Over the last decade my tape recorder has been unfailing in catching the weirdness of a moment: Bruce Springsteen doing Ed Norton imitations at 3:00 a.m. The whir of bat wings over Eddy Grant’s Bajan plantation. Sting howling at the moon. But even my hypersensitive Sony was not up to capturing the steady flick of a snake tongue a few inches from my ear during that first long session with Michael Jackson. That whole trip was quietly strange; not menacing, just out there.
The reptile in Вопрос was Michael’s eight-foot удав, боа constrictor, Muscles. For еще than an hour, Muscles lay perfectly balanced on a banister beside me, head erect, beady eyes fixed on the small veins doubtless throbbing in my throat. Michael set him there when I declined to have Muscles lounge around my torso. It seemed a fair compromise.
Young Mike wasn’t being naughty. He explained it as an exercise in trust, and he was most convincing. If I was scared of snakes, he had a mortal dread of reporters – and maybe we should both get over it. Michael hadn’t done an interview in years without one of his sisters screening questions. And in the nearly ten years since our remarkable sessions in late ’82 (conducted as he was finishing Thriller), he has never again done an interview of this depth. Not that things went badly. It just was . . . hard.
Michael shocked everyone – his family, his management and his record company – by deciding to go it alone. He opened the front door of his rented Encino condo looking like a улица, уличный whack. His corduroys were dirty and rumpled; the scuffed dress oxfords were untied. No socks. No makeup. His hospitality was touchingly inept; having run out of the proffered lemonade, he filled the other half of my glass with warm Hawaiian Punch. There was no Еда in the refrigerator, just juice. He explained that he was camping out there while his manse on Hayvenhurst was being rebuilt. But as she breezed through to her bedroom upstairs, sister Janet announced that he lived like a beggar, all the time; never ate except for some old салат leaves; wore raggedy-ass clothes. A disgrace . . .
“Right,” big brother shot back as she climbed the stairs. “At least I don’t have a booty like YOURS.”
Ten минуты into it, I could see his point. As he explained the чай party of garden statuary around his coffee таблица – including a нарцисс figure named Michael – I could hear how it would read. It nearly made me bawl. He was trying so damned hard.
We did agree to leave one part of our conversation out of the story, for his protection at the time. It came up as we sat in the condo dining room, and I noticed the school portrait of a young black woman tucked into the frame of an etching. The фото was one of the few personal touches in the place. The face looked like any .
“That’s the real Billie Jean,” Michael said. Quincy Jones had just played that cut for me in the studio; I knew the song was about a woman accusing the singer of fathering her child – which was what this woman’s letters insisted. Michael explained that he put the фото she’d sent in a central spot so he could memorize the face; it seemed she wanted him dead in a big way. He сказал(-а) she’d just sent him a gun in the mail with detailed instructions on killing himself. In a barely audible voice, Michael explained that the police had told him the gun was rigged to огонь backward into the person doing the shooting. Later his mother would tell me that the woman was in an institution, under psychiatric care. When I saw the “Billie Jean” video a few months later – all disappearing Тигры and pinpoint choreography – I kept seeing some girl in a green hospital gown.
“You deal with it,” Michael had told me. “You just deal.”
Over the Далее couple of days, Michael continued to deal with me, gamely, politely and with increasing humor. Janet shook her head in warning as he offered to drive us over for a tour of his house.
“Ray Charles drives better,” she cracked.
Strapped into his Золото Camaro, I found myself longing for the relative safety of Muscle’s fond embrace. The motor skills were there, but Michael admitted that concentration was a problem. Horns were still honking at us as we pulled into the drive of the magic kingdom he was building for himself.
“You want go out tonight?”
Another surprise. Michael was going to a slam-jam Queen концерт at the I.A. Forum. He wouldn’t mind the company. He felt he had to go. Freddie (the late Mr. Mercury, who died of AIDS in November 1991) had been calling him all week. He really should. . . .
Dusk was falling as we left for the show, Michael and his bodyguard Bill Bray walking point through the condo shrubbery toward a waiting limo. I thought they were being a bit silly – this was months before he hit monster status with Thriller. But they sensed the girls before I heard или saw them, made a dash to the car as a spiky red tangle of Lee press-on nails drummed against the windows.
“Lock it down!” Michael yelled to me, pointing to a panel at my knees. Limo savvy as I am, I hit the skylight button. Before it was half-open, arms reached in, clawing blindly.
Eeeeeeeeeeeeee. The keening drew blue-haired condo dwellers peering from behind their Levelers. Bray was twisting back from the front seat, prying fingers with surprising gentleness. Michael was helpless with giggles. I was flat scared, looking for Billie Jean in those contorted faces stuck against the windows.
When at last we pulled away, I turned to look at Michael. He had “dressed” for this public evening in jeans and a turquoise terry blazer, black loafers and just a tinge of blusher. This precept Michael looked great – healthy, handsome and robustly African American.
We stopped to pick up Michael’s one true friend – a blond teenage skier who was then his partner in Jehovah’s Witness fieldwork – and just as much of a Остаться в живых Boy. When Bray piloted us into Mercury’s dressing room, the boys shrank back until fib Freddie bounded over like a dizzy ротвейлер and damn near crushed tiny Mike in a hug. They fell against a big хобот, ствол that opened, releasing a terrifying avalanche of Freddie’s industrial-strength jockstraps. Michael’s jaw dropped.
“Ooooooooh, Freddie. What are those?”
A Золото football шлем fell out and came to rest on the mountain of cups.
“Rock & roll’s a man’s job, little brother,” Freddie thundered. Michael smiled and wanted to know if his host had really spent his last birthday hanging naked from a chandelier. The skier blushed. We all had a swell time until Freddie’s trainer called him over for a little preperformance spine cracking.
As it turned out, we didn’t see much of the concert. Things got too spooky again once Michael was recognized in the beery dark. Hands, notes, eyes, surrounded us. When an unidentifiable liquid began raining on our heads, Bray stood up. “That’s it. We’re gone.”
We spent еще time together, in the studio with Quincy Jones, rambling through Michael’s unfinished pleasure dome and visiting his menagerie. Toward the end, while we were bottle feeding his twin fawns, he turned suddenly and looked me in the eyes. Finally.
“You know something? You’re no better than I am. I mean, you’re just as sneaky.”
“How do Ты figure that?” I asked.
“You tap-dance in public. Sure Ты do, all over the page in ROLLING STONE. Ты need to perform, too. But when you’re done, Ты can run away and hide. Nobody’s after you.”
Michael had me there, dead to rights. He laughed and put a hand on my shoulder.
“Believe me when I tell Ты – don’t know how lucky Ты are.”
__________________
The reptile in Вопрос was Michael’s eight-foot удав, боа constrictor, Muscles. For еще than an hour, Muscles lay perfectly balanced on a banister beside me, head erect, beady eyes fixed on the small veins doubtless throbbing in my throat. Michael set him there when I declined to have Muscles lounge around my torso. It seemed a fair compromise.
Young Mike wasn’t being naughty. He explained it as an exercise in trust, and he was most convincing. If I was scared of snakes, he had a mortal dread of reporters – and maybe we should both get over it. Michael hadn’t done an interview in years without one of his sisters screening questions. And in the nearly ten years since our remarkable sessions in late ’82 (conducted as he was finishing Thriller), he has never again done an interview of this depth. Not that things went badly. It just was . . . hard.
Michael shocked everyone – his family, his management and his record company – by deciding to go it alone. He opened the front door of his rented Encino condo looking like a улица, уличный whack. His corduroys were dirty and rumpled; the scuffed dress oxfords were untied. No socks. No makeup. His hospitality was touchingly inept; having run out of the proffered lemonade, he filled the other half of my glass with warm Hawaiian Punch. There was no Еда in the refrigerator, just juice. He explained that he was camping out there while his manse on Hayvenhurst was being rebuilt. But as she breezed through to her bedroom upstairs, sister Janet announced that he lived like a beggar, all the time; never ate except for some old салат leaves; wore raggedy-ass clothes. A disgrace . . .
“Right,” big brother shot back as she climbed the stairs. “At least I don’t have a booty like YOURS.”
Ten минуты into it, I could see his point. As he explained the чай party of garden statuary around his coffee таблица – including a нарцисс figure named Michael – I could hear how it would read. It nearly made me bawl. He was trying so damned hard.
We did agree to leave one part of our conversation out of the story, for his protection at the time. It came up as we sat in the condo dining room, and I noticed the school portrait of a young black woman tucked into the frame of an etching. The фото was one of the few personal touches in the place. The face looked like any .
“That’s the real Billie Jean,” Michael said. Quincy Jones had just played that cut for me in the studio; I knew the song was about a woman accusing the singer of fathering her child – which was what this woman’s letters insisted. Michael explained that he put the фото she’d sent in a central spot so he could memorize the face; it seemed she wanted him dead in a big way. He сказал(-а) she’d just sent him a gun in the mail with detailed instructions on killing himself. In a barely audible voice, Michael explained that the police had told him the gun was rigged to огонь backward into the person doing the shooting. Later his mother would tell me that the woman was in an institution, under psychiatric care. When I saw the “Billie Jean” video a few months later – all disappearing Тигры and pinpoint choreography – I kept seeing some girl in a green hospital gown.
“You deal with it,” Michael had told me. “You just deal.”
Over the Далее couple of days, Michael continued to deal with me, gamely, politely and with increasing humor. Janet shook her head in warning as he offered to drive us over for a tour of his house.
“Ray Charles drives better,” she cracked.
Strapped into his Золото Camaro, I found myself longing for the relative safety of Muscle’s fond embrace. The motor skills were there, but Michael admitted that concentration was a problem. Horns were still honking at us as we pulled into the drive of the magic kingdom he was building for himself.
“You want go out tonight?”
Another surprise. Michael was going to a slam-jam Queen концерт at the I.A. Forum. He wouldn’t mind the company. He felt he had to go. Freddie (the late Mr. Mercury, who died of AIDS in November 1991) had been calling him all week. He really should. . . .
Dusk was falling as we left for the show, Michael and his bodyguard Bill Bray walking point through the condo shrubbery toward a waiting limo. I thought they were being a bit silly – this was months before he hit monster status with Thriller. But they sensed the girls before I heard или saw them, made a dash to the car as a spiky red tangle of Lee press-on nails drummed against the windows.
“Lock it down!” Michael yelled to me, pointing to a panel at my knees. Limo savvy as I am, I hit the skylight button. Before it was half-open, arms reached in, clawing blindly.
Eeeeeeeeeeeeee. The keening drew blue-haired condo dwellers peering from behind their Levelers. Bray was twisting back from the front seat, prying fingers with surprising gentleness. Michael was helpless with giggles. I was flat scared, looking for Billie Jean in those contorted faces stuck against the windows.
When at last we pulled away, I turned to look at Michael. He had “dressed” for this public evening in jeans and a turquoise terry blazer, black loafers and just a tinge of blusher. This precept Michael looked great – healthy, handsome and robustly African American.
We stopped to pick up Michael’s one true friend – a blond teenage skier who was then his partner in Jehovah’s Witness fieldwork – and just as much of a Остаться в живых Boy. When Bray piloted us into Mercury’s dressing room, the boys shrank back until fib Freddie bounded over like a dizzy ротвейлер and damn near crushed tiny Mike in a hug. They fell against a big хобот, ствол that opened, releasing a terrifying avalanche of Freddie’s industrial-strength jockstraps. Michael’s jaw dropped.
“Ooooooooh, Freddie. What are those?”
A Золото football шлем fell out and came to rest on the mountain of cups.
“Rock & roll’s a man’s job, little brother,” Freddie thundered. Michael smiled and wanted to know if his host had really spent his last birthday hanging naked from a chandelier. The skier blushed. