the amp he kept in the basement. He'd

always loved rhythm and blues and that guitar was his pride and joy. The closet where the guitar was kept was

considered an almost sacred place. Needless to say, it was off-limits to us kids. Dad didn't go to Kingdom Hall with

us, but both Mom and Dad knew that music was a way of keeping our family together in a neighborhood where

gangs recruited kids my brothers' ages. The three oldest boys would always have an excuse to around when the

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Falcons came over. Dad let them think they were being given a special treat by being allowed to listen, but he was

actually eager to have them there.

Tito watched everything that was going on with the greatest interest. He'd taken saxophone in school, but he could

tell his hands were big enough to grab the chords and slip the riffs that my father played. It made sense that he'd

catch on, because Tito looked so much like my father that we all expected him to share Dad's talents. The extent of

the resemblance was scary as he got older. Maybe my father noticed Tito's zeal because he laid down rules for all my

brothers: No one was to touch the guitar while he was out. Period.

Therefore, Jackie, Tito, and Jermaine were careful to see that Mom was in the kitchen when they "borrowed" the

guitar. They were also careful not to make any noise while removing it. They would then go back to our room and

put on the radio or the little portable record player so they could play along. Tito would hoist the guitar onto his belly as he sat on the bed and prop it up. He took turns with Jackie and Jermaine, and they'd all try the scales they were

learning in school as well as try to figure out how to get the "Green Onions" part they'd hear on the radio.

By now I was old enough to sneak in and watch if I promised not to tell. One day Mom finally caught them, and we

were all worried. She scolded the boys, but said she wouldn't tell Dad as long as we were careful. She knew that

guitar was keeping them from running with a bad crowd and maybe getting beat up, so she wasn't about to take away

anything that kept them within arm's reach.

Of course, something had to give sooner or later, and one day a string broke. My brothers panicked. There wasn't

time to get it repaired before Dad came home, and besides, none if us knew how to go about getting it fixed. My

brothers never figured out what to do, so they put the guitar back in the closet and hoped fervently that my father

would think it broke by itself. Of course, Dad didn't buy that, and he was furious. My sisters told me to stay out of it

and keep a low profile. I heard Tito crying after Dad found out and I went to investigate, of course. Tito was on his

bed crying when Dad came back and motioned for him to get up. Tito was scared, but my father just stood there,

holding his favorite guitar. He gave Tito a hard, penetrating look and said, "Let me see what you can do."

My brother pulled himself together and started to play a few runs he had taught himself. When my father saw how

well Tito could play, he knew he'd obviously been practicing and he realized that Tito and the rest of us didn't treat

his favorite guitar as if it were a toy. It became clear to him that what had happened had been only an accident. At

this point my mother stepped in and voiced her enthusiasm for our musical ability. She told him that we boys had

talent and he should listen to us. She kept pushing for us, so one day he began to listen and he liked what he heard.

Tito, Jackie, and Jermaine started rehearsing together in earnest. A couple of years later, when I was about five, Mom

pointed out to my father that I was a good singer and could play the bongos. I became a member of the group.

About then my father decided that what was happening in his family was serious. Gradually he began spending less

time with the Falcons and more with us. We'd just woodshed together and he'd give us some tips and teach us

techniques on the guitar. Marlon and I weren't old enough to play, but we'd watch when my father rehearsed the older

boys and we were learning when we watched. The ban on using Dad's guitar still held when he wasn't around, but

my brothers loved using it when they could. The house on Jackson Street was bursting with music. Dad and Mom

had paid for music lessons for Rebbie and Jackie when they were little kids, so they had a good background. The rest

of us had music class and band in the Gary schools, but no amount of practice was enough to harness all that energy.

The Falcons were still earning money, however infrequent their gigs, and that extra money was important to us. It

was enough to keep food on the table for a growing family but not enough to give us things that weren't necessary.

Mom was working part-time at Sears, Dad was still working the mill job, and no one was going hungry, but I think,

looking back, that things must have seemed one big dead end.

One day Dad was late coming home and Mom began to get worried. By the time he arrived, she was ready to give

him a piece of her mind, something we boys didn't mind witnessing once in a while just to see if he could take it like

he dished it out, but when he poked his head through the door, he had a mischievous look on his face and he was

hiding something behind his back. We were all shocked when he produced a gleaming red guitar, slightly smaller

than the one in the closet. We were all hoping this meant we'd get the old one. But Dad said the new guitar was

Tito's. We gathered around to admire it, while Dad told Tito he had to share it with anyone who would practice . We

were not to take it to school to show it off. This was a serious present and that day was a momentous occasion for the

Jackson family.

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Mom was happy for us, but she also knew her husband. She was more aware than we of the big ambitions and plans

he had for us. He'd begun talking to her at night after we kids were asleep. He had dreams and those dreams didn't

stop with one guitar. Pretty soon we were dealing with equipment, not just gifts. Jermaine got a bass and an amp.

There were shakers for Jackie. Our bedroom and living room began to look like a music store. Sometimes I'd hear

Mom and Dad fight when the subject of money was brought up, because all those instruments and accessories meant

having to go without a little something we needed each week. Dad was persuasive, though, and he didn't miss a trick.

We even had microphones in the house. They seemed like a real luxury at the time, especially to a woman who was

trying to stretch a very small budget, but I've come to realize that having those microphones in our house wasn't just

an attempt to keep up with the Joneses or anyone else in amateur night competitions. They were there to help us

prepare. I saw people at talent shows, who probably sounded great at home, clam up the moment they got in front of

a microphone. Others started screaming their songs like they wanted to prove they didn't need the mikes. They didn't

have the advantage that we did - an advantage that only experience can give you. I think it probably made some

people jealous because they could tell our expertise with the mikes gave us an edge. If that was true, we made so

many sacrifices - in free time, schoolwork, and friends - that no one had the right to be jealous. We were becoming

very good, but we were working like people twice our age.

While I was watching my older brothers, including Marlon on the bongo drums, Dad got a couple of young guys

named Johnny Jackson and Randy Rancifer to play trap drums and organ. Motown would later claim they were our

cousins, but that was just an embellishment from the P.R. people, who wanted to make us seem like one big family.

We had become a real band! I was like a sponge, watching everyone, and trying to learn everything I could. I was

totally absorbed when my brothers were rehearsing or playing at charity events or shopping centers. I was most

fascinated when watching Jermaine because he was the singer at the time and he was a big brother to me - Marlon

was too close to me in age for that. It was Jermaine who would walk me to kindergarten and whose clothes would be

handed down to me. When he did something, I tried to imitate him. When I was successful at it, my brothers and Dad

would laugh, but when I began singing, they listened. I was singing in a baby voice then and just imitating sounds. I

was so young I didn't know what many of the words meant, but the more I sang, the better I got.

I always knew how to dance. I would watch Marlon's moves because Jermaine had the big bass to carry, but also

because I could keep up with Marlon, who was only a year older then me. Soon I was doing most of the singing at

home and preparing to join my brothers in public. Through our rehearsals, we were all becoming aware of our

particular strengths and weaknesses as members of the group and the shift in responsibilities was happening naturally.

Our family's house in Gary was tiny, only three rooms really, but at the time it seemed much larger to me. When

you're that young, the whole world seems so huge that a little room can seem four times its size. When we went back

to Gary years later, we were all surprised at how tiny that house was. I had remembered it as being large, but you

could take five steps from the front door and you'd be out the back. It was really no bigger then a garage, but when

we lived there it seemed fine to us kids. You see things from such a different perspective when you're young. Our

school days in Gary are a blur for me. I vaguely remember being dropped off in front of my school on the first day of

kindergarten, and I clearly remember hating it. I didn't want my mother to leave me, naturally, and I didn't want to be

there.

In time I adjusted, as all kids do, and I grew to love my teachers, especially the women. They were always very

sweet to us and they just loved me. Those teachers were so wonderful; I'd be promoted from one grade to the next

and they'd all cry and hug me and tell me how much they hated to see me leave their classes. I was so crazy about my

teachers that I'd steal my mother's jewelry and give it to them as presents. They'd be very touched, but eventually my

mother found out about it, and put an end to my generosity with her things. That urge that I had to give them

something in return for all I was receiving was a measure of how much I loved them at that school.

One day, in the first grade, I participated in a program that was put on before the whole school. Everyone of us in

each class had to do something, so I went home and discussed it with my parents. We decided I should wear black

pants and a white shirt and sing "Climb Ev'ry Mountain" from The Sound of Music . When I finished that song, the reaction in the auditorium overwhelmed me. The applause was thunderous and people were smiling; some of them

were standing. My teachers were crying and I just couldn't believe it. I had made them all happy. It was such a great

feeling. I felt a little confused too, because I didn't do anything special. I was just singing the way I sang at home

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every night. When you're performing, you don't realize what you sound like or how you're coming across. You just

open your mouth and sing.

Soon Dad was grooming us for talent contests. He was a great trainer, and he spent a lot of money and time working

with us. Talent is something that God gives to a performer, but our father taught us how to cultivate it. I think we also

had a certain instinct for show business. We loved to perform and we put everything we had into it. He's sit at home

with us every day after school and rehearse us. We'd perform for him and he'd critique us. If you messed up, you got

hit, sometimes with a belt, sometimes with a switch. My father was real strict with us - real strict. Marlon was the

one who got in trouble all the time. On the other hand, I'd get beaten for things that happened mostly outside

rehearsal. Dad would make me so mad and hurt that I'd try to get back at him and get beaten all the more. I'd take a

shoe and throw it at him, or I'd just fight back, swinging my fists. That's why I got it more than all my brothers

combined. I would fight back and my father would kill me, just tear me up. Mother told me I'd fight back even when

I was very little, but I don't remember that. I do remember running under tables to get away from him, and making

him angrier. We had a turbulent relationship.

Most of the time, however, we just rehearsed. We always rehearsed. Sometimes, late at night, we'd have time to play

games or with our toys. There might be a game of hide-and-go-seek or we'd jump rope, but that was about it. The

majority of our time was spent working. I clearly remember running into the house with my brothers when my father

came home, because we'd be in big trouble if we weren't ready to start rehearsals on time.

Through all this, my mother was completely supportive. She had been the one who first recognized our talent and she

continued to help us realize our potential. It's hard to imagine that we would have gotten where we did without her

love and good humor. She worried about the stress we were under and the long hours of rehearsal, but we wanted to

be the best we could be and we really loved music.

Music was important in Gary. We had our own radio stations and nightclubs, and there was no shortage of people

who wanted to be on them. After Dad ran our Saturday afternoon rehearsals, he'd go see a local show or even drive

all the way to Chicago to see someone perform. He was always watching for things that could help us down the road.

He'd come home and tell us what he'd seen and who was doing what. He kept up on all the latest stuff, whether it was

a local theater that ran contests we could enter or a Cavalcade of Stars show with great acts whose clothes or moves

we might adapt. Sometimes I wouldn't see Dad until I got back from Kingdom Hall on Sundays, but as soon as I ran

into the house he'd be telling me what he'd seen the night before. He'd assure me I could dance on one leg like James

Brown if I'd only try this step. There I'd be, fresh out of church, and back in show business.

We started collecting trophies with our act when I was six. Our lineup was set; the group featured me at second from

the left, and Jackie on my right. Tito and his guitar took stage right, with Marlon next to him. Jackie was getting tall

and he towered over Marlon and me. We kept that setup for contest after contest and it worked well. While other

groups we'd meet would fight among themselves and quit, we were becoming more polished and experienced. The

people in Gary who came regularly to see the talent shows got to know us, so we would try to top ourselves and

surprise them. We didn't want them to begin to feel bored by our act. We knew change was always good, that it

helped us grow, so we were never afraid of it.

Winning an amateur night or talent show in a ten-minute, two-song set took as much energy as a ninety-minute

concert. I'm convinced that because there's no room for mistakes, your concentration burns you up inside more on

one or two songs than it does when you have the luxury of twelve or fifteen in a set. These talent shows were our

professional education. Sometimes we'd drive hundreds of miles to do one song or two and hope the crowd wouldn't

be against us because we weren't local talent. We were competing against people of all ages and skills, from drill

teams to comedians to other singers and dancers like us. We had to grab that audience and keep it. Nothing was left

to chance, so clothes, shoes, hair, everything had to be the way Dad planned it. We really looked amazingly professional. After all this planning, if we performed the songs the way we rehearsed them, the awards would take

care of themselves. This was true even when we were in the Wallace High part of town where the neighborhood had

its own performers and cheering sections and we were challenging them right in their own backyards. Naturally,

local performers always had their own very loyal fans, so whenever we went off our turf and onto someone else's, it

was very hard. When the master of ceremonies held his hand over our heads for the "applause meter," we wanted to make sure that the crowd knew we had given them more than anyone else.

7

As players, Jermaine, Tito, and the rest of us were under tremendous pressure. Our manger was the kind who

reminded us that James Brown would fine his Famous Flames if they missed a cue or bent a note during a performance. As lead singer, I felt I - more than the others - couldn't afford an "off night." I can remember being onstage at night after being sick in bed all day. It was hard to concentrate at those times, yet I knew all the things my

brothers and I had to do so well that I could have performed the routines in my sleep. At times like that, I had to

remind myself not to look in the crowd for someone I knew, or at the emcee, both of which can distract a young

performer. We did songs that people knew from the radio or songs that my father knew were already classics. If you

messed up, you heard about it because the fans knew those songs and they knew how they were supposed to sound.

If you were going to change an arrangement, it needed to sound better than the original.

We won the citywide talent show when I was eight with our version of the Temptations' song "My Girl." The contest was held just a few blocks away at Roosevelt High. From Jermaine's opening bass notes and Tito's first guitar licks to

all of us singing the chorus, we had people on their feet for the whole song. Jermaine and I traded verses while

Marlon and Jackie spun like tops. It was a wonderful feeling for all of us to pass that trophy, our biggest yet, back

and forth between us. Eventually it was propped on the front seat like a baby and we drove home with Dad telling us,

"When you do it like you did tonight they can't not give it to you."

We were now Gary city champions and Chicago was our next target because it was the area that offered the steadiest

work and the best word of mouth for miles and miles. We began to plan our strategy in earnest. My father's group

played the Chicago sound of Muddy Waters and Howlin' Wolf, but he was open-minded enough to see that the more

upbeat, slicker sounds that appealed to us kids had a lot to offer. We were lucky because some people his age weren't

that hip. In fact, we knew musicians who thought the sixties sound was beneath people their age, but not Dad. He

recognized great singing when he heard it, even telling us that he saw the great doo-wop group from Gary, the

Spaniels, when they were stars not that much older than we. When Smokey Robinson of the Miracles sang a song

like "Tracks of My Tears" or "Ooo, Baby Baby," he'd be listening as hard as we were. The sixties didn't leave Chicago behind musically, Great singers like the Impressions with Curtis Mayfield, Jerry Butler, Major Lance, and

Tyrone Davis were playing all over the city at the same places we were. At this point my father was managing us

full-time, with only a part-time shift at the mill. Mom had some doubts about the soundness of this decision, not

because she didn't think we were good but because she didn't know anyone else who was spending the majority of

his time trying to break his children into the music business. She was even less thrilled when Dad told her he had

booked us as a regular act at Mr. Lucky's, a Gary nightspot. We were being forced to spend our weekends in Chicago

and other places trying to win an ever-increasing number of amateur shows, and these trips were expensive, so the

job at Mr. Lucky's was a way to make it all possible. Mom was surprised at the response we were getting and she

was very pleased with the awards and the attention, but she worried about us a lot. She worried about me because of

my age. "This is quite a life for a nine-year-old," she would say, staring intently at my father.

I don't know what my brothers and I expected, but the nightclub crowds weren't the same as the Roosevelt High

crowds. We were playing between bad comedians, cocktail organists, and strippers. With my Witness upbringing,

Mom was concerned that I was hanging out with the wrong people and getting introduced to things I'd be better off

learning much later in life. She didn't have to worry; just one look at some of those strippers wasn't going to get me

that interested in trouble - certainly not at nine years old! That was an awful way to live, though, and it made us all

the more determined to move on up the circuit and as far away from that life as we could go.

Being at Mr. Lucky's meant that for the first time in our lives we had a whole show to do - five sets a night, six nights

a week - and if Dad could get us something out of town for the seventh night, he was going to do it. We were

working hard, but the bar crowds weren't bad to us. They liked James Brown and Sam and Dave just as much as we

did and, besides, we were something extra that came free with the drinking and the carrying on, so they were

surprised and cheerful. We even had some fun with them on one number, the Joe Tex song "Skinny Legs and All."

We'd start the song and somewhere in the middle I'd go out into the audience, crawl under the tables, and pull up the

ladies' skirts to look under. People would throw money as I scurried by, and when I began to dance, I'd scoop up all

the dollars and coins that had hit the floor earlier and push them into the pockets of my jacket.

