Part 1 (1/2)
Michael Jackson.
The Magic, the Madness, the Whole Story, 1958-2009.
by J. Randy Taraborrelli.
Prologue.
I first met Michael Jackson when we were both children. The Jackson 5 had just appeared at the Philadelphia Convention Center on Sat.u.r.day evening, 2 May 1970, their first performance subsequent to signing with Motown Records. It was a heady time for the boys; Michael was a very young eleven-year-old trying to come to terms with it all. I remember him then being happy, so full of life. Something happened along the way, though... we both grew up, but in very different ways.
When I moved to Los Angeles at the age of eighteen to begin my career as a writer, I regularly interviewed Michael for magazine features. I clearly remember the day I wrote 'Michael Jackson Turns 21.' Then, there was 'Michael Jackson Turns 25.' 'Michael Jackson Turns 30,' and so many other articles about him in celebration of milestones along the way, and those of his talented family members. As he grew older, I watched with mounting concern and confusion as Michael transformed himself from a cute little black kid to... what he is, today. As a journalist and frequent chronicler of Michael's life, I had somehow to make sense of what was happening, putting the pieces of the puzzle together to see how they fit in with the Michael I had known of yesteryear. Thanks to my many encounters with him, I am able to quote at first hand his intimate reactions to so much of what has taken place during his life and career.
In 1977, when I was at the Jackson home in Encino, California, to interview the family, Michael wandered into the room with bandages on his face; he was nineteen at the time. I remember being dismayed. I thought then that rumours his father, Joseph, was beating him might be true, and that bothered me for many years. Actually, as I later learned, he had just had the second of many plastic surgeries.
In another interview, conducted after Michael had just returned from making The Wiz The Wiz in New York in 1978, he mentioned to me that he had certain 'secrets' he didn't wish to reveal to me, adding that ' in New York in 1978, he mentioned to me that he had certain 'secrets' he didn't wish to reveal to me, adding that 'everybody has deep, dark secrets'. I never forgot his words, especially as the years went by and he became stranger, his behaviour more opaque and incomprehensible to many people. has deep, dark secrets'. I never forgot his words, especially as the years went by and he became stranger, his behaviour more opaque and incomprehensible to many people.
Why are we still so fascinated by Michael Jackson after all of this time? Is it because of his awe-inspiring talent? Of course, that's part of it. The voice is instantly recognizable, and the dance moves are his and his alone. Just as he had been influenced by trailblazers before him, such as Jackie Wilson and James Brown, he has influenced a generation of entertainers. When you watch Justin Timberlake perform, does he remind you of anyone else?
Michael is also an important touchstone for many of us, personally. Since he's been famous for more than thirty years, some of us can mark moments in our lives by certain achievements in his. Many of us are old enough to remember how impossibly adorable and prodigious he was as lead singer of The Jackson 5, and we can remember where we were at when the brothers first became famous. We may recall the first time we saw him glide across a stage or screen doing the magical 'Moonwalk'; we remember the day we first saw the 'We are the World' video, in which he led an all-star cast in the first charitable effort of its kind in the United States; we remember his amazing concert appearances and groundbreaking videos.
To say that Michael has succeeded spectacularly in his career is to state the obvious. However, as record-breaking and historical as his artistry has been, it is his private life that has kept many of us on tenterhooks.
We probably also remember the first time we saw each of his new physical 'looks', and wondered what on earth that boy was doing to his face.
Did you ever wonder if he was straight? Or gay? Or as.e.xual?
What did you think when you first heard that he had been accused of being a paedophile?
Do you remember seeing the emotional speech from Neverland, during which he spoke of the police having photographed 'my body, including my p.e.n.i.s, my b.u.t.tocks, my lower torso, thighs and any other areas they wanted'?
And what of Lisa Marie Presley and Debbie Rowe, his mysterious ex-wives? Have you ever speculated about the true nature of their relations.h.i.+ps with him?
Now, he has children and makes them wear masks in public.
'How does it feel when you're alone, and you're cold inside?' Michael asked in his song 'Stranger in Moscow'. Indeed, how in the world, we wonder, did he turn out as he has?
Of course, fame twists everything. It's a strange phenomenon that no one but the famous can truly understand. However, ask yourself: if your entire life had been played out under heavy and unyielding scrutiny, made even more torturous by an abusive father, what would you be like? What if you were infantilized by an adoring public who celebrated you primarily as a talented youngster? Do you think you might, over time, be compelled to infantilize yourself? Out of frustration and desperation, might you revolt and begin to do whatever you wished without considering the logic of your decisions, the common sense of your choices, or the propriety of your behaviour?
What if you also had an inordinate amount of wealth, giving you the power to redress your deepest insecurities and desires by any means at your disposal, no matter how extreme, and with no one around daring to challenge you? Don't like the colour of your skin? Fade it away. Never had a real childhood? Say h.e.l.lo to Neverland. Want to sleep in the same bed with boys? No problem, there. Don't like how you look? Change your face. Still don't like it? Change it to another face, and another and another.
Why can't he see what's happening to himself? we ask about Michael. Why doesn't he understand? understand? How does he see himself, anyway? As the King of Pop, a trailblazing, misunderstood musical genius whose career spans an entire lifetime? Or an insecure, basically unhappy adult with enough money and power to do whatever he likes and get away with it? Perhaps only one thing is certain: if you were an unfettered combination of both, chances are you would be like... Michael Jackson. How does he see himself, anyway? As the King of Pop, a trailblazing, misunderstood musical genius whose career spans an entire lifetime? Or an insecure, basically unhappy adult with enough money and power to do whatever he likes and get away with it? Perhaps only one thing is certain: if you were an unfettered combination of both, chances are you would be like... Michael Jackson.
PART ONE.
Introduction.
The bucolic town of Los Olivos in Santa Barbara County is a little more than a hundred years old. If a visitor wants a sense of the local history, Mattei's Tavern, built in 1886, is the place to go. One of many monuments to a by-gone era, it was a stagecoach stop where guests stayed overnight during their journeys, back when the only mode of transportation was horse-drawn carriage. It also became a stop-off point for the Pacific Coast Railway narrow gauge line, constructed in the 1880s when travel by land along the coast ranged from difficult to impossible. At its zenith, it stretched over seventy-five miles from what was once called Harford Wharf on San Luis Bay, south to Los Olivos. Pa.s.sengers spent the night at Mattei's before taking the stagecoach to Santa Barbara, the next day. Today, the Carriage Museum is on this site, providing a visual history of the region. The original watering hole is now a charming eatery called Brothers Restaurant at Mattei's Tavern.
One recent day, a strange-looking man came through the Museum with a boy, a girl and an infant. He was accompanied by two women, senior citizens who tended to the youngsters, maybe nursemaids, one cradling the baby in a blanket. Also present was a male a.s.sistant who appeared to be in his early twenties. His eyes darted about, as if he was on high alert, vigilantly aware of his surroundings, of what others were doing in his presence.
The older man, wearing a deep-purple, silk surgical mask, a fedora over ink-jet black hair and over-sized sungla.s.ses, stood before one of the photographic displays. 'Prince! Paris!' he called out. 'Come here. Look at this.' The tots ran to his side. He pointed to the picture with one chalky, spindly finger at the tip of which was wrapped a band-aid and read the accompanying description, his high-pitched voice sounding instructive. In the middle of his reading, he admonished the boy to pay closer attention, insisting that 'this is important'. The group moved from one display to the next, the masked man reading each narrative, beseeching the children to listen, carefully.
After the day's lesson, the small group enjoyed a bite to eat in the restaurant. While there, they laughed among themselves, sharing private jokes, yet seeming closed off from their environment, never acknowledging the existence of anyone outside their miniature world. The masked man fed himself by lifting his disguise just a tad, rather than take it off. The locals tried to ignore the odd contingent. However, it was difficult not to stare, particularly since the children had been wearing masks, too not surgical, though... just Halloween. They took them off to eat, and then put them back on, once again hiding their faces.
In the early 1900s, a major new rail line was built thirty miles closer to the Pacific coast. Because Los Olivos had been bypa.s.sed by it, the population of the once-thriving town dwindled. However, it has since been rediscovered, thanks to an influx of tourists in the last twenty years. Now, there is an Indian reservation and gambling casino, as well as a number of spas and New Age healing centres. Small and locally owned art galleries, antique stores, gift shops, boutiques and wineries flourish in restored western-themed buildings.
One afternoon, the masked man visited one of the art galleries. 'Now, this this one would be just perfect in the bedroom, wouldn't it?' he said to his young a.s.sistant. He held up a small oil painting of two angels floating ethereally above a sleeping child. The a.s.sistant nodded. 'Yoo-hoo,' called out the masked man. 'How much for this one?' He and the curator conferred, privately. Then the man in the disguise walked over to his a.s.sistant and whispered into his ear. 'Okay, very good,' he finally said to the store-owner. 'I'll take it.' one would be just perfect in the bedroom, wouldn't it?' he said to his young a.s.sistant. He held up a small oil painting of two angels floating ethereally above a sleeping child. The a.s.sistant nodded. 'Yoo-hoo,' called out the masked man. 'How much for this one?' He and the curator conferred, privately. Then the man in the disguise walked over to his a.s.sistant and whispered into his ear. 'Okay, very good,' he finally said to the store-owner. 'I'll take it.'
The proprietor scribbled on a piece of paper and handed it to the younger man, who then extracted a wad of bills from his wallet. He counted them off to pay for the purchase.
'No, wait! That's too much,' said the masked man who had been watching, carefully. 'I thought you said it was a hundred dollars. Not a hundred and six dollars, and change.' There was a quick, urgent conference. 'What? Tax? Tax? Really? On Really? On this? this?' He made a show of thinking hard. 'Well, okay, then,' he decided. 'Thanks, anyway.' He put the painting down.
More negotiation.
'Really? Okay, good, then. A hundred dollars it is.'
The covered man regarded the painting, again. 'My G.o.d, it's so beautiful, isn't it?' he remarked, picking it up. 'The way those children are so... protected. protected. How sweet.' As he and his a.s.sistant walked out of the gallery, he turned and hollered back to the proprietor, 'I just want you to know that I think you're a wonderful person, and I wish you all the luck in the world with your store! I'll be back soon.' How sweet.' As he and his a.s.sistant walked out of the gallery, he turned and hollered back to the proprietor, 'I just want you to know that I think you're a wonderful person, and I wish you all the luck in the world with your store! I'll be back soon.'
Los Olivos is the home of about five hundred horse ranch estates, Victorian-style homes and about two dozen businesses. A thousand people, maybe less, call this remote and slumbering place home (fewer than a dozen of them, black), including one unlikely resident, the only man in town who wears a mask: Michael Joseph Jackson.
Figueroa Mountain Road winds upward through the lush and rolling Santa Ynez Valley of Los Olivos. A man sells apples under a leafy old shade tree on the side of the road; he's been doing so for years. Every day, he sits with nothing to do but sell his fruit, enjoy his day and bake in the sun. It's just that kind of place.
A half mile back from the road, behind an imposing oak gate, is 5225 Figueroa Mountain Road, a ma.s.sive Danish-style split-level farmhouse, its brick and masonry walls crisscrossed with wooden beams. This is where Michael Jackson lives.
This 2700-acre property, originally a ranch for farming dry oats and running cattle, was once known as Sycamore Ranch. It came on the market at $35 million; Michael purchased it for $17 million in May 1988. He then changed the name to Neverland Valley Ranch -Neverland, for short an homage homage to Peter Pan's Never-Never Land. The first order of business for Michael was to build his own amus.e.m.e.nt park own the acreage, including a merry-go-round, giant sliding board, railway with its own train and even a Ferris wheel. With his kind of money, he could pretty much do anything he wanted to do... and he would do it all at Neverland. to Peter Pan's Never-Never Land. The first order of business for Michael was to build his own amus.e.m.e.nt park own the acreage, including a merry-go-round, giant sliding board, railway with its own train and even a Ferris wheel. With his kind of money, he could pretty much do anything he wanted to do... and he would do it all at Neverland.
Michael's corner of the world is verdantly green as far as the eye can see. Old-fas.h.i.+oned windmills dot the landscape. There is an elegant softness to the grandeur; thousands of trees gently shade superbly manicured grounds which include a five-acre man-made, ice-blue lake with a soothing, never pummelling, five-foot waterfall and a graceful, inviting stone bridge. It is here, amidst the infinite silence of unfarmed, rolling and gentle countryside, that Michael Jackson has created his own environment, a safe haven for him from an ever-pressing, ever-difficult world.
Two thousand miles east, in the grimy industrial city of Gary, Indiana, there is a small, two-bedroom, one-bath, brick-and-aluminum-sided home on a corner lot. The property, at 2300 Jackson Street, is about a hundred feet deep and fifty feet wide. There is no garage, no landscaping and no green gra.s.s. Thick smoke plumes upward from nearby factories; it envelopes the atmosphere in a way that makes a person breathing such air feel just a little... sick. Joseph and Katherine Jackson, Michael's parents, purchased the home in 1950 for $8,500, with a $500 down-payment.
This place, primarily a black neighbourhood, is where Michael Jackson first lived as a child, with his parents and siblings Maureen, Jackie, t.i.to, Jermaine, LaToya, Marlon, Janet and Randy.
Like most parents, Joseph and Katherine wanted their children to succeed. In the early fifties the best they could do was two bedrooms and one bath for eleven people; clothes and shoes bought in secondhand stores. They hoped that when the youngsters graduated from high school, they would find steady work, perhaps in the mills... unless they could do better than that.
However, when the Jackson parents discovered that some of their kids had musical talent, their dreams expanded: the boys with the surprising musical and dance abilities would win contests, they decided, and be 'discovered'.
After their sons cut their first records, the imaginings of the parents grew more grandiose: a sprawling estate in California; servants at their beck and call; expensive luxury cars for everyone; three-piece suits, diamond rings and great power for Joseph; mink coats, jewels and a better social life for Katherine. They fantasized about flipping on their television and seeing their celebrated children perform their number-one hit songs for an appreciative world. As a result of the boys' fame, they figured, the entire family would be recognized, sought-after, asked to pose for pictures, sign autographs. They would all all be stars. What a great world it would be, for each of them. No more worries; everything taken care of, handled by their good fortune. be stars. What a great world it would be, for each of them. No more worries; everything taken care of, handled by their good fortune.
Was it too much to ask? It certainly seemed like a good idea, at the time. However, as proverbial wisdom has it, be careful what you wish for. You just might get it.