I wasn't really nervous when we began playing in because of all the experience I'd had with talent show audiences. I

was always ready to go out and perform, you know, just do it - sing and dance and have some fun.

We worked in more than one club that had strippers in those days. I used to stand in the wings of this one place in

Chicago and watch a lady whose name was Mary Rose. I must have been nine or ten. This girl would take off her

8

clothes and her panties and throw them to the audience. The men would pick them up and sniff them and yell. My

brothers and I would be watching all this, taking it in, and my father wouldn't mind. We were exposed to a lot doing

that kind of circuit. In one place they had cut a little hole in the musician's dressing room wall that also happened to

act as a wall in the ladies' bathroom. You could peek through this hole, and I saw stuff I've never forgotten. Guys on

that circuit were so wild, they did stuff like drilling little holes into the walls of the ladies' loo all the time. Of course, I'm sure that my brothers and I were fighting over who got to look through the hole. "Get outta the way, it's my turn!"

Pushing each other away to make room for ourselves.

Later, when we did the Apollo Theater in New York, I saw something that really blew me away because I didn't

know things like that existed. I had seen quite a few strippers, but that night this one girl with gorgeous eyelashes and

long hair came out and did her routine. She put on a great performance. All of a sudden, at the end, she took off her

wig, pulled a pair of big oranges out of her bra, and revealed that she was a hard-faced guy under all that makeup.

That blew me away. I was only a child and couldn't even conceive of anything like that. But I looked out at the

theater audience and they were going for it. applauding wildly and cheering. I'm just a little kid, standing in the

wings, watching this crazy stuff.

I was blown away.

As I said, I received quite an education as a child. More than most. Perhaps this freed me to concentrate on other

aspects of my life as an adult.

One day, not long after we'd been doing successfully in Chicago clubs, Dad brought home a tape of some songs we'd

never heard before. We were accustomed to doing popular stuff off the radio, so we were curious why he began

playing these songs over and over again, just one guy singing none too well with some guitar chords in the background. Dad told us that the man on the tape wasn't really a performer but a songwriter who owned a recording

studio in Gary. His name was Mr. Keith and he had given us a week to practice his songs to see if we could make a

record out of them. Naturally, we were excited. We wanted to make a record, any record.

We worked strictly on the sound, ignoring the dancing routines we'd normally work up for a new song. It wasn't as

much fun to do a song that none of us knew, but we were already professional enough to hide our disappointment

and give it all we could. When we were ready and felt we had done our best with the material, Dad got us on tape

after a few false starts and more than a few pep talks, of course. After a day or two of trying to figure out whether

Mr. Keith liked the tape we had made for him, Dad suddenly appeared with more of his songs for us to learn for our

first recording session.

Mr. Keith, like Dad, was a mill worker who loved music, only he was more into the recording and business end. His

studio and label were called Steeltown. Looking back on all this, I realize Mr. Keith was just as excited as we were.

His studio was downtown, and we went early one Saturday morning before "The Road Runner Show," my favorite

show at the time. Mr. Keith met us at the door and opened the studio. He showed us a small glass booth with all

kinds of equipment in it and explained what various tasks each performed. It didn't look like we'd have to lean over

any more tape recorders, at least not in this studio. I put on some big metal headphones, which came halfway down

my neck, and tried to make myself look ready for anything.

As my brothers were figuring out where to plug in their instruments and stand, some backup singers and a horn

section arrived. At first I assumed they were there to make a record after us. We were delighted and amazed when we

found out they were there to record with us. We looked over at Dad, but he didn't change expression. He'd obviously

known about it and approved. Even then people knew not to throw Dad surprises. We were told to listen to Mr.

Keith, who would instruct us while we were in the booth. If we did as he said, the record would take care of itself.

After a few hours, we finished Mr. Keith's first song. Some of the backup singers and horn players hadn't made

records either and found it difficult, but they also didn't have a perfectionist for a manager, so they weren't used to

doing things over and over the way we were. It was at times like these that we realized how hard Dad worked to

make us consummate professionals. We came back the next few Saturdays, putting the songs we'd rehearsed during

the week into the can and taking home a new tape of Mr. Keith's each time. One Saturday, Dad even brought his

guitar in to perform with us. It was the one and only time he ever recorded with us. After the records were pressed,

Mr. Keith gave us some copies so that we could sell them between sets and after shows. We knew that wasn't how the

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big groups did it, but everyone had to start someplace, and in those days, having a record with your group's name on

it was quite something. We felt very fortunate.

That first Steeltown single, "Big Boy," had a mean bass line. It was a nice song about a kid who wanted to fall in love with some girl. Of course, in order to get the full picture, you have to imagine a skinny nine-year-old singing

this song. The words said I didn't want to hear fairy tales any more, but in truth I was far too young to grasp the real

meanings of most of the words in these songs. I just sang what they gave me.

When that record with its killer bass line began to get radio play in Gary, we became a big deal in out neighborhood.

No one could believe we had our own record. We had a hard time believing it.

After that first Steeltown record, we began to aim for all the big talent shows in Chicago. Usually the other acts

would look me over carefully when they met me, because I was so little, particularly the ones who went on after us.

One day Jackie was cracking up, like someone had told him the funniest joke in the world. This wasn't a good sign

right before a show, and I could tell Dad was worried he was going to screw up onstage. Dad went over to say a word

to him, but Jackie whispered something in his ear and soon Dad was holding his sides, laughing. I wanted to know

the joke too. Dad said proudly that Jackie had overheard the headlining act talking among themselves. One guy said,

"We'd better not let those Jackson 5 cut us tonight with that midget they've got."

I was upset at first because my feelings were hurt. I thought they were being mean. I couldn't help it that I was the

shortest, but soon all the other brothers were cracking up too. Dad explained that they weren't laughing at me. He

told me that I should be proud, the group was talking trash because they thought I was a grown-up posing as a child

like one of the Munchkins in The Wizard Of Oz. Dad said that if I had those slick guys talking like the neighborhood

kids who gave us grief back in Gary, then we had Chicago on the run.

We still had some running of our own to do. After we played some pretty good clubs in Chicago, Dad signed us up

for the Royal Theater amateur night competition in town. He had gone to see B. B. King at the Regal the night he

made his famous live album. When Dad gave Tito that sharp red guitar years earlier, we had teased him by thinking

of girls he could name his guitar after, like B. B. King's Lucille. We won that show for three straight weeks, with a

new song every week to keep the regular members of the audience guessing. Some of the other performers complained that it was greedy for us to keep coming back, but they were after the same thing we were. There was a

policy that if you won the amateur night three straight times, you'd be invited back to do a paid show for thousands

of people, not dozens like the audiences we were playing to in bars. We got that opportunity and the show was

headlined by Gladys Knight and the Pips, who were breaking in a new song no one knew called "I Heard It Through

The Grapevine." It was a heady night.

After Chicago, we had one more big amateur show we really felt we needed to win: the Apollo Theater in New York

City. A lot of Chicago people thought a win at the Apollo was just a good luck charm and nothing more, but Dad saw

it as much more than that. He knew New York had a high caliber of talent just like Chicago and he knew there were

more record people and professional musicians in New York than Chicago. If we could make it in New York, we

could make it anywhere. That's what a win at the Apollo meant to us.

Chicago had sent a kind of scouting report on us to New York and our reputation was such that the Apollo entered us

in the "Superdog" finals, even though we hadn't been to any of the preliminary competitions. By this time, Gladys Knight had already talked to us about coming to Motown, as had Bobby Taylor, a member of the Vancouvers, with

whom my father had become friendly. Dad had told them we'd be happy to audition for Motown, but that was in out

future. We got to the Apollo at 125th Street early enough to get a guided tour. We walked through the theater and

stared at all of the pictures of the stars who'd played there, white as well as black. The manager concluded by

showing us to the dressing room, but by then I had found pictures of all my favorites.

While my brothers and I were paying dues on the so-called "chitlin' circuit," opening for other acts, I carefully watched all the stars because I wanted to learn as much as I could. I'd stare at their feet, the way they held their arms, the way they gripped a microphone, trying to decipher what they were doing and why they were doing it. After

studying James Brown from the wings, I knew every step, every grunt, every spin and turn. I have to say he would

give a performance that would exhaust you, just wear you out emotionally. His whole physical presence, the fire

coming out of his pores, would be phenomenal. You'd feel every bead of sweat on his face and you'd know what he

was going through. I've never seen anybody perform like him. Unbelievable, really. When I watched somebody I

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liked, I'd be there. James Brown, Jackie Wilson, Sam and Dave, the O'Jays - they all used to really work an audience.

I might have learned more from watching Jackie Wilson than from anyone or anything else. All of this was a very

important part of my education.

We would stand offstage, behind the curtains, and watch everyone come off after performing and they'd be all

sweaty. I'd just stand aside in awe and watch them walk by. And they would all wear these beautiful patent-leather

shoes. My whole dream seemed to center on having a pair of patent-leather shoes. I remember being so heartbroken

because they didn't make them in little boys' sizes. I'd go from store to store looking for patent-leather shoes and

they'd say, "We don't make them that small." I was so sad because I wanted to have shoes that looked the way those stage shoes looked, polished and shining, turning red and orange when the lights hit them. Oh, how I wanted some

patent-leather shoes like the ones Jackie Wilson wore.

Most of the time I'd be alone backstage. My brothers would be upstairs eating and talking and I'd be down in the

wings, crouching real low, holding on to the dusty, smelly curtain and watching the show. I mean, I really did watch

every step, every move, every twist, every turn, every grind, every emotion, every light move. That was my education and my recreation. I was always there when I had free time. My father, my brothers, other musicians, they

all knew where to find me. They would tease me about it, but I was so absorbed in what I was seeing, or in

remembering what I had just seen, that I didn't care. I remember all those theaters: the Regal, the Uptown, the Apollo

- too many to name. The talent that came out of those places is of mythical proportions. The greatest education in the

world is watching the masters at work. You couldn't teach a person what I've learned just standing and watching.

Some musicians - Springsteen and U2, for example - may feel they got their education from the streets. I'm a

performed at heart. I got mine from the stage.

Jackie Wilson was on the wall at the Apollo. The photographer captured him with one leg up, twisted, but not out of

position from catching the mike stand he'd just whipped back and forth. He could have been singing a sad lyric like

"Lonely Teardrops," and yet he had that audience so bug-eyed with his dancing that no one could feel sad or lonely.

Sam and Dave's picture was down the corridor, next to an old big-band shot. Dad had become friendly with Sam

Moore. I remember being happily amazed that he was nice to me when I met him for the first time. I had been

singing his songs for so long that I thought he'd want to box my ears. And not far from them was "The King of Them

All, Mr. Dynamite, Mr. Please Please Himself," James Brown. Before he came along, a singer was a singer and a

dancer was a dancer. A singer might have danced and a dancer might have sung, but unless you were Fred Astaire or

Gene Kelly, you probably did one better than the other, especially in a live performance. But he changed all that. No

spotlight could keep up with him when he skidded across the stage - you had to flood it! I wanted to be that good.

We won the Apollo amateur night competition, and I felt like going back to those photos on the walls and thanking

my "teachers." Dad was so happy he said he could have flown back to Gary that night. He was on top of the world

and so were we. My brothers and I had gotten straight A's and we were hoping we might get to skip a "grade." I

certainly sensed that we wouldn't be doing talent shows and strip joints much longer.

In the summer of 1968 we were introduced to the music of a family group that was going to change our sound and

our lives. They didn't all have the same last name, they were black and white, men and women, and they were called

Sly and the Family Stone. They had some amazing hits over the years, such as "Dance to the Music," "Stand," "Hot Fun in the Summertime." My brothers would point at me when they heard the line about the midget standing tall and

by now I'd laugh along. We heard these songs all over the dial, even on the rock stations. They were a tremendous

influence on all of us Jacksons and we owe them a lot.

After the Apollo, we kept playing with one eye on the map and one ear to the phone. Mom and Dad had a rule about

no more than five minutes a call, but when we came back from the Apollo, even five minutes was too long. We had

to keep the lines clear in case anyone from a record company wanted to get in touch with us. We lived in fear of

having them get a busy signal. We wanted to hear from one record company in particular, and if they called, we

wanted to answer.

While we waited, we found out that someone who had seen us at the Apollo had recommended us to "The David

Frost Show" in New York City. We were going to be on TV! That was the biggest thrill we'd ever had. I told

everyone at school, and told the ones who didn't believe me twice. We were going to drive out there in a few days. I

11

was counting the hours. I had imagined the whole trip, trying to figure out what the studio would be like and how it

would be to look into a television camera.

I came home with the traveling work my teacher had made up in advance. We had one more dress rehearsal and then

we'd make a final song selection. I wondered which songs we'd be doing.

That afternoon, Dad said the trip to New York was canceled. We all stopped in our tracks and just stared at him.

We were shocked. I was ready to cry. We had been about to get our big break. How could they do this to us? What

was going on? Why had Mr. Frost changed his mind? I was reeling and I think everyone else was, too. "I canceled

it," my father announced calmly. Again we all stared at him, unable to speak. "Motown called." A chill ran down my spine.

I remember the days leading up to that trip with near-perfect clarity. I can see myself waiting outside Randy's first-

grade classroom. It was Marlon's turn to walk him home, but we switched for today.

Randy's teacher wished me luck in Detroit, because Randy had told her we were going to Motown to audition. He

was so excited that I had to remind myself that he didn't really know what Detroit was. All the family had been

talking about was Motown, and Randy didn't even know what a city was. The teacher told me he was looking for

Motown on the globe in the classroom. She said that in her opinion we should do "You Don't Know Like I Know"

the way she saw us do it at the Regal in Chicago when a bunch of teachers drove over to see us. I helped Randy put

his coat on and politely agreed to keep it in mind - knowing that we couldn't do a Sam and Dave song at a Motown

audition because they were on Stax, a rival label. Dad told us the companies were serious about that kind of stuff, so

he wanted us to know there'd be no messing around when we got there. He looked at me and said he'd like to see his

ten-year-old singer make it to eleven.

We left the Garrett Elementary School building for the short walk home, but we had to hurry. I remember getting

anxious as a car swept by, then another. Randy took my hand, and we waved to the crossing guard. I knew La Toya

would have to go out if her way tomorrow to take Randy to school because Marlon and I would be staying over in

Detroit with the others.

The last time we played at the Fox Theater in Detroit, we left right after the show and got back to Gary at five o'clock

in the morning. I slept in the car most of the way, so going to school that morning wasn't as bad as it might have

been. But by the afternoon three o'clock rehearsal I was dragging around like someone with lead weights for feet.

We could have left that night right after our set, since we were third on the bill, but that would have meant missing

the headliner, Jackie Wilson. I'd seen him on other stages, but at the Fox he and his band were on a rising stage that

moved up as he start his show. Tired as I was after school the next day, I remember trying some of those moves in

rehearsal after practicing in front of a long mirror in the bathroom at school while the other kids looked on. My

father was pleased and we incorporated those steps into one of my routines.

Just before Randy and I turned the corner onto Jackson Street, there was a big puddle. I looked for cars but there

weren't any, so I let go of Randy's hand and jumped the puddle, catching on my toes so I could spin without getting

the cuffs of my corduroys wet. I looked back at Randy, knowing that he wanted to do the things I did. He stepped

back to get a running start, but I realized that it was a pretty big puddle, too big for him to cross without getting wet, so, being a big brother first and a dance teacher second, I caught him before he landed short and got wet.

Across the street the neighborhood kids were buying candy, and even some of the kids who were giving me a hard

time at school asked when we were going to Motown. I told them and bought candy for them and Randy, too, with

my allowance. I didn't want Randy to feel bad about my going away.

As we approached the house I heard Marlon yell, "Someone shut that door!" The side of out VW minibus was wide

open, and I shuddered, thinking about how cold it was going to be on the long ride up to Detroit. Marlon had beat us

home and was already helping Jackie load the bus with our stuff. Jackie and Tito got home in plenty of time for once:

They were supposed to have basketball practice, but the winter in Indiana had been nothing but slush and we were

anxious to get a good start. Jackie was on the high school basketball team that year, and Dad liked to say that the

next time we went to play in Indianapolis would be when Roosevelt went to the state championships. The Jackson 5

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would play between the evening and morning games, and Jackie would sink the winning shot for the title. Dad liked

to tease us, but you never knew what might happen with the Jacksons. He wanted us to be good at many things, not

just music. I think maybe he got that drive from his father, who taught school. I know my teachers were never as

hard on us as he was, and they were getting paid to be tough and demanding.

Mom came to the door and gave us the thermos and the sandwiches she had packed. I remember her telling me not to

rip the dress shirt she had packed for me after sewing it up the night before. Randy and I helped put some things in

the bus and then went back into the kitchen, where Rebbie was keeping one eye on Dad's supper and the other on

little Janet, who was in the high chair.

Rebbie's life was never easy as the oldest. We knew that as soon as the Motown audition was over, we'd find out if

we had to move or not. If we did, she was going to move South with her fiancee. She always ran things when Mom

was at night school finishing the high school diploma she was denied because of her illness. I couldn't believe it

when Mom told us she was going to get her diploma. I remember worrying that she'd have to go to school with kids

Jackie's or Tito's age and that they'd laugh at her. I remember how she laughed when I told her this and how she

patiently explained that she'd be with other grown-ups. It was interesting having a mother who did homework like

the rest of us.

Loading up the bus was easier than usual. Normally Ronnie and Johnny would have come to back us up, but

Motown's own musicians would be playing being us, so we were going alone. Jermaine was in our room finishing

some of his assignments when I walked in. I knew he wanted to get them out of the way. He told me that we ought to

take off for Motown by ourselves and leave Dad, since Jackie had taken driver's ed and was in possession of a set of

keys. We both laughed, but deep down I couldn't imagine going without Dad. Even on the occasions when Mom led

out after-school rehearsals because Dad hadn't come home from his shift on time, it was still like having him there

because she acted as his eyes and ears. She always knew what had been good the night before and what had gotten

sloppy today. Dad would pick it up from there at night. It seemed to me that they almost gave each other signals or

something - Dad could always tell if we had been playing like we were supposed to by some invisible indication

from Mom.

There was no long good-bye at the door when we left for Motown. Mom was used to our being away for days, and

during school vacations. LaToya pouted a little because she wanted to go. She had only seen us in Chicago, and we

had never been able to stay long enough in places like Boston of Phoenix to bring her back anything. I think our lives

must have seemed pretty glamorous to her because she had to stay home and go to school. Rebbie had her hands full

trying to put Janet to sleep, but she called good-bye and waved. I gave Randy a last pat on the head and we were off.

Dad and Jackie went over the map as we drove away, mostly out of habit, because we had been to Detroit before, of

course. We passed Mr. Keith's recording studio downtown by City Hall as we made our way through town. We had

done some demos at Mr. Keith's that Dad sent to Motown after the Steeltown record. The sun was going down when

we hit the highway. Marlon announced that if we heard one of our records on WVON, it was going to bring us luck.

We all nodded. Dad asked us if we remembered what WVON stood for as he nudged Jackie to keep quiet. I kept

looking out the window, thinking about the possibilities that lay ahead, but Jermaine jumped in. "Voice of the

Negro," he said. Soon we were calling roll all over the dial. "WGN - World's Greatest Newspaper." The Chicago Tribune owned it.) "WLS - World's Largest Store." (Sears) "WCFL . . ." We stopped, stumped. "Chicago Federation of Labor," Dad said, motioning for the thermos. We turned onto I-94, and the Gary station faded into a Kalamazoo

station. We began flipping around, looking for Beatle music on CKLW from Windsor, Ontario, Canada.

I had always been a Monopoly fan at home, and there was something about driving to Motown that was a little like

that game. In Monopoly you go around the board buying things and making decisions; the "chitlin' circuit" of

theaters where we played and won contests was kind of like a Monopoly board full of possibilities and pitfalls. After

all the stops along the way, we finally landed at the Apollo Theater in Harlem, which was definitely Park Place for

young performers like us. Now we were on our way up Boardwalk, heading for Motown. Would we win the game or

slide past Go with a long board separating us from our goal for another round?

There was something changing in me, and I could feel it, even shivering in the minibus. For years we'd make the

drive over to Chicago wondering if we were good enough to ever get out of Gary, and we were. Then we took the

drive to New York, certain that we'd fall off the edge of the earth if we weren't good enough to make it there. Even

those nights in Philadelphia and Washington didn't reassure me enough to keep me from wondering if there wasn't

13

someone or some group we didn't know about in New York who could beat us. When we tore it down at the Apollo,

we finally felt that nothing could stand in our way. We were going to Motown, and nothing there was going to

surprise us either. We were going to surprise them, just like we always did.

Dad pulled the typewritten directions out of the glove compartment and we pulled off the highway, passing the

Woodward Avenue exit. There weren't many people on the streets because it was a school night for everybody else.

Dad was a little nervous about whether our accommodations would be okay, which surprised me until I realized the

Motown people had picked the hotel. We weren't used to having things done for us. We liked to be our own bosses.

Dad had always been our booking agent, travel agent, and manager. When he wasn't taking care of the arrangements,

Mom was. So it was no wonder that even Motown managed to make Dad feel suspicious that he should have made

the reservations, that he should have handled everything.

We stayed at the Gotham Hotel. The reservations had been made and everything was in order. There was a TV in our

room, but all the stations had signed off, and with the audition at ten o'clock, we weren't going to get to stay up any

later anyway. Dad put us right to bed, locked the door, and went out. Jermaine and I were too tired to even talk.

We were all up on time the next morning; Dad saw to that. But, in truth, we were just as excited as he was and

hopped out of bed when we called us. The audition was unusual for us because we hadn't played in many places

where they expected us to be professional. We knew it was going to be difficult to judge whether we were doing

well. We were used to audience response whether we were competing or just performing at a club, but Dad had told

us the longer we stayed, the more they wanted to hear.

We climbed into the VW, after cereal and milk at the coffee shop. I noticed they offered grits on the menu, so I knew

there were a lot of Southern people who stayed there. We had never been to the South then and wanted to visit

Mom's part of the country someday. We wanted to have a sense of our roots and those of other black people,

especially after what had happened to Dr. King. I remember so well the day he died. Everyone was torn up. We didn't

rehearse that night. I went to Kingdom Hall with Mom and some of the others. People were crying like they had lost

a member of their own family. Even the men who were usually pretty unemotional were unable to control their grief.

I was too young to grasp the full tragedy of the situation, but when I look back on that day now, it makes me want to

cry - for Dr. King, for his family, and for all of us.

Jermaine was the first to spot the studio, which was known as Hitsville, U.S.A. It looked kind of run-down, which

was not what I'd expected. We wondered who we might see, who might be there making a record that day. Dad had

coached us to let him do all the talking. Our job was to perform like we'd never performed before. And that was

asking a lot, because we always put everything into each performance, but we knew what he meant.

There were a lot of people waiting inside, but Dad said the password and a man in a shirt and tie came out to meet us.

He knew each of our names, which astounded us. He asked us to leave our coats there and follow him. The other

people just stared through us like we were ghosts. I wondered who they were and what their stories were. Had they

traveled far? Had they been here day after day hoping to get in without an appointment?

When we entered the studio, one of the Motown guys was adjusting a movie camera. There was an area set up with

instruments and microphones. Dad disappeared into one of the sound booths to talk to someone. I tried to pretend

that I was at the Fox Theater, on the rising stage, and this was just business as usual. I decided, looking around, that

if I ever built my own studio, I'd get a mike like the one they had at the Apollo, which rose out of the floor. I nearly

fell on my face once running down those basement steps while trying to find out where it went when it slowly

disappeared beneath the stage floor.

The last song we sang was "Who's Lovin' You." When it ended, no one applauded or said a word. I couldn't stand not knowing, so I blurted, "How was that?" Jermaine shushed me. The older guys who were backing us up were laughing

about something. I looked at them out of the corner of my eye. "Jackson Jive, huh?" one of them called out with a big grin on his face. I was confused, I think my brothers were too.

The man who had led us back said, "Thanks for coming up." We looked at Dad's face for some indication, but he

didn't seem pleased or disappointed. It was still daylight out when we left. We took I-94 back to Gary, subdued,

knowing there was homework to do for class tomorrow, wondering if that was all there was to that.

14

Chapter Two

Dancing Machine

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We were jubilant when we learned we had passed the Motown audition. I remember Berry Gordy sitting us all down

and saying that we were going to make history together. "I'm gonna make you the biggest thing in the world," he

said, "and you're gonna be written about in history books." He really said that to us. We were leaning forward,

listening to him, and saying, "Okay! Okay!" I'll never forget that. We were all over at his house, and it was like a fairy tale come true listening to this powerful, talented man tell us we were going to be very big. "Your first record will be a number one, your second record will be a number one, and so will your third record. Three number one

records in a row. You'll hit the charts just as Diana Ross and the Supremes did." This was almost unheard of in those days, but he was right; we turned around and did just that. Three in a row.

So Diana didn't find us first, but I don't think we'll ever be able to repay Diana properly for all she did for us in those days. When we finally moved to Southern California, we actually lived with Diana and stayed with her for more than

a year on a part-time basis. Some of us lived with Berry Gordy and some of us with Diana, and then we would

switch. She was so wonderful, mothering us and making us feel right at home. She really helped take care of us for at

least a year and a half while my parents closed up the Gary house and looked for a house we could all live in here in

California. It was great for us because Berry and Diana lived on the same street in Beverly Hills. We could walk up

to Berry's house and then go back to Diana's. Most of the time I'd spend the day at Diana's and the night at Berry's.

This was an important period in my life because Diana loved art and encouraged me to appreciate it too. She took the

time to educate me about it. We'd go out almost every day, just the two of us, and buy pencils and paint. When we

weren't drawing or painting, we'd go to museums. She introduced me to the works of the great artists like Michelangelo and Degas and that was the start of my lifelong interest in art. She really taught me a great deal. It was

so new to me and exciting. It was really different from what I was used to doing, which was living and breathing

music, rehearsing day in and day out. You wouldn't think a big star like Diana would take the time to teach a kid to

paint, to give him an education in art, but she did and I loved her for it. I still do. I'm crazy about her. She was my

mother, my lover, and my sister all combined in one amazing person.

Those were truly wild days for me and my brothers. When we flew to California from Chicago, it was like being in

another country, another world. To come from our part of Indiana, which is so urban and often bleak, and to land in

Southern California was like having the world transformed into a wonderful dream. I was uncontrollable back then. I

was all over the place - Disneyland, Sunset Strip, the beach. My brothers loved it too, and we got into everything,

like kids who had just visited a candy store for the first time. We were awestruck by California; trees had oranges and

leaves on them in the middle of winter. There were palm trees and beautiful sunsets, and the weather was so warm.

Every day was special. I would be doing something that was fun and wouldn't want it to end, but then I'd realize

there was something else to do later that was going to be just as enjoyable and that I could look forward to just as

much. Those were heady days.

One of the best parts of being there was meeting all the big Motown stars who had emigrated to California along

with Berry Gordy after he moved from Detroit. I remember when I first shook Smokey Robinson's hand. It was like

shaking hands with a king. My eyes lit up with stars, I remember telling my mother that his hand felt as if it was

layered with soft pillows. You don't think about the little impressions people walk away with when you're a star

yourself, but the fans do. At least, I know I did. I mean, I walked around saying, "His hand is so soft ." When I think about it now, it sounds silly, but it made a big impression on me. I had shaken Smokey Robinson's hand. There are so

many artists and musicians and writers I admire. When I was young, the people I watched were the real showmen -

James Brown, Sammy Davis, Jr., Fred Astaire, Gene Kelly. A great showman touches everybody; that's the real test

of greatness and these men have it. Like Michelangelo's work, it touches you, I don't care who you are. I am always

excited when I get a chance to meet someone whose work has affected me in some way. Maybe I've read a book that

has touched me deeply or made me think about things that I haven't focused on before. A certain song or style of

singing can excite me or move me and become a favorite that I'll never tire of hearing. A picture or a painting can

reveal a universe. In the same vein, an actor's performance or a collective performance can transform me.

In those days Motown had never recorded a kids' group. In fact the only child singer they had ever produced was

Stevie Wonder. So Motown was determined that if they were going to promote kids, they'd promote the kind of kids

who were good at more than just singing and dancing. They wanted people to like us because of who we were, not

just because of our records. They wanted us to set an example by sticking to our schoolwork and being friendly to

15

our fans, reporters, and everyone who came in contact with us. This wasn't hard for us because our mother had raised

us to be polite and considerate. It was second nature. Our only problem with schoolwork was that once we became

well known, we couldn't go to school because people would come into our classrooms through the windows, looking

for an autograph or a picture. I was trying to keep up with my classes and not to be the cause of disruptions, but it

finally became impossible and we were given tutors to teach us at home.

During this period a lady named Suzanne de Passe was having a great effect on our lives. She worked for Motown,

and it was she who trained us religiously once we moved to L.A. She also became a manager for the Jackson 5. We

lived with her occasionally, ate with her, and even played with her. We were a rowdy, high-spirited bunch, and she

was young herself and full of fun. She really contributed a lot toward the shaping of the Jackson 5, and I'll never be

able to thank her enough for all she did.

I remember Suzanne showing us these charcoal sketches of the five of us. In each sketch we had a different hairstyle.

In another set of color drawings we were all pictured in different clothes that could be switched around like Colorforms. After we all decided on the hairstyles, they took us to a barber so he could make us match up with our

pictures. Then, after she showed us the clothes, we went down to a wardrobe department where they gave us outfits

to try on. They'd see us in one set of clothes, decide the clothes weren't right, and we'd all go back to the Colorforms

to "try on" some more.

We had classes in manners and grammar. They gave us a list of questions, and they said they were the kinds of

questions that we could expect people to ask us. We were always being asked about our interests and our hometown

and how we liked singing together. Fans and reporters alike wanted to know how old we each were when we started

performing. It was hard to have your life turn into public property, even if you appreciated that people were interested in you because of your music.

The Motown people tested us on the answers to questions we hadn't heard from anyone yet. They tested us on

grammar. And table manners. When we were ready, they brought us in for the last alterations on our sleeves and the

trimming of our new Afros.

After all that there was a new song to learn called "I Want You Back." The song had a story behind it that we found out about little by little. It was written by someone from Chicago named Freddie Perren. He had been Jerry Butler's

pianist when we opened for Jerry in a Chicago nightclub. He had felt sorry for these little kids the club owner had

hired, figuring the club couldn't afford to get anyone else. His opinion changed dramatically when he saw us

perform.

As it turned out, "I Want You Back" was originally called "I Want To Be Free" and was written for Gladys Knight.

Freddie had even thought that Berry might go over Gladys's head and give the song to the Supremes. Instead, he

mentioned to Jerry that he'd just signed this group of kids from Gary, Indiana. Freddie put two and two together,

realized it was us, and decided to trust fate.

When we were learning the Steeltown songs back in Gary, Tito and Jermaine had to pay special attention because

they were responsible for playing on those records. When they heard the demo for "I Want You Back," they listened to the guitar and bass parts, but Dad explained that Motown didn't expect them to play on our records; the rhythm

track would be taken care of before we put our vocals down. But he reminded them that this would put more pressure

on them to keep up their practice independently, because we'd have to duplicate those songs in front of our fans. In

the meantime, all of us had lyrics and cues to learn.

The guys looking after us in the singing department were Freddie Perren and Bobby Taylor and Deke Richards, who,

along with Hal Davis and another Motown guy named "Fonce" Mizell, were part of the team that wrote and

produced our first singles. Together these guys were called "The Corporation." We went over to Richard's apartment to rehearse, and he was impressed that we had prepared so well. He didn't have to do much tinkering with the vocal

arrangement he'd worked out, and he thought that while we were still hot, we should go right to the studio and cut

our parts. The following afternoon we went to the studio. We were all so happy with what we got that we took our

rough mix over to Berry Gordy. It was still midafternoon when we arrived at his studio. We figured that once Berry

heard it, we'd be home in time for supper.

16

But it was one in the morning when I finally slumped in the back seat of Richard's car, bobbing and steadying my

head all the way home to fight off sleep. Gordy hadn't liked the song we did. We went over every part again, and

when we did, Gordy figured out what changes he had to make in the arrangement. He was trying new things with us,

like a school chorus master who has everyone singing their part as if they're singing alone, even if you can't hear him

or her distinctly for the crowd. After he was through rehearsing us as a group, and he had reworked the music, he

took me aside, one on one, to explain my part. He told me exactly what he wanted and how he wanted me to help

him get it. Then he explained everything to Freddie Perren, who was going to record it. Berry was brilliant in this

area. Right after the single was released, we went in to cut an album. We were particularly impressed with the "I

Want You Back" session then because that one song took more time (and tape) than all the other songs on the record

combined. That's the way Motown did things in those days because Berry insisted on perfection and attention to

detail. I'll never forget his persistence. This was his genius. Then and later, I observed every moment of the sessions

where Berry was present and never forgot what I learned. To this day I use the same principles. Berry was my

teacher and a great one. He could identify the little elements that would make a song great rather than just good. It

was like magic, as if Berry was sprinkling pixie dust over everything.

For me and my brothers, recording for Motown was an exciting experience. Our team of writers shaped our music by

being with us as we recorded it over and over, molding and sculpting a song until it was just perfect. We would cut a

track over and over for weeks until we got it just as they wanted it. And I could see while they were doing it that it

was getting better and better. They would change words, arrangements, rhythms, everything. Berry gave them the

freedom to work this way because of his own perfectionist nature. I guess if they hadn't been doing it, he would have.

Berry had such a knack. He'd just walk into the room where we were working and tell me what to do and he'd be

right. It was amazing.

When "I Want You Back" was released in November 1969, it sold two million copies in six weeks and went to

number one. Our next single, "ABC," came out in March 1970 and sold two million records in three weeks. I still

like the part where I say, "Siddown, girl! I think I loove you! No, get up, girl, show me what you can do! " When our third single, "The Love You Save," went to number one in June of 1970, Berry's promise came true.

When our next single, "I'll Be There," was also a big hit in the fall of that year, we realized we might even surpass Berry's expectations and be able to pay him back for all the effort he had made for us.

My brothers and I - our whole family - were very proud. We had created a new sound for a new decade. It was the

first time in recording history that a bunch of kids had made so many hit records. The Jackson 5 had never had much

competition from kids our own age. In the amateur days there was a kids' group called the Five Stairsteps that we

used to see. They were good, but they didn't seem to have the strong family unit that we did, and sadly they broke up.

After "ABC" hit the charts in such a big way, we started seeing other groups that record companies were grooming to ride the bandwagon we had built. I enjoyed all these groups: the Partridge Family, the Osmonds, the DeFranco

Family. The Osmonds were already around, but they were doing a much different style of music, like barbershop

harmony and crooning. As soon as we hit, they and the other groups got into soul real fast. We didn't mind.

Competition, as we know, was healthy. Our own relatives thought "One Bad Apple" was us. I remember being so

little that they had a special apple crate for me to stand on with my name on it so I could reach the microphone.

Microphones didn't go down far enough for kids my age. So many of my childhood years went by that way, with me

standing on that apple box singing my heart out while other kids were outside playing.

As I said before, in those early days "The Corporation" at Motown produced and shaped all our music. I remember

lots of times when I felt the song should be sung one way and the producers felt it should be sung another way. But

for a long time I was very obedient and wouldn't say anything about it. Finally it reached a point where I got fed up

with being told exactly how to sing. This was in 1972 when I was fourteen years old, around the time of the song

"Lookin' Through the Windows." They wanted me to sing a certain way, and I knew they were wrong. No matter

what age you are, if you have it and you know it, then people should listen to you. I was furious with our producers

and very upset. So I called Berry Gordy and complained. I said that they had always told me how to sing, and I had

agreed all this time, but now they were getting too . . . mechanical.

So he came into the studio and told them to let me do what I wanted to do. I think he told them to let me be more free

or something. And after that, I started adding a lot of vocal twists that they really ended up loving. I'd do a lot of ad-

libbing, like twisting words or adding some edge to them.

17

When Berry was in the studio with us, he would always add something that was right. He'd go from studio to studio,

checking on different aspects of people's work, often adding elements that made the records better. Walt Disney used

to do the same thing: he'd go check on his various artists and say, "Well, this character should be more outgoing." I always knew when Berry was enjoying something I was doing in the studio, because he has this habit of rolling his

tongue in his cheek when he's pleased by something. If things were really going well, he'd punch the air like the ex-

professional boxer he is.

My three favorite songs from those days are "Never Can Say Goodbye," "I'll Be There," and "ABC." I'll never forget the first time I heard "ABC." I thought it was so good. I remember feeling this eagerness to sing that song, to get in the studio and really make it work for us.

We were still rehearsing daily and working hard - some things didn't change - but we were grateful to be where we

were. There were so many people pulling for us, and we were so determined ourselves that it seemed anything could

happen.

Once "I Want You Back" came out, everyone at Motown prepared us for success. Diana loved it and presented us at a big-name Hollywood discotheque, where she had us playing in a comfortable party atmosphere like at Berry's.

Following directly on the heels of Diana's event came an invitation to play at the "Miss Black America" telecast.

Being on the show would enable us to give people a preview of our record and our show. After we got the invitation,

my brothers and I remembered our disappointment at not getting to go to New York to do our first TV show because

Motown had called. Now we were going to do our first TV show and we were with Motown. Life was very good.

Diana, of course, put the cherry on top. She was going to host "The Hollywood Palace," and big Saturday night

show; it would be her last appearance with the Supremes and the first major exposure for us. This meant a lot to

Motown, because by then they had decided that our new album would be called "Diana Ross Presents the Jackson 5."

Never before had a superstar like Diana passed the torch to a bunch of kids. Motown, Diana, and five kids from

Gary, Indiana, were all pretty excited. By then "I Want You Back" had come out, and Berry was proven right again; all the stations that played Sly and the Beatles were playing us, too.

As I mentioned earlier, we didn't work as hard on the album as we did on the single, but we had fun trying out all

sorts of songs - from "Who's Lovin' You," the old Miracles' song we were doing in the talent show days, to "Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah."

We did songs on that album that appealed to a wide audience - kids, teenagers, and grownups - and we all felt that

was a reason for its big success. We knew that "The Hollywood Palace" had a live audience, a sophisticated Hollywood crowd, and we were concerned; but we had them from the first note. There was an orchestra in the pit, so

that was the first time I heard all of "I Want You Back" performed live because I wasn't there when they recorded the strings for the album. Doing that show made us feel like kings, the way winning the citywide show in Gary had.

Selecting the right songs for us to do was going to be a real challenge now that we weren't depending on other

people's hits to win crowd. The Corporation guys and Hal Davis were put to work writing songs especially for us, as

well as producing them. Berry didn't want to have to bail us all out again. So even after our first singles hit number

one on the charts, we were busy with the follow-ups.

"I Want You Back" could have been sung by a grownup, but "ABC" and "The Love You Save" were written for our young voices, with parts for Jermaine as well as me - another bow to the Sly sound, which rotated singers around the

stage. The Corporation had also written those songs with dance routines in mind: the steps our fans did at parties as

well as those we did on stage. The verses were tongue-twisting, and that's why they were split up between Jermaine

and me.

Neither of those records could have happened without "I Want You Back." We were adding and subtracting ideas in

the arrangements from that one mother lode of a song, but the public seemed to want everything we were doing. We

later made two more records in the vein, "Mama's Pearl" and "Sugar Daddy," which reminded me of my own schoolyard days: "While I'm giving you the candy, he's getting all your love!" We added one new wrinkle when

Jermaine and I sang harmony together, which always got an enthusiastic response when we did it from the same

mike on stage.

18

The pros have told us that no group had a better start than we did. Ever. "I'll Be There" was our real breakthrough song; it was the one that said, "We're here to stay." It was number one for five weeks, which is very unusual. That's a long time for a song and the song was one of my favorites of all the songs we've ever done. How I loved the words:

"You and I must make a pact, we must bring salvation back . . ." Willie Hutch and Berry Gordy didn't seem like

people who'd write like that. They were always kidding around with us when we weren't in the studio. But that song

grabbed me from the moment I heard the demo. I didn't even know what a harpsichord was until that record's

opening notes were played for us. The song was produced thanks to the genius of Hal Davis, assisted by Suzy Ikeda,

my other half who stood next to me song after song, making sure I put the right emotion and feeling and heart into

the composition. It was a serious song, but we threw in a fun part when I sang "Just look over your shoulder, honey!"

Without the honey, that's right out of the Four Tops' great song "Reach Out, I'll Be There." So we were feeling more and more like a part of Motown's history as well as its future.

Originally the plan was for me to sing all the bouncy stuff and Jermaine to do the ballads. But though Jermaine's

voice at seventeen was more mature, ballads were more my love, if not really my style - yet. That was our fourth

straight number one as a group, and a lot of people liked Jermaine's song "I Found That Girl," the B-side of "The Love You Save," just as much as the hits.

We worked those songs into one big medley, with plenty of room for dancing, and we went back to that medley when

we performed on all kinds of TV shows. For instance, we played on "The Ed Sullivan Show" three different times.

Motown always told us what to say in interviews back then, but Mr. Sullivan was one of the people who drew us out

and made us feel comfortable. Looking back, I wouldn't say Motown was putting us in any kind of straitjacket or

turning us into robots, even though I wouldn't have done it that way myself; and if I had children, I wouldn't tell them

what to say. The Motown people were doing something with us that hadn't been done before, and who was to say

what was the right way to handle that sort of stuff?

Reporters would ask us all kinds of questions, and the Motown people would be standing by to help us out or

monitor the questions if need be. We wouldn't have dreamed of trying anything that would embarrass them. I guess

they were worried about the possibility of our sounding militant the way people were often doing in those days.

Maybe they were worried after they gave us those Afros that they had created little Frankensteins. Once a reporter

asked a Black Power question and the Motown person told him we didn't think about that stuff because we were a

"commercial product." It sounded weird, but we winked and gave the power salute when we left, which seemed to

thrill the guy.

We even had a reunion with don Cornelius on his "Soul Train" show. He had been a local disc jockey during our

Chicago days, so we all knew one another from that time. We enjoyed watching his show and picked up ideas from

those dancers who were from our part of the country.

The crazy days of the big Jackson 5 tours began right after the successes we had with our records. It started with a

big arena tour in the fall of 1970; we played huge halls like Madison Square Garden and the Los Angeles Forum.

When "Never Can Say Goodbye" was a big hit in 1971, we played forty-five cities that summer, followed by fifty

more cities later that year.

I recall most of that time as a period of extreme closeness with my brothers. We have always been a very loyal and

affectionate group. We clowned around, goofed off a lot together, and played outrageous pranks on each other and

the people who worked with us. We never got too rowdy - no TV's sailed out of our hotel windows, but a lot of water

was spilled on various heads. We were mostly trying to conquer the boredom we felt from being so long on the road.

When you're bored on tour, you tend to do anything to cheer yourself up. Here we were, cramped up in these hotel

rooms, unable to go anywhere because of the mobs of screaming girls outside, and we wanted to have some fun. I

wish we could have captured some of the stuff we did on film, especially some of the wild pranks. We'd all wait until

our security manager, Bill Bray, was asleep. Then we'd stage insane fast-walk races in the hallways, pillow fights,

tag-team wrestling matches, shaving cream wars, you name it. We were nuts. We'd drop balloons and paper bags full

of water off hotel balconies and watch them explode. Then we'd die laughing. We threw stuff at each other and spent

hours on the phone making fake calls and ordering immense room service meals that were delivered to the rooms of

strangers. Anyone who walked into one of our bedrooms had a ninety percent chance of being drenched by a bucket

of water propped over the doors.

19

When we'd arrive in a new city, we'd try to do all the sightseeing we could. We traveled with a wonderful tutor, Rose

Fine, who taught us a great deal and made sure we did our lessons. It was Rose who instilled in me a love of books

and literature that sustains me today. I read everything I could get my hands on. New cities meant new places to

shop. We loved to shop, especially in bookstores and department stores, but as our fame spread our fans transformed

casual shopping trips into hand-to-hand combat. Being mobbed by near hysterical girls was one of the most terrifying experiences for me in those days. I mean, it was rough . We'd decide to run into some department store to

see what they had, and the fans would find out we were there and would demolish the place, just tear it up. Counters

would get knocked over, glass would break, the cash registers would be toppled. All we had wanted to do was look at

some clothes! When those mob scenes broke out, all the craziness and adulation and notoriety became more than we

could handle. If you haven't witnessed a scene like that, you can't imagine what it's like. Those girls were serious .

They still are. They don't realize they might hurt you because they're acting out of love. They mean well, but I can

testify that it hurts be mobbed. You feel as if you're going to suffocate or be dismembered. There are a thousand

hands grabbing at you. One girl is twisting your wrist this way while another girl is pulling your watch off. They

grab your hair and pull it hard, and it hurts like fire. You fall against things and the scrapes are horrible. I still wear the scars, and I can remember in which city I got each of them. Early on, I learned how to run through crowds of

thrashing girls outside of theaters, hotels, and airports. It's important to remember to shield your eyes with your

hands because girls can forget they have nails during such emotional confrontations. I know the fans mean well and I

love them for their enthusiasm and support, but crowd scenes are scary.

The wildest mob scene I ever witnessed happened the first time we went to England. We were in the air over the

Atlantic when the pilot announced that he had just been told there were ten thousand kids waiting for us at Heathrow

Airport. We couldn't believe it. We were excited, but if we could have turned around and flown home, we might

have. We knew this was going to be something, but since there wasn't enough fuel to go back, we flew on. When we

landed, we could see that the fans had literally taken over the whole airport. It was wild to be mobbed like that. My

brothers and I felt fortunate to make it out of the airport alive that day.

I wouldn't trade my memories of those days with my brothers for anything. I often wish I could relive those days. We

were like the seven dwarfs: each of us was different, each had his own personality. Jackie was the athlete and the

worrier. Tito was the strong, compassionate father figure. He was totally into cars and loved putting them together

and tearing them apart. Jermaine was the one I was closest to when we were growing up. He was funny and

easygoing, and was constantly fooling around. It was Jermaine who put all those buckets of cold water on the doors

of our hotel rooms. Marlon was and is one of the most determined people I've ever met. He, too, was a real joker and

prankster. He used to be the one who'd always get in trouble in the early days because he'd be out of step or miss a

note, but that was far from true later.

The diversity of my brothers' personalities and the closeness we felt were what kept me going during those grueling

days of constant touring. Everybody helped everybody. Jackie and Tito would keep us from going too far with our

pranks. They'd seem to have us under control, and then Jermaine and Marlon would shout, "Let's go crazy!!"

I really miss all that. In the early days we were together all the time. We'd go to amusement parks or ride horses or

watch movies. We did everything together. As soon as someone said, "I'm going swimming," we'd all yell, "Me too!"

The separation from my brothers started much later, when they began to get married. An understandable change

occurred as each of them became closest to his wife and they became a family unit unto themselves. A part of me

wanted us to stay as we were - brothers who were also best friends - but change is inevitable and always good in one

sense or another. We still love each other's company. We still have a great time when we're together. But the various

paths our lives have taken won't allow us the freedom to enjoy one another's company as much as we did.

In those days, touring with the Jackson 5, I always shared a room with Jermaine. He and I were close, both onstage

and off, and shared a lot of the same interests. Since Jermaine was also the brother most intrigued by the girls who

wanted to get at him, he and I would get into mischief on the road.

I think our father decided early on that he had to keep a more watchful eye on us than on our other brothers. He

would usually take the room next to ours, which meant he could come in to check on us anytime through the

connecting doors. I really despised this arrangement, not only because he could monitor our misbehavior, but also

because he used to do the meanest things to us. Jermaine and I would be sleeping, exhausted after a show, and my

father would bring a bunch of girls into the room; we'd wake up and they'd be standing there, looking at us, giggling.

20

Because show business and my career were my life, the biggest personal struggle I had to face during those teenage

years did not involve the recording studios or my stage performance. In those days, the biggest struggle was right

there in my mirror. To a great degree, my identity as a person was tied to my identity as a person was tied to my

identity as a celebrity.

My appearance began to really change when I was about fourteen. I grew quite a bit in height. People who didn't

know me would come into a room expecting to be introduced to cute little Michael Jackson and they'd walk right

past me. I would say, "I'm Michael," and they would look doubtful. Michael was a cute little kid: I was a gangly adolescent heading toward five feet ten inches. I was not the person they expected or even wanted to see.

Adolescence is hard enough, but imagine having your own natural insecurities about the changes your body is

undergoing heightened by the negative reactions of others. They seemed so surprised that I could change, that my

body was undergoing the same natural change everyone's does.

It was tough. Everyone had called me cute for a long time, but along with all the other changes, my skin broke out in

a terrible case of acne. I looked in the mirror one morning and it was like, "OH NO!" I seemed to have a pimple for every oil gland. And the more I was bothered by it, the worse it got. I didn't realize it then, but my diet of greasy

processed food didn't help either.

I became subconsciously scarred by this experience with my skin. I got very shy and became embarrassed to meet

people because my complexion was so bad. It really seemed that the more I looked in the mirror, the worse the

pimples got. My appearance began to depress me. So I know that a case of acne can have a devastating effect on a

person. The effect on me was so bad that it messed up my whole personality. I couldn't look at people when I talked

to them. I'd look down, or away. I felt I didn't have anything to be proud of and I didn't even want to go out. I didn't

do anything.

My brother Marlon would be covered with pimples and he wouldn't care but I didn't want to see anybody and I didn't

want anyone to see my skin in that shape. It makes you wonder about what makes us the way we are, that two

brothers could be so different.

I still had our hits records to be proud of, and once I hit the stage, I didn't think about anything else. All that worry

was gone.

But once I came offstage, there was that mirror to face again.

Eventually, things changed. I started feeling differently about my condition. I've learned to change how I think and

learned to feel better about myself. Most importantly, I changed my diet. That was the key.

In the fall of 1971 I cut my first solo record, "Got to Be There." It was wonderful working on that record and it became one of my favorites. It was Berry Gordy's idea that I should do a solo recording, and so I became one of the

first people in a Motown group to really step out. Berry also said he thought I should record my own album. Years

later, when I did, I realized he was right.

There was a small conflict during that era that was typical of the struggles I went through as a young singer. When

you're young and have ideas, people often think you're just being childish and silly. We were on tour in 1972, the

year "Got To Be There" became a big hit. One night I said to our record manager, "Before I sing that song, let me go offstage and grab that little hat I wore for the picture on the album cover. If the audience sees me wearing that hat,

they'll go crazy."

He thought it was the most ridiculous idea he had ever heard. I was not allowed to do it because I was young, and

they all thought it was a dumb idea. Not long after that incident, Donny Osmond began wearing a very similar hat all

over the country and people loved it. I felt good about my instincts; I had thought it would work. I had seen Marvin

Gaye wear a hat when he sang "Let's Get It On," and people went bananas. They knew what was coming when

Marvin put that hat on. It added excitement and communicated something to the audience that allowed them to

become more involved with the show.

21

I was already a devoted fan of film and animation by the time "The Jackson Five" Saturday morning cartoon show

started appearing over network television in 1971. Diana Ross had enhanced my appreciation of animation when she

taught me to draw, but being a cartoon character pushed me over the brink into a full-time love of the movies and the

kind of animated motion pictures pioneered by Walt Disney. I have such admiration for Mr. Disney and what he

accomplished with the help of so many talented artists. When I think about the joy he and his company have brought

to millions of children - and adults - the world over, I am in awe.

I loved being a cartoon. It was so much fun to get up on Saturday mornings to watch cartoons and look forward to

seeing ourselves on the screen. It was like a fantasy come true for all of us.

My first real involvement with films came when I sang the title song for the movie Ben in 1972.

Ben meant a lot to me. Nothing had ever excited me as much as going to the studio to put my voice on film. I had a

great time. Later, when the movie came out, I'd go to the theater and wait until the end when the credits would flash

on, and it would say, "'Ben' sung by Michael Jackson." I was really impressed by that. I loved the song and loved the story. Actually, the story was a lot like E.T. It was about a boy who befriended a rat. People didn't understand the

boy's love for this little creature. He was dying of some disease and his only true friend was Ben, the leader of the

rats in the city where they lived. A lot of people thought the movie was a bit odd, but I was not one of them. The song

went to number one and is still a favorite of mine. I have always loved animals and I enjoy reading about them and

seeing movies in which they're featured.

22

Chapter Three

Dancing Machine

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The media write weird stuff about me all the time. The distortion of the truth bothers me. I usually don't read a lot of

what is printed, although I often hear about it.

I don't understand why they feel the need to make up things about me. I suppose if there's nothing scandalous to

report, it's necessary to make things interesting. I take some small pride in thinking that I've come out pretty well, all things considered. A lot of children in the entertainment business ended up doing drugs and destroying themselves:

Frankie Lymon, Bobbie Driscoll, any of a number of child stars. And I can understand their turning to drugs,

considering the enormous stresses put upon them at a young age. It's a difficult life. Very few manage to maintain

any semblance of a normal childhood.

I myself have never tried drugs - no marijuana, no cocaine, nothing. I mean, I haven't even tried these things.

Forget it.

This isn't to say we were never tempted. We were musicians doing business during an era when drug use was

common. I don't mean to be judgmental - it's not even a moral issue for me - but I've seen drugs destroy too many

lives to think they're anything to fool with. I'm certainly no angel, and I may have my own bad habits, but drugs

aren't among them.

By the time Ben came out, we knew that we were going to go around the world. American soul music had become as

popular in other countries as blue jeans and hamburgers. We were invited to become part of that big world, and in

1972 we began our first overseas tour with a visit to England. Though we'd never been there before or appeared on

British television, people knew all the words to our songs. They even had wide scarves with our pictures on them and

"Jackson 5" written in big broad letters. The theaters were smaller than the ones we were used to playing in the United States, but the enthusiasm from the crowds was very gratifying as we'd finish each song. They didn't scream

during the songs the way crowds did back home, so people over there could actually tell how good Tito was getting

on the guitar, because they could hear him.

We took Randy along because we wanted to give him the experience and allow him to see what was going on. He

wasn't officially part of our act, but stayed in the background with bongos. He had his own Jackson 5 outfit, so when

we introduced him, people cheered. The next time we came back, Randy would be a part of the group. I had been the

bongo player before Randy, and Marlon had played them before me, so it had become almost a tradition to break the

new guy in on those crazy little drums.

We had three years of hits behind us when we toured Europe that first time, so there was enough to please both the

kids who followed our music and the Queen of England, whom we met at a Royal Command Performance. That was

very exciting for us. I had seen photographs of other groups, like the Beatles, meeting the Queen after command

performances, but I never dreamed we'd get the chance to play for her.

England was our jumping-off point, and it was different from any place we'd been before, but the farther we traveled,

the more exotic the world looked. We saw the great museums of Paris and the beautiful mountains of Switzerland.

Europe was an education in the roots of Western culture and, in a way, a preparation for visiting Eastern countries

that were more spiritual. I was very impressed that the people there didn't value material things as much as they did

animals and nature. For instance, China and Japan were places that helped me grow because these countries made me

understand there was more to life than the things you could hold in your hand or see with you eyes. And in all of

these countries, the people had heard of us and liked our music.

Australia and New Zealand, our next stops, were English-speaking, but we met people who were still living in tribes

in the outback. They greeted us as brothers even though they didn't speak our language. If I'd ever needed proof that

all men could be brothers, I certainly had it during that tour.

And then there was Africa. We had read up on Africa because our tutor, Miss Fine, had prepared special lessons on

the customs and history of each country we visited. We didn't get to see the prettier parts of Africa, but the ocean and

23

the shore and the people were unbelievably beautiful near the coast where we were. We went to a game reserve one

day and observed animals roaming wild. The music was eye-opening too. The rhythms were phenomenal. When we

first came off the plane, it was dawn and there was a long line of Africans dancing in their native costumes, with

drums and shakers. They were dancing all around, welcoming us. They were really into it. Boy, it was something.

What a perfect way to welcome us to Africa. I'll never forget that.

And the craftspeople in the marketplace were incredible. People were making things as we watched and selling other

things. I remember one man who made beautiful wood carvings. He'd ask you what you wanted and you'd say, "A

man's face," and he'd take a piece from a tree trunk, slice it, and create this remarkable face. You could watch him do it right before your eyes. I'd just sit there and watch people step up to ask him to make something for them and he'd

do this whole thing over and over.

It was a visit to Senegal that made us realize how fortunate we were and how our African heritage had helped to

make us what we were. We visited an old, abandoned slave camp at Gore Island and we were so moved. The African

people had given us gifts of courage and endurance that we couldn't hope to repay.

I guess if Motown could have had us age the way they wanted us to, they would have wanted Jackie to stay the age

he was when we became a headline act and have each of us catch up with him - although I think they'd have wanted

to keep me a year or so younger, so I could still be a child star. That may sound nonsensical, but it really wasn't much

more farfetched than the way they were continuing to mold us, keeping is from being a real group with its own

internal direction and ideas. We were growing up and we were expanding creatively. We had so many ideas we

wanted to try out, but they were convinced that we shouldn't fool with a successful formula. At least they didn't drop

us as soon as my voice changed, as some said they might.

It got to the point that it seemed there were more guys in the booth than there were on the studio floor at any given

time. They all seemed to be bumping into one another, giving advice and monitoring our music.

Our loyal fans stuck with us on records like "I Am Love" and "Skywriter." These songs were musically ambitious pop recordings, with sophisticated string arrangements, but they weren't right for us. Sure, we couldn't do "ABC" all our lives - that was the last thing we wanted - but even the older fans thought "ABC" had more going for it, and that was hard for us to live with. During the mid-seventies we were in danger of becoming an oldies act, and I wasn't

even eighteen yet.

When Jermaine married Hazel Gordy, our boss's daughter, people were winking at us, saying that we'd always be

looked after. Indeed, when "Get It Together" came out in 1973, it got the same treatment from Berry that "I Want You Back" had gotten. It was our biggest hit in two years, though you could have said it was more like a bone transplant

than the spanking little baby that our first hit was. Nevertheless, "Get It Together" had good, tough low harmony, a sharper wah-wah guitar, and strings that buzzed like fireflies. Radio stations liked it, but not as much as the new

dance clubs called discos did. Motown picked up on this and brought back Hal Davis from The Corporation days to

really put the juice into "Dancing Machine." The Jackson 5 were no longer just the backup group for the 101 Strings or whatever.

Motown had come a long way from the early days when you could find good studio musicians supplementing their

session pay with bowling alley gigs. A new sophistication turned up in the music on "Dancing Machine." That song had the best horn part we'd worked with yet and a "bubble machine" in the break, made out of synthesizer noise, that kept the song from going completely out of style. Disco music had its detractors, but to us it seemed our rite of

passage into the adult world.

I loved "Dancing Machine," loved the groove and the feel of that song. When it came out in 1974, I was determined to find a dance move that would enhance the song and make it more exciting to perform - and, I hoped, more

exciting to watch.

So when we sang "Dancing Machine" on "Soul Train," I did a street-style dance move called the Robot. That performance was a lesson to me in the power of television. Overnight, "Dancing Machine" rose to the top of the

charts, and within a few days it seemed that every kid in the United States was doing the Robot. I had never seen

anything like it.

24

Motown and the Jackson 5 could agree on one thing: As our act grew, our audience should too. We had two recruits

coming up: Randy had already toured with us, and Janet was showing talent with her singing and dancing lessons.

We couldn't put Randy and Janet into our old lineup any more than we could put square pegs into round holes. I

wouldn't insult their considerable talent by saying that show business was so in their blood that they just took their

places automatically, as if we'd reserved a spot for them. They worked hard and earned their places in the group.

They didn't join us because they ate meals with us and shared our old toys.

If you just went by blood, I'd have as much crane operator in me as singer. You can't measure these things. Dad

worked us hard and kept certain goals in sight while spinning dreams at night.

Just as disco might have seemed like a very unlikely place for a kids' group to become a grown-up act, Las Vegas,

with its showcase theaters, wasn't exactly the family atmosphere that Motown had originally groomed us for, but we

decided to play there just the same. There wasn't much to do in Las Vegas if you didn't gamble, but we thought of the

theaters in the city as just big clubs with the club hours and clientele of our Gary and South Side Chicago days -

except for the tourists. Tourist crowds were a good thing for us, since they knew our old hits and would watch our

skits and listen to new songs without getting restless. It was great to see the delight on their faces when little Janet

came out in her Mae West costume for a number or two.

We had performed skits before, in a 1971 TV special called Goin' Back To Indiana , which celebrated our Gary

homecoming the first time we all decided to return. Our records had become hits all over the world since we'd seen

our hometown last.

It was even more fun to do skits with nine of us, instead of just five, plus whatever guests happened to appear with

us. Our expanded lineup was a dream come true for Dad. Looking back, I know the Las Vegas shows were an

experience I'll never recapture. We didn't have the high-pressure concert crowd wanting all our hit songs and nothing

more. We were temporarily freed from the pressures of having to keep up with what everyone else was doing. We

had a ballad or two in every show to break in my "new voice." At fifteen, I was having to think about things like that.

There were people from CBS Television at our Las Vegas shows and they approached us about doing a variety show

for the upcoming summer. We were very interested and pleased that we were being recognized as more than just a

"Motown group." Over time, this distinction would not be lost on us. Because we had creative control over our Las Vegas revue, it was harder for us to return to our lack of freedom in recording and writing music once we got back to

Los Angeles. We'd always intended to grow and develop in the musical field. That was our bread and butter, and we

felt we were being held back. Sometimes I felt we were being treated as if we still lived in Berry Gordy's house - and

with Jermaine now a son-in-law, our frustration was only heightened.

By the time we began putting our own act together, there were signs that other Motown institutions were changing.

Marvin Gaye took charge of his own music and produced his masterpiece album, What's Goin' On . Stevie Wonder

was learning more about electronic keyboards than the experienced studio hired guns - they were coming to him for

advice. One of our last great memories from our Motown days is of Stevie leading us in chanting to back up his

tough, controversial song "You Haven't Done Nothin'." Though Stevie and Marvin were still in the Motown camp,

they had fought for - and won - the right to make their own records, and even to publish their own songs. Motown

hadn't even budged with us. To them we were still kids, even if they weren't dressing us and "protecting" us any longer.

Our problems with Motown began around 1974, when we told them in no uncertain terms that we wanted to write

and produce our own songs. Basically, we didn't like the way our music sounded at the time. We had a strong

competitive urge and we felt we were in danger of being eclipsed by other groups who were creating a more

contemporary sound.

Motown said, "No, you can't write your own songs; you've got to have songwriters and producers." They not only

refused to grant our requests, they told us it was taboo to even mention that we wanted to do our own music. I really

got discouraged and began to seriously dislike all the material Motown was feeding us. Eventually I became so

disappointed and upset that I wanted to leave Motown behind.

When I feel that something is not right, I have to speak up. I know most people don't think of me as tough or strong-

willed, but that's just because they don't know me. Eventually my brothers and I reached a point with Motown where

25

we were miserable but no one was saying anything. My brothers didn't say anything. My father didn't say anything.

So it was up to me to arrange a meeting with Berry Gordy and talk to him. I was the one who had to say that we - the

Jackson 5 - were going to leave Motown. I went over to see him, face to face, and it was one of the most difficult

things I've ever done. If I had been the only one of us who was unhappy, I might have kept my mouth shut, but there

had been so much talk at home about how unhappy we all were that I went in and talked to him and told him how we

felt. I told him I was unhappy.

Remember, I love Berry Gordy. I think he's a genius, a brilliant man who's one of the giants of the music business. I

have nothing but respect for him, but that day I was a lion. I complained that we weren't allowed any freedom to

write songs and produce. He told me that he still thought we needed producers to make hit records.

But I knew better, Berry was talking out of anger. That was a difficult meeting, but we're friends again, and he's still

like a father to me - very proud of me and happy about my success. No matter what, I will always love Berry because

he taught me some of the most valuable things I've learned in my life. He's the man who told the Jackson 5 they

would become a part of history, and that is exactly what happened. Motown has done so much for so many people

over the years. I feel we're fortunate to have been one of the groups Berry personally introduced to the public and I

owe enormous thanks to this man. My life would have been very different without him. We all felt that Motown

started us, supporting our professional careers. We all felt our roots were there, and we all wished we could stay. We

were grateful for everything they had done for us, but change is inevitable. I'm a person of the present, and I have to

ask, How are things going now? What's happening now? What's going to happen in the future that could affect what

has happened in the past?

It's important for artists always to maintain control of their lives and work. There's been a big problem in the past

with artists being taken advantage of. I've learned that a person can prevent that from happening by standing up for

what he or she believes is right, without concern for the consequences. We could have stayed with Motown; but if we

had, we'd probably be an oldies act.

I knew it was time for change, so we followed our instincts, and we won when we decided to try for a fresh start with

another label. Epic

We were relieved that we had finally made our feelings clear and cut the ties that were binding us, but we were also

really devastated when Jermaine decided to stay with Motown. He was Berry's son-in-law and his situation was more

complicated than ours. He thought it was more important for him to stay than to leave, and Jermaine always did as

his conscience told him, so he left the group.

I clearly remember the first show we did without him, because it was so painful for me. Since my earliest days on the

stage - and even in our rehearsals in our Gary living room - Jermaine stood at my left with his bass. I depended on

being next to Jermaine. And when I did that first show without him there, with no one next to me, I felt totally naked

onstage for the first time in my life. So we worked harder to compensate for the loss of one of our shining stars,

Jermaine. I remember that show well because we got three standing ovations. We worked hard .

When Jermaine left the group, Marlon had a chance to take his place and he really shone onstage. My brother Randy

officially took my place as bongo player and the baby of the band.

Around the time that Jermaine left, things were further complicated for us because of the fact that we were doing a

stupid summer replacement TV series. It was a dumb move to agree to do that show and I hated every minute of it.

I had loved the old "Jackson Five" cartoon show. I used to wake up early on Saturday mornings and say, "I'm a cartoon!" But I hated doing this television show because I felt it would hurt our recording career rather than help it. I think a TV series is the worst thing an artist who has a recording career can do. I kept saying, "But this is gonna hurt our record sales." And others said, "No, it's gonna help them."

They were totally wrong. We had to dress in ridiculous outfits and perform stupid comedy routines to canned

laughter. It was all so fake. We didn't have time to learn or master anything about television. We had to create three

dance numbers a day, trying to meet a deadline. The Nielsen ratings controlled our lives from week to week. I'd

never do it again. It's a dead-end road. What happens is partly psychological. You are in people's homes every week

and they begin to feel they know you too well. You're doing all this silly comedy to canned laughter and your music

26

begins to recede into the background. When you try to get serious again and pick up your career where you left off,

you can't because you're overexposed. People are thinking of you as the guys who do the silly, crazy routines. One

week you're Santa Claus, the next week you're Prince Charming, another week you're a rabbit. It's crazy, because you

lose your identity in the business; the rocker image you had is gone. I'm not a comedian. I'm not a show host. I'm a

musician. That's why I've turned down offers to host the Grammy Awards and the American Music Awards. Is it

really entertaining for me to get up there and crack a few weak jokes and force people to laugh because I'm Michael

Jackson, when I know in my heart that I'm not funny?

After our TV show I can remember doing theaters-in-the-round where the stage didn't revolve because if they had

turned it, we would have been singing to some empty seats. I learned something from that experience and I was the

one who refused to renew our contract with the network for another season. I just told my father and brothers that I

thought it was a big mistake, and they understood my point of view. I had actually had a lot of misgivings about the

show before we started taping it, but I ended up agreeing to give it a try because everyone thought it would be a great

experience and very good for us.

The problem with TV is that everything must be crammed into a little space of time. You don't have time to perfect

anything. Schedules - tight schedules - rule your life. If you're not happy with something, you just forget it and move

on to the next routine. I'm a perfectionist by nature. I like things to be the best they can be. I want people to hear or

watch something I've done and feel that I've given it everything I've got. I feel I owe an audience that courtesy. On

the show our sets were sloppy, the lighting was poor, and our choreography was rushed . Somehow, the show was a

big hit. There was a popular show on opposite us and we beat them out in the Nielsens. CBS really wanted to keep

us, but I knew that show was a mistake. As it turned out, it did hurt our record sales and it took us a while to recover

from the damage. When you know something's wrong for you, you have to make difficult decisions and trust your

instincts.

I rarely did TV after that; the Motown 25 special is the only show that comes to mind. Berry asked me to be on that

show and I kept trying to say no, but he finally talked me into it. I told him I wanted to do "Billie Jean" even though it would be the only non-Motown song on the show, and he readily agreed. "Billie Jean" was number one at the time.

I choreographed our routines, so I was pretty wrapped up in those numbers, but I had a good notion of what I wanted

to do with "Billie Jean." I had a sense that the routine had worked itself out in my mind while I was busy with other things. I asked someone to rent or buy me a black fedora - a spy hat - and the day of the show I began putting the

routine together. I'll never forget that night, because when I opened my eyes at the end, people were on their feet

applauding. I was overwhelmed by the reaction. It felt so good.

Our only "break" during the Motown-to-Epic switch was the TV show. While that was all going on, we heard that

Epic had Kenny Gamble and Leon Huff working on demos for us. We were told we'd be recording in Philadelphia

after our shows were all done.

If there was anyone who stood to gain the most from switching labels, it was Randy, who was now part of the Five.

But now that he finally was one of us, we were no longer known as the Jackson 5. Motown said that the group's

name was the company's registered trademark, and that we couldn't use it when we left. That was hardball, of course,

so we called ourselves the Jacksons from that time on.

Dad had met with the Philly guys while negotiations were going on with Epic. We'd always had great respect for the

records that Gamble and Huff had overseen, records like "Backstabbers" by the O'Jays, "If You Don't Know Me By Now," by Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes(featuring Teddy Pendergrass), and "When Will I See You Again," by the Three Degrees, along with many other hits. They told Dad they'd been watching us, and they said they wouldn't mess

with our singing. Dad mentioned that we were hoping to have a song or two of our own included in the new album,

and they promised to give them a fair hearing.

We'd gotten to talk with Kenny and Leon and their team of people, which included Leon McFadden and John

Whitehead. They showed what they could do for themselves when they made "Ain't No Stoppin' Us Now" in 1979.

Dexter Wanzel was also a part of this team. Kenny Gamble and Leon Huff are such pros. I actually got a chance to

watch them create as they presented songs to us and that helped my songwriting a lot. Just watching Huff play the

piano while Gamble sang taught me more about the anatomy of a song than anything else. Kenny Gamble is a master

melody man. He made me pay closer attention to the melody because of watching him create. And I would watch,

too. I'd sit there like a hawk, observing every decision, listening to every note. They'd come to us in our hotel and

27

play a whole album's worth of music for us. That's the way we'd be introduced to the songs they had chosen for our

album - aside from the two songs we were writing ourselves. It was an amazing thing to be present for.

We had cut some demos of our songs at home during our breaks from shooting, but we decided to wait on those - we

felt there was no sense putting a gun to anyone's head. We knew that Philly had a lot to offer us, so we'd save our

surprise for them later.

Our two songs, "Blues Away" and "Style of Life," were two hard secrets to keep at the time because we were so proud of them. "Style of Life" was a jam that Tito directed, and it was in keeping with the nightclub groove that

"Dancing Machine" got us into, but we kept it a little leaner and meaner than Motown would have cut it.

"Blues Away" was one of my first songs, and though I don't sing it any more, I'm not embarrassed to hear it. I

couldn't have gone on in this business if I had ended up hating my own records after all that work. It's a light song

about overcoming a deep depression - I was going for the Jackie Wilson "Lonely Teardrops" way of laughing on the outside to stop the churning inside.

When we saw the cover art for The Jacksons album, the first we cut for Epic, we were surprised to see that we all

looked alike. Even Tito looked skinny! I had my "crown" Afro then, so I didn't stick out so much, I guess. Still, once we performed our new songs like "Enjoy Yourself" and "Show You the Way to Go," people knew I was still second from the left, right out front. Randy took Tito's old spot on my far right, and Tito moved into the old place Jermaine

had. It took a long time for me to feel comfortable with that, as I've mentioned, though it was through no fault of

Tito's.

Those two singles were fun records - "Enjoy Yourself" was great for dancing. It had rhythm guitar and horns that I really liked. It was also a number one record. For my taste, I leaned a little more toward "Show You the Way to Go"

because it showed what good regard the Epic people had for our singing. We were all over that record and it was the

best one we did. I loved the high hat and strings fluttering alongside us like birds' wings. I'm surprised that song in

particular wasn't a bigger hit.

Though we couldn't spell it out, we kind of hinted about our situation in a song called "Living Together," which Kenny and Leon chose with us in mind. "If we're going to stick together, we've got to be a family. Have yourself a

real good time, but don't you know it's getting late." The strings pointed and thrust like they did in "Backstabbers,"

but that was a Jacksons' message, even if it wasn't in the Jacksons' style - yet.

Gamble and Huff had written enough songs for another album, but we knew from experience that while they were

doing what they did best, we were losing some of our identity. We were honored to be a part of the Philly family, but

that wasn't enough for us. We were determined to do all of the things we had wanted to do for so many years. That's

why we had to go back into our Encino studio and work together again as a family.

Going Places , our second album for Epic, was different from our first. There were more songs with messages and

not as many dance songs. We knew that the message to promote peace and let music take over was a good one, but

again it was more like the old O'Jays' "Love Train" and not really our style.

Still, maybe it wasn't a bad thing that there was no big pop hit on Going Places because it made "Different Kind of

Lady" an obvious choice for club play. It was positioned in the middle of side one, so there were two Gamble and

Huff songs sandwiching it, and our song stood out like a ball of fire. That was a real band cooking, with the Philly

horns giving it one exclamation point after another, just as we'd hoped. That's the feel we were trying for when we

were making demos with our old friend Bobby Taylor before going to Epic. Kenny and Leon put the finishing

touches on it, the icing, but on this one we'd baked the cake ourselves.

After Going Places was in the stores, Dad asked me to accompany him to a meeting with Ron Alexenburg. Ron

signed us for CBS, and he really believed in us. We wanted to convince him that we were ready now to take charge

of our own music. We felt that CBS had evidence of what we could do on our own, so we stated our case, explaining

that we'd originally wanted Bobby Taylor to work with us. Bobby had stuck with us through all those years, and we

had thought he'd be a fine producer for us. Epic wanted Gamble and Huff because they had the track record, but

maybe they were the wrong jockeys or we were the wrong horses for them, because we were letting them down in

the sales department through no fault of our own. We had a strong work ethic that backed up everything we did.

28

Mr. Alexenburg was certainly used to dealing with performers, although I'm sure that among his business friends he

could be just as cutting about musicians as we musicians could be when we were swapping our own stories among

ourselves. But Dad and I were on the same wavelength when it came to the business side of music. People who make

music and people who sell records are not natural enemies. I care as much about what I do as a classical musician,

and I want what I do to reach the widest possible audience. The record people care about their artists, and they want

to reach the widest market. As we sat in the CBS boardroom eating a nicely catered lunch, we told Mr. Alexenburg

that Epic had done its best, and it wasn't good enough. We felt we could do better, that our reputation was worth

putting on the line.

When we left that skyscraper known as Black Rock, Dad and I didn't say much to each other. The ride back to the

hotel was a silent one, with each of us thinking our own thoughts. There wasn't much to add to what we had already

said. Our whole lives had been leading to that single, important confrontation, however civilized and aboveboard it

was. Maybe Ron Alexenburg has had reason to smile over the years when he remembers that day.

When that meeting took place at CBS headquarters in New York, I was only nineteen years old. I was carrying a

heavy burden for nineteen. My family was relying on me more and more as far as business and creative decisions

were concerned, and I was so worried about trying to do the right thing for them; but I also had an opportunity to do

something I'd wanted to do all my life - act in a film. Ironically the old Motown connection was paying a late

dividend.

Motown had bought the rights to film the Broadway show known as The Wiz even as we were leaving the company.

The Wiz was an updated, black-orientated version of the great movie The Wizard of Oz , which I had always loved. I

remember that when I was a kid The Wizard of Oz was shown on television once a year and always on a Sunday

night. Kids today can't imagine what a big event that was for all of us because they've grown up with videocassettes

and the expanded viewing that cable provides.

I had seen the Broadway show too, which was certainly no letdown. I swear I saw it six or seven times. I later

became very friendly with the star of the show, Stephanie Mills, the Broadway Dorothy. I told her then, and I've

always believed since, that it was a tragedy that her performance in the play could not have been preserved on film. I

cried time after time. As much as I like the Broadway stage, I don't think I'd want to play on it myself. When you

give a performance, whether on record or on film, you want to be able to judge what you've done, to measure

yourself and try to improve. You can't do that in an untaped or unrecorded performance. It makes me sad to think of

all the great actors who have played roles we would give anything to see, but they're lost to us because they couldn't

be, or simply weren't, recorded.

If I had been tempted to go onstage, it would probably have been to work with Stephanie, although her performances

were so moving that I might have cried right there in front of the audience. Motown bought The Wiz for one reason,

and as far as I was concerned, it was the best reason possible: Diana Ross.

Diana was close to Berry Gordy and had her loyalties to him and to Motown, but she did not forget us just because

our records now had a different label on them. We had been in touch throughout the changes, and she had even met

up with us in Las Vegas, where she gave us tips during our run there. Diana was going to play Dorothy, and since it

was the only part that was definitely cast, she encouraged me to audition. She also assured me that Motown would

not keep me from getting a part just to spite me or my family. She would make sure of that if she had to, but she

didn't think she'd have to.

She didn't. It was Berry Gordy who said he hoped I'd audition for The Wiz . I was very fortunate he felt that way,

because I was bitten by the acting bug during that experience. I said to myself, this is what I'm interested in doing

when I have a chance - this is it. When you make a film, you're capturing something elusive and you're stopping

time. The people, their performances, the story become a thing that can be shared by people all over the world for

generations and generations. Imagine never having seen Captains Courageous or To Kill a Mockingbird ! Making

movies is exciting work. It's such a team effort and it's also a lot of fun. Someday soon I plan to devote a lot of my

time to making films.

I auditioned for the part of the Scarecrow because I thought his character best fit my style. I was too bouncy for the

Tin Man and too light for the Lion, so I had a definite goal, and I tried to put a lot of thought into my reading and

29

dancing for the part. When I got the call back from the director, Sidney Lumet, I felt so proud but also a little scared.

The process of making a film was new to me, and I was going to have to let go of my responsibilities to my family

and my music for months. I had visited New York, where we were shooting, to get the feel for Harlem that The Wiz

‘s story called for, but I had never lived there. I was surprised by how quickly I got used to the lifestyle. I enjoyed

meeting a whole group of people I'd always heard about on the other coast but had never laid eyes on.

Making The Wiz was an education for me on so many levels. As a recording artist I already felt like an old pro, but

the film world was completely new to me. I watched as closely as I could and learned a lot.

During this period in my life, I was searching, both consciously and unconsciously. I was feeling some stress and

anxiety about what I wanted to do with my life now that I was an adult. I was analyzing my options and preparing to

make decisions that could have a lot of repercussions. Being on the set of The Wiz was like being in a big school. My

complexion was still a mess during the filming of the movie, so I found myself really enjoying the makeup. It was an

amazing makeup job. Mine took five hours to do, six days a week; we didn't shoot on Sundays. We finally got it

down to four hours flat after doing it long enough. The other people who were being made up were amazed that I

didn't mind sitting there having this done for such long periods of time. They hated it, but I enjoyed having the stuff

put on my face. When I was transformed into the Scarecrow, it was the most wonderful thing in the world. I got to be

somebody else and escape through my character. Kids would come visit the set, and I'd have such fun playing with

them and responding to them as the Scarecrow.

I'd always pictured myself doing something very elegant in the movies, but it was my experience with the makeup

and costume and prop people in New York that made me realize another aspect of how wonderful film-making could

be. I had always loved the Charlie Chaplin movies, and no one ever saw him doing anything overtly elegant in the

silent movie days. I wanted something of the quality of his characters in my Scarecrow. I loved everything about the

costume, from the coil legs to the tomato nose to the fright wig. I even kept the orange and white sweater that came

with it and used it in a picture session years later.

The film had marvelous, very complicated dance numbers, and learning them was no problem. But that in itself

became an unexpected problem with my costars.

Ever since I was a very little boy, I've been able to watch somebody do a dance step and then immediately know how

to do it. Another person might have to be taken through the movement step by step and told to count and put this leg

here and the hip to the right. When your hip goes to the left, put your neck over there . . . that sort of thing. But if I see it, I can do it.

When we were doing The Wiz , I was being instructed in the choreography along with my characters - the Tin Man,

the Lion, and Diana Ross - and they were getting mad at me. I couldn't figure out what was wrong until Diana took

me aside and told me that I was embarrassing her. I just stared at her. Embarrassing Diana Ross? Me? She said she

knew I wasn't aware of it, but I was learning the dances much too quickly. It was embarrassing for her and the others,

who just couldn't learn steps as soon as they saw the choreographer do them. She said he'd show us something and

I'd just go out there and do it. When he asked the others to do it, it took them longer to learn. We laughed about it, but I tried to make the ease with which I learned my steps less obvious.

I also learned that there could be a slightly vicious side to the business of making a movie. Often when I was in front

of the camera, trying to do a serious scene, one of the other characters would start making faces at me, trying to crack

me up. I had always been drilled in serious professionalism and preparedness and therefore I thought it was a pretty

mean thing to do. This actor would know that I had important lines to say that day, yet he would make these really

crazy faces to distract me. I felt it was more than inconsiderate and unfair.

Much later Marlon Brando would tell me that people used to do that to him all the time.

The problems on the set were really few and far between and it was great working with Diana so closely. She's such a

beautiful, talented woman. Doing this movie together was very special for me. I love her very much. I have always

loved her very much.

The whole Wiz period was a time of stress and anxiety, even though I was enjoying myself. I remember July 4 of that

year very well, because I was on the beach at my brother Jermaine's house, about half a block away along the

30

waterfront. I was messing around in the surf, and all of a sudden I couldn't breathe. No air. Nothing. I asked myself

what's wrong? I tried not to panic, but I ran back to the house to find Jermaine, who took me to the hospital. It was

wild. A blood vessel had burst in my lung. It has never reoccurred, although I used to feel little pinches and jerks in

there that were probably my imagination. I later learned that this condition was related to pleurisy. It was suggested

by my doctor that I try to take things a little slower, but my schedule would not permit it. Hard work continued to be

the name of the game.

As much as I liked the old Wizard of Oz , this new script, which differed from the Broadway production in scope

rather than spirit, asked more questions than the original movie and answered them too. The atmosphere of the old

movie was that of a magic kingdom sort of fairy tale. Our movie, on the other hand, had sets based on realities that

kids could identify with, like schoolyards, subway stations, and the real neighborhood that our Dorothy came from. I

still enjoy seeing The Wiz and reliving the experience. I am especially fond of the scene where Diana asks, "What

am I afraid of? Don't know what I'm made of . . ." because I've felt that way many times, even during the good

moments of my life. She sings about overcoming fear and walking straight and tall. She knows and the audience

knows that no threat of danger can hold her back.

My character had plenty to say and to learn. I was propped up on my pole with a bunch of crows laughing at me,

while I sang "You Can't Win." The song was about humiliation and helplessness - something that so many people

have felt at one time or another - and the feeling that there are people out there who don't actively hold you back as

much as they work quietly on your insecurities so that you hold yourself back. The script was clever and showed me

pulling bits of information and quotations out of my straw while not really knowing how to use them. My straw

contained all the answers, but I didn't know the questions.

The great difference between the two Wizard movies was that all the answers are given to Dorothy by the Good

Witch and by her friends in Oz in the original, while in our version Dorothy comes to her own conclusions. Her

loyalty to her three friends and her courage in fighting Elvina in that amazing sweatshop scene make Dorothy a

memorable character. Diana's singing and dancing and acting have stayed with me ever since. She was a perfect

Dorothy. After the evil witch had been defeated, the sheer joy of our dancing took over. To dance with Diana in that

movie was like an abridged version of my own story - my knock-kneed walk and "bigfoot" spin were me in my early

days; our tabletop dance in the sweatshop scene was where we were right then. Everything was onward and upward.

When I told my brothers and father I had gotten this part, they thought it might be too much for me, but the opposite

was true. The Wiz gave me new inspiration and strength. The question became what to do with those things. How

could I best harness them?

As I was asking myself what I wanted to do next, another man and I were traveling parallel paths that would

converge on the set of The Wiz . We were in Brooklyn rehearsing one day, and we were reading our parts out loud to

one another. I had thought that learning lines would be the most difficult thing I'd ever do, but I was pleasantly

surprised. Everyone had been kind, assuring me that it was easier that I thought. And it was.

We were doing the crows' scene that day. The other guys wouldn't even have their heads visible in this scene because

they'd be in crow costumes. They seemed to know their parts backward and forward. I'd studied mine too, but I

hadn't said them aloud more than once or twice.

The directions called for me to pull a piece of paper from my straw and read it. It was a quote. The author's name,

Socrates, was printed at the end. I had read Socrates, but I had never pronounced his name, so I said, "Soh-crates,"

because that's the way I had always assumed it was pronounced. There was a moment's silence before I heard

someone whisper, "Soh-ruh-teeze." I looked over at this man I vaguely recognized. He was not one of the actors, but he seemed to belong there. I remember thinking he looked very self-confident and had a friendly face.

I smiled, a little embarrassed at having mispronounced the name, and thanked him for his help. His face was

naggingly familiar, and I was suddenly sure that I had met him before. He confirmed my suspicions by extending his

hand.

"Quincy Jones. I'm doing the score."

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Chapter Four

Me And Q

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I had actually first met Quincy Jones in Los Angeles when I was about twelve years old. Quincy later told me that at

the time Sammy Davis, Jr., had said to him, "This kid is gonna be the next biggest thing since sliced bread."

Something like that, anyway, and Quincy said, "Oh yeah?" I was little at the time, but I vaguely remembered Sammy Davis introducing me to Q.

Our friendship really began to blossom on the set of The Wiz , and it developed into a father-and-son relationship.

After The Wiz I called him and said, "Look, I'm going to do an album - do you think you could recommend some

producers?"

I wasn't hinting. My question was a naive but honest one. We talked about music for a while, and, after coming up

with some names and some half-hearted hemming and hawing, he said, "Why don't you let me do it?"

I really hadn't thought of it. It sounded to him as if I was hinting, but I wasn't. I just didn't think he would be that

interested in my music. So I stammered something like, "Oh sure, great idea. I never thought about that."

Quincy still kids me about it.

Anyway, we immediately began to plan the album that became Off the Wall .

My brothers and I decided to form our own production company, and we began thinking about names to call it.

You don't find many articles about peacocks in the newspaper, but around this time I found the only one that

mattered. I had always thought peacocks were beautiful and had admired one that Berry Gordy had at one of his

homes. So when I read the article, which had an accompanying picture of a peacock, and revealed a great deal about

the bird's characteristics, I was excited. I thought I might have found the image we were looking for. It was an in-

depth piece, a little dry in places, but interesting. The writer said that the peacock's full plumage would explode only

when it was in love, and then all the colors would shine - all the colors of the rainbow on one body.

I was immediately taken with that beautiful image and the meaning behind it. That bird's plumage conveyed the

message I was looking for to explain the Jacksons and our intense devotion to one another, as well as our multifaceted interests. My brothers liked the idea, so we called our new company Peacock Productions, to sidestep

the trap of relying too heavily on the Jackson name. Our first world tour had focused our interest in uniting people of

all races through music. Some people we knew wondered what we meant when we talked about uniting all the races

through music -after all, we were black musicians. Our answer was "music is color-blind." We saw that every night, especially in Europe and the other parts of the world we had visited. The people we met there loved our music. It

didn't matter to them what color our skin was or which country we called home.

We wanted to form our own production company because we wanted to grow and establish ourselves as a new

presence in the music world, not just as singers and dancers, but as writers, composers, arrangers, producers, and

even publishers. We were interested in so many things, and we needed an umbrella company to keep track of our

projects. CBS had agreed to let us produce our own album - the last two albums had sold well, but "Different Kind of

Lady" showed a potential that they agreed was worth letting us develop. They did have one condition for us: they

assigned an A&R man, Bobby Colomby, who used to be with Blood, Sweat, and Tears, to check in with us from time

to time to see how we were doing and to see if we needed any help. We knew that the five of us needed some outside

musicians to get the best possible sound, and we were weak in two areas: the keyboard and arranging sides of things.

We had been faithfully adding all the new technology to our Encino studio without really having a mastery of it.

Greg Phillinganes was young for a studio pro, but that was a plus as far as we were concerned because we wanted

someone who would be more open to newer ways of doing things than the seasoned veterans we had encountered

over the years.

He came to Encino to do preproduction work, and we all took turns surprising each other. Our mutual preconceptions

just dissolved. It was a great thing to watch. As we sketched out our new songs for him, we told him that we liked the

vocal tracks that Philly International always put a premium on, but when the mix came out, we always seemed to be

32

fighting someone else's wall of sound, all those strings and cymbals. We wanted to sound cleaner and more funky,

with a flintier bass and sharper horn parts. With his beautiful rhythm arrangements, Greg put into musical form what

we were sketching for him and then some. We felt he was reading our minds.

A Bobby Colomby recruit who came to work with us then was Paulinho de Costa, whom we worried about because it

seemed to us that Randy was being told he couldn't handle all the percussion by himself. But Paulinho brought with

him the Brazilian samba tradition of adapting and improvising on primitive and often homemade instruments. When

de Costa's sound joined forces with Randy's more conventional approach, we seemed to have the whole world

covered.

Artistically speaking we were caught between a rock and a hard place. We had worked with the smartest, hippest

people in the world at Motown and Philly International, and we would have been fools to discount the things we'd

absorbed from them, yet we couldn't be imitators. Fortunately we got a running start with a song that Bobby

Colomby brought us called "Blame It on the Boogie." It was an up-tempo, finger-poppin'-time song that was a good vehicle for the band approach we wanted to cultivate. I had fun slurring the chorus: "Blame It on the Boogie" could be sung in one breath without putting my lips together. We had a little fun with the credits on the inner sleeve of the

record; "Blame It on the Boogie" was written by three guys from England, including one named Michael Jackson. It was a startling coincidence. As it turned out, writing disco songs was a natural for me because I was used to having

dance breaks incorporated into all the major songs I was asked to sing.

There was a lot of uncertainty and excitement about our future. We were going through a lot of creative and personal

changes - our music, the family of dynamics, our desires and goals. All of this made me think more seriously about

how I was spending my life, especially in relation to other people my age. I had always shouldered a lot of

responsibility, but it suddenly seemed that everyone wanted a piece of me. There wasn't that much to go around, and

I needed to be responsible to myself. I had to take stock of my life and figure out what people wanted from me and to

whom I was going to give wholly. It was a hard thing for me to do, but I had to learn to be wary of some of the

people around me. God was at the top of my list of priorities, and my mother and father and brothers and sisters

followed. I was reminded of that old song by Clarence Carter called "Patches," where the oldest son is asked to take care of the farm after his father dies and his mother tells him she's depending on him. Well, we weren't sharecroppers

and I wasn't the oldest, but those were slim shoulders on which to place such burdens. For some reason I always

found it very difficult to say no to my family and the other people I loved. I would be asked to do something or take

care of something and I would agree, even if I worried that it might be more than I could handle.

I felt under a great deal of stress and I was often emotional. Stress can be a terrible thing; you can't keep your

emotions bottled up for long. There were a lot of people at this time who wondered just how committed I was to

music after learning of my newfound interest in movies after being in one. It was hinted that my decision to audition

had come at a bad time for the new band setup. It seemed, to outsiders, to come just as we were about to get started.

But of course it worked out just fine.

"That's What You Get for Being Polite" was my way of letting on that I knew I wasn't living in an ivory tower and that I had insecurities and doubts just as all older teenagers do. I was worried that the world and all it had to offer

could be passing me by even as I tried to get on top of my field.

There was a Gamble and Huff song called "Dreamer" on the first Epic album which had this theme, and as I was

learning it, I felt they could have written it with me in mind. I have always been a dreamer. I set goals for myself. I

look at things and try to imagine what is possible and then hope to surpass those boundaries.

In 1979 I turned twenty-one years old and began to take full control of my career. My father's personal management

contract with me ran out around this time, and although it was a hard decision, the contract was not renewed.

Trying to fire your dad is not easy.

But I just didn't like the way certain things were being handled. Mixing family and business can be a delicate

situation. It can be great or it can be awful; it depends on the relationships. Even at the best of times it's a hard thing to do.

33

Did it change the relationship between me and my father? I don't know if it did in his heart, but it certainly didn't in

mine. It was a move I knew I had to make because at the time I was beginning to feel that I was working for him

rather than that he was working for me . And on the creative side we are of two completely different minds. He

would come up with ideas that I would totally disagree with because they weren't right for me. All I wanted was

control over my life. And I took it. I had to do it. Everyone comes to that point, sooner or later, and I had been in the

business for a long time. I was pretty experienced for twenty-one - a fifteen-year veteran. We were eager to take the

Destiny band and concept on the road, but I got hoarse from too many shows, too much singing. When we had to

cancel some performances, no one held it against me, but I felt as if I was holding my brothers back after the great

job they had done while we worked together to get us all back on track. We made some makeshift adjustments in

order to ease the strain on my throat. Marlon took over for me in some passages that required holding long notes.

"Shake You Body (Down to the Ground)," our set piece on the album, turned out to be a lifesaver for us onstage

because we already had a good jam in the studio to build on. It was frustrating to have finally realized our dream of

having our own music as the showpiece, rather than the novelty song, and not being able to give it our very best shot.

It wasn't long, however, before our time would come.

In looking back, I realize I was more patient than perhaps my brothers wanted me to be. As we were remixing

Destiny , it occurred to me that we had "left out" some things that I hadn't talked to my brothers about because I wasn't sure they'd be as interested in them as I was. Epic had arranged in the contract that they would handle any solo

album I might decide to do. Perhaps they were hedging their bets; if the Jacksons couldn't make their new sound

work, they could try to turn me into something they could mould for the rest of my life. That might seem like a

suspicious way of thinking, but I knew from experience that money people always want to know what is going on

and what can happen and how to recoup their investment. It seemed logical for them to think that way. In the light of

what's happened since, I wonder about those thoughts I had, but they were real at the time.

Destiny was our biggest success as an album, and we knew we had really reached the point where people bought

your record because they knew you were good and knew you'd give them your very best on every song and every

album. I wanted my first solo album to be the best it could be.

I didn't want Off the Wall to sound like outtakes from Destiny . That's why I wanted to hire an outside producer who

wouldn't come to this project with any preconceived notions about how it should sound. I also needed someone with

a good ear to help me choose material because I didn't have enough time to write two sides of songs I'd be proud of. I

knew the public expected more than two good singles on an album, especially in the discos with their extended cuts,

and I wanted the fans to feel satisfied.

These are all reasons why Quincy proved to be the best producer I could have asked for. Quincy Jones's friends

called him "Q" for short because of a love he has for barbecue. Later, after we'd finished Off the Wall , he invited me to a concert of his orchestral music at the Hollywood Bowl, but I was so shy at the time that I stood in the wings to

watch the show as I had as a child. He said he expected more from me than that, and we've been trying to live up to

each other's standards ever since.

That day I called to ask his advice about a producer, he started talking about people in the business - who I could

work with and who I'd have trouble with. He knew track records, who was booked, who'd be too lax, who'd put the

"pedal to the metal." He knew Los Angeles better than Mayor Bradley, and that's how he kept up with what was

going on. As a jazz arranger, orchestrator, and film composer, someone people thought was on the outside looking in

as far as pop music was concerned, he was an invaluable guide. I was so glad that my outside source was a good

friend who also happened to be the perfect choice for a producer. He had a world of talent to choose from among his

contacts, and he was a good listener, as well as a brilliant man.

The Off the Wall album was originally going to be called Girlfriend . Paul and Linda McCartney wrote a song of that

title with me in mind before they ever met me.

Paul McCartney always tells people this story about me calling him and saying we should write some hit songs

together.

But that's not exactly how we first met.

34

I saw Paul for the first time at a party on the Queen Mary , which is docked in Long Beach. His daughter Heather got

my number from someone and gave me a call to invite me to this big party. She liked our music and we got to

talking. Much later, when his Wings over America tour was completed, Paul and his family were in Los Angeles.

They invited me to a party at the Harold Lloyd estate. Paul McCartney and I first met at that party. We shook hands

amid a huge crowd of people, and he said, "You know, I've written a song for you." I was very surprised and thanked him. And he started singing "Girlfriend" to me at this party.

So we exchanged phone numbers and promised to get together soon, but different projects and life just got in the way

for both of us and we didn't talk again for a couple of years. He ended up putting the song on his own album London

Town .

The strangest thing happened when we were making Off the Wall ; Quincy walked up to me one day and said,

"Michael, I've got a song that's perfect for you." He played "Girlfriend" for me, not realizing, of course, that Paul had written it for me originally. When I told him, he was astonished and pleased. We recorded it soon after and put it on

the album. It was an incredible coincidence.

Quincy and I talked about Off the Wall and carefully planned the kind of sound we wanted. When he asked me what

I most wanted to have happen in the studio, I told him, we've got to make it sound different from the Jacksons. Hard

words to spit out, considering how hard we'd worked to become the Jacksons, but Quincy knew what I meant, and

together we created an album that reflected our goal. "Rock with You," the big hit single, was the sort of thing I was aiming for. It was perfect for me to sing, and move to. Rod Temperton, whom Quincy had known because of his

work with the group Heatwave on "Boogie Nights," had written the song with a more relentless, get-down arrangement in mind, but Quincy softened the attack and slipped in a synthesizer that sounded like a conch shell's

insides on a beach. Q and I were both very fond of Rod's work, and we eventually asked him to work on stylizing

three of his songs for me, including the title cut. Rod was a kindred spirit in many ways. Like me, he felt more at

home singing and writing about the night life than actually going out and living it. It always surprises me when

people assume that something an artist has created is based on a true experience or reflects his or her own lifestyle.

Often nothing could be farther from the truth. I know I draw on my own experiences at times, but I also hear and

read things that trigger an idea for a song. An artist's imagination is his greatest tool. It can create a mood or feeling that people want to have, as well as transport you to a different place altogether.

In the studio Quincy allowed the arrangers and musicians quite a bit of freedom to express themselves, perhaps with

the exception of the orchestral arrangements, which are his forte. I brought Greg Phillinganes, a member of the

Destiny team, over to "run the floor" on numbers that he and I had worked on together in Encino, while the studio people were being lined up for the date. In addition to Greg, Paulinho de Costa was back on percussion and Randy

made a cameo appearance on "Don't Stop Till You Get Enough."

Quincy is amazing and doesn't just pick yes-men to do his bidding. I have been around professionals all my life, and

I can tell who is trying to keep up, who can create, and who is capable of crossing swords once in a while in a

constructive way without losing sight of the shared goal. We had Louis "Thunder Thumbs" Johnson, who had

worked with Quincy on the Brothers Johnson albums. We also had an all-star team of Wah Wah Watson, Marlo

Henderson, David Williams, and Larry Carlton from the Crusaders playing guitar on the album. George Duke, Phil

Upchurch, and Richard Heath were picked from the cream of the jazz/funk crop, and yet they never let on that maybe

this music was a little different from what they were used to. Quincy and I had a good working relationship, so we

shared responsibilities and consulted with one another constantly.

The Brothers Johnson notwithstanding, Quincy hadn't done much dance music before Off the Wall , so on "Don't

Stop Till You Get Enough," "Working Day and Night," and "Get on the Floor" Greg and I worked together to build a thicker wall of sound in Quincy's studio. "Get on the Floor," though it wasn't a single, was particularly satisfying because Louis Johnson gave me a smooth-enough bottom to ride in the verses and let me come back stronger and

stronger with each chorus. Bruce Swedien, Quincy's engineer, put the final touches on that mix, and I still get

pleasure out of hearing it.

"Working Day and Night" was Paulinho's showcase, with my background vocals hurrying to keep up with his grab

bag of toys. Greg set up a prepared electric piano with the timbre of a perfect acoustic tone, to knock out any

lingering echo. The lyrical theme was similar to "The Things I Do For You" from Destiny , but since this was a

refinement of something I'd said earlier, I wanted to keep it simple and let the music put the song over the top.

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"Don't Stop Till You Get Enough" had a spoken intro over bass, partly to build up tension and surprise people with the swirling strings and percussion. It was also unusual because of my vocal arrangement. On that cut I sing in

overdubs as a kind of group. I wrote myself a high part, one that my solo voice couldn't carry on it's own, to fit in

with the music I was hearing in my head, so I let the arrangement take over from the singing. Q's fade at the end was

amazing, with guitars chopping like kalimbas, the African thumb pianos. That song means a lot to me because it was

the first song I wrote as a whole. "Don't Stop Till You Get Enough" was my first big chance, and it went straight to number one. It was the song that won me my first Grammy. Quincy had the confidence in me to encourage me to go

into the studio by myself, which put icing on the cake.

The ballads were what made Off the Wall a Michael Jackson album. I'd done ballads with the brothers, but they had

never been to enthusiastic about them and did them more as a concession to me than anything else. Off the Wall had,

in addition to "Girlfriend," a slippery, engaging melody called "I Can't Help It" which was memorable and great fun to sing but a little quirkier than a gentle song like, say, "Rock with You."

Two of the biggest hits were "Off the Wall" and "Rock with You." You know, so much up-tempo dance music is threatening, but I liked the coaxing, the gentleness, taking a shy girl and letting her shed her fears rather than forcing them out of her. On Off the Wall I went back to a high-pitched voice, but "Rock with You" called for a more natural sound. I felt that if you were having a party, those two songs would get people in the door, and the harder boogie

songs would send everyone home in a good mood. And then there was "She's Out of My Life." Maybe that was too

personal for a party.

It was for me. Sometimes it's hard for me to look my dates in the eye even if I know them well. My dating and

relationships with girls have not had the happy ending I've been looking for. Something always seems to get in the

way. The things I share with millions of people aren't the sort of things you share with one. Many girls want to know

what makes me tick - why I live the way I live or do the things I do - trying to get inside my head. They want to

rescue me from loneliness, but they do it in such a way that they give me the impression they want to share my

loneliness, which I wouldn't wish on anybody, because I believe I'm one of the loneliest people in the world.

"She's Out of My Life" is about knowing that the barriers that have separated me from others are temptingly low and seemingly easy to jump over and yet they remain standing while what I really desire disappears from my sight. Tom

Bahler composed a beautiful bridge, which seemed right out of an old Broadway musical. In reality, such problems

are not so easily resolved and the song presents this fact, that the problem is not overcome. We couldn't put this cut at

the beginning or the end of the record, because it would have been such a downer. That's why when Stevie's song

comes on afterward, so gently and tentatively, as if it was opening a door that had been bolted shut, I still go,

"Whew." By the time Rod's "Burn This Disco Out" closes the record, the trance is broken.

But I got too wrapped up in "She's Out of My Life." In this case, the story's true - I cried at the end of a take, because the words suddenly had such a strong effect on me. I had been letting so much build up inside me. I was twenty-one

years old, and I was so rich in some experiences while being poor in moments of true joy. Sometimes I imagine that

my life experience is like an image in one of those trick mirrors in the circus, fat in one part and thin to the point of

disappearing in another. I was worried that would show up on "She's Out of My Life," but if it touched people's

heartstrings, knowing that would make me feel less lonely.

When I got emotional after that take, the only people with me were Q and Bruce Swedien. I remember burying my

face in my hands and hearing only the hum of the machinery as my sobs echoed in the room. Later I apologised, but

they said there was no need.

Making Off the Wall was one of the most difficult periods of my life, despite the eventual success it enjoyed. I had

very few close friends at the time and felt very isolated. I was so lonely that I used to walk through my neighborhood

hoping I'd run into somebody I could talk to and perhaps become friends with. I wanted to meet people who didn't

know who I was. I wanted to run into somebody who would be my friend because they liked me and needed a friend

too, not because I was who I am. I wanted to meet anybody in the neighborhood - the neighborhood kids, anybody.

Success definitely brings on loneliness. It's true. People think you're lucky, that you have everything. They think you

can go anywhere and do anything, but that's not the point. One hungers for the basic stuff.

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I've learned to cope better with these things now and I don't get nearly as depressed as I used to. I didn't really have

any girlfriends when I was in school. There were girls I thought were cute, but I found it so difficult to approach

them. I was too embarrassed - I don't know why - it was just crazy. There was one girl who was a good friend to me.

I liked her, but I was too embarrassed to tell her.

My first real date was with Tatum O'Neal. We met at a club on Sunset Strip called On the Rox. We exchanged phone

numbers and called each other often. I talked to her for hours: from the road, from the studio, from home. On our

first date we went to a party at Hugh Hefner's Playboy Mansion and had a great time. She had held my hand for the

first time that night at On the Rox. When we met, I was sitting at this table and all of a sudden I felt this soft hand

reach over and grab mine. It was Tatum. This probably wouldn't mean a lot to other people, but it was serious stuff to

me. She touched me . That's how I felt about it. In the past, girls had always touched me on tour; grabbing at me and

screaming, behind a wall of security guards. But this was different, this was one-on-one, and that's always the best.

Our developed into a real close relationship. I fell in love with her (and she with me) and we were very close for a

long time. Eventually the relationship transcended into a good friendship. We still talk now and then, and I guess

you'd have to say she was my first love - after Diana. When I heard Diana Ross was getting married, I was happy for

her because I knew it would make her very joyous. Still, it was hard for me, because I had to walk around pretending

to be overwhelmed that Diana was getting married to this man I'd never met. I wanted her to be happy, but I have to

admit that I was a bit hurt and a little jealous because I've always loved Diana and always will.

Another love was Brooke Shields. We were romantically serious for a while. There have been a lot of wonderful

women in my life, women whose names wouldn't mean anything to the readers of this book, and it would be unfair

to discuss them because they are not celebrities and are unaccustomed to having their names in print. I value my

privacy and therefore I respect theirs as well.

Liza Minelli is a person whose friendship I'll always cherish. She's like my show business sister. We get together and

talk about the business; it comes out of our pores. We both eat, sleep, and drink various moves and songs and dance.

We have the best time together. I love her.

Right after we finished Off the Wall , I plunged into making the Triumph album with my brothers. We wanted to

combine the best of both albums for our tour. "Can You Feel It?" was the first cut on the album, and it had the closest thing to a rock feel that the Jacksons had ever done. It wasn't really dance music either. We had it in mind for the

video that opened our tour, kind of like our own Also Sprach Zarathrustra , the 2001 theme. Jackie and I had thought

of combining the band sound with a gospel/children's choir feel. That was a nod a Gamble and Huff, in a way,

because the song was a celebration of love taking over, cleansing the sins of the world. Randy's singing is so good,

even if his range is not all he'd like it to be. His breathing and phrasing kept me pumped up on my toes when we sang

it. There was a bright foghorn-type keyboard that I worked on for hours, going over it and over it again, until I got it

the way I wanted it. We had six minutes, and I don't think it was one second too long.

"Lovely One" was an extension of "Shake Your Body Down to the Ground," with that lighter Off the Wall sound injected. I tried out a newer, more ethereal voice on Jackie's "Your Ways," with the keyboards adding a faraway

quality. Paulinho brought out all the artillery: triangles, skulls, gongs. This song's about a strange girl who is the way she is and there's nothing I can do about it, other than enjoy it when I can.

"Everybody" is more playful than the Off the Wall dance tunes, with Mike McKinney propelling it like a plane

turning and bearing down. The background vocals suggest "Get on the Floor's" influence, but Quincy's sound is

deeper, like you're in the eye of the storm - our sound was more like going up the glass elevator to the top floor while

looking down, rising effortlessly.

"Time Waits for No One" was written by Jackie and Randy with my voice and style in mind. They knew they were

trying to keep up with the Off the Wall songwriters and they did a very good job. "Give It Up" gave everyone a

chance to sing. Marlon in particular. We strayed from the band sound on those tracks, perhaps sinking back into that

Philly trap of letting the arrangement overwhelm us. "Walk Right Now" and "Wondering Who" were closer to the Destiny sound, but for the most part they were suffering from too many cooks and not enough broth.

There was one exception: "Heartbreak Hotel." I swear that was a phrase that came out of my head and I wasn't

thinking of any other song when I wrote it. The record company printed it on the cover as "This Place Hotel,"

37

because of the Elvis Presley connection. As important as he was to music, black as well as white, he just wasn't an

influence on me. I guess he was too early for me. Maybe it was timing more than anything else. By the time our song

had come out, people thought that if I kept living in seclusion the way I was, I might die the way he did. The

parallels aren't there as far as I'm concerned and I was never much for scare tactics. Still, the way Elvis destroyed

himself interests me, because I don't ever want to walk those grounds myself.

LaToya was asked to contribute the scream that opens the song - not the most auspicious start to a recording career,

I'll admit, but she was just getting her feet wet in the studio. She has made some good records since and is quite

accomplished. The scream was the kind that normally shatters a bad dream, but our intention was to have the dream

only begin, to make the listener wonder whether it was a dream or reality. That was the effect I think we got. The

three female backup singers were amused when they were doing the scary backup effects that I wanted, until they

actually heard them in the mix.

"Heartbreak Hotel" was the most ambitious song I had composed. I think I worked on a number of levels: You could dance to it, sing along with it, get scared by it, and just listen. I had to tack on a slow piano and cello coda that ended on a positive note to reassure the listener; there's no point in trying to scare someone if there isn't something to bring the person back safe and sound from where you've taken them. "Heartbreak Hotel" had revenge in it and I am

fascinated by the concept of revenge. It's something I can't understand. The idea of making someone "pay" for

something they've done to you or that you imagine they've done to you is totally alien to me. The setup showed my

own fears and for the first time being helped quell them. There were so many sharks in this business looking for

blood in the water.

If this song, and later "Billie Jean," seemed to cast women in an unfavorable light, it was not meant to be taken as a personal statement. Needless to say, I love the interaction between the sexes; it is a natural part of life and I love

women. I just think that when sex is used as a form of blackmail or power, it's a repugnant use of one of God's gifts.

Triumph gave us that final burst of energy we needed to put together a perfect show, with no marginal material. We

began rehearsing with our touring band, which included bass player Mike McKinney. David Williams would travel

with us too, but he was now a permanent member of the band.

The upcoming tour was going to be a big undertaking. We had special effects arranged for us by the great magician

Doug Whining. I wanted to disappear completely in a puff of smoke right after "Don't Stop." He had to coordinate the special effects with the Showco people who controlled the whole setup. I was happy to talk with him while we

walked through the routine. It seemed almost unfair for him to give me his secrets, and apart from the money I wasn't

offering him anything he could make use of in return. I felt a little embarrassed about that, yet I really wanted our

show to be great and I knew Henning's contribution would be spectacular. We were competing with bands like Earth,

Wind, and Fire and the Commodores for the position of top band in the country, and we knew there were people who

felt that the Jackson brothers had been around for ten years and were finished.

I had worked hard on the concept for the set for the upcoming tour. It had the feel of Close Encounters behind it. I

was trying to make the statement that there was life and meaning beyond space and time and the peacock had burst

forth ever brighter and ever prouder. I wanted our film to reflect this idea, too.

My pride in the rhythms, the technical advances, and the success of Off the Wall was offset by the jolt I got when the

Grammy nominations were announced for 1979. Although Off the Wall had been one of the most popular records of

the year, it received only one nomination: Best R&B Vocal Performance. I remember where I was when I got the

news. I felt ignored by my peers and it hurt. People told me later that it surprised the industry too.

I was disappointed and then I got excited thinking about the album to come. I said to myself, "Wait until next time" -

they won't be able to ignore the next album. I watched the ceremony on television and it was nice to win my

category, but I was still upset by what I perceived as the rejection of my peers. I just kept thinking, "Next time, next time." In many ways an artist is his work. It's difficult to separate the two. I think I can be brutally objective about my work as I create it, and if something doesn't work, I can feel it, but when I turn in a finished album - or song - you

can be sure that I've given it every ounce of energy and God-given talent that I have. Off the Wall was well received

by my fans and I think that's why the Grammy nominations hurt. That experience lit a fire in my soul. All I could

think of was the next album and what I would do with it. I wanted it to be truly great.

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Chapter Five

The Moonwalk

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Off the Wall was released in August 1979, the same month I turned twenty-one and took control of my own affairs,

and it was definitely one of the major landmarks of my life. It meant a great deal to me, because its eventual success

proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that a former "child star" could mature into a recording artist with contemporary appeal. Off the Wall also went a step beyond the dance grooves we had cooked up. When we started the project,

Quincy and I talked about how important it was to capture passion and strong feelings in a recorded performance. I

still think that's what we achieved on the ballad "She's Out of My Life," and to a lesser extent on "Rock with You."

Looking back, I can view the whole tapestry and see how Off the Wall prepared me for the work we would do on the

album that became Thriller. Quincy, Rod Temperton, and many of the musicians who played on Off the Wall would

help me realize a dream that I had had for a long time. Off the Wall had sold almost six million copies in this country,

but I wanted to make an album that would be even bigger. Ever since I was a little boy, I had dreamed of creating the

biggest-selling record of all time. I remember going swimming as a child and making a wish before I jumped into the

pool. Remember, I grew up knowing the industry, understanding goals, and being told what was and was not

possible. I wanted to do something special. I'd stretch my arms out, as if I were sending my thoughts right up into

space. I'd make my wish, then I'd dive into the water. I'd say to myself, "This is my dream. This is my wish," every time before I'd dive into the water.

I believe in wishes and in a person's ability to make a wish come true. I really do. Whenever I saw a sunset, I would

quietly make my secret wish right before the sun tucked under the western horizon and disappeared. It would seem

as if the sun had taken my wish with it. I'd make it right before that last speck of light vanished. And a wish is more

than a wish, it's a goal. It's something your conscious and subconscious can help make reality.

I remember being in the studio once with Quincy and Rod Temperton while we were working on Thriller . I was

playing a pinball machine and one of them asked me, "If this album doesn't do as well as Off the Wall , will you be

disappointed?"

I remember feeling upset - hurt that the question was even raised. I told them Thriller had to do better than Off the

Wall . I admitted that I wanted this album to be the biggest-selling album of all time.

They started laughing. It was a seemingly unrealistic thing to want.

There were times during the Thriller project when I would get emotional or upset because I couldn't get the people

working with me to see what I was. That still happens to me sometimes. Often people just don't see what I see. They

have too much doubt. You can't do your best when you're doubting yourself. If you don't believe in yourself, who

will? Just doing as well as you did last time is not good enough. I think of it as the "Try to get what you can"

mentality. It doesn't require you to stretch, to grow. I don't believe in that.

I believe we are powerful, but we don't use our minds to full capacity. Your mind is powerful enough to help you

attain whatever you want. I knew what we could do with that record. We had a great team there, a lot of talent and

good ideas, and I knew we could do anything. The success of Thriller transformed many of my dreams into reality. It

did become the biggest-selling album of all time, and that fact appeared on the cover of The Guinness Book of World

Records.

Making the Thriller album was very hard work, but it's true that you only get out of something what you put into it.

I'm a perfectionist: I'll work until I drop. And I worked so hard on that album. It helped that Quincy showed great

confidence in what we were doing during those sessions. I guess I had proved myself to him during our work on Off

the Wall . He listened to what I had to say and helped me accomplish what I had hoped to on that album, but he

showed even more faith in me during the making of Thriller . He realized I had the confidence and experience I

needed to make that record and at times he wasn't in the studio with us for that reason. I'm really very self-confident

when it comes to my work. When I take on a project, I believe in it 100 percent. I really put my soul into it. I'd die

for it. That's how I am.

39

Quincy is brilliant at balancing out an album, creating the right mix of up-tempo numbers and slow ones. We started

out working with Rod Temperton on songs for the Thriller album, which was originally called Starlight . I was

writing songs myself while Quincy was listening to other people's songs, hoping to find just the right ones for the

album. He's good at knowing what I'll like and what will work for me. We both share the same philosophy about

making albums; we don't believe in B-sides or album songs. Every song should be able to stand on its own as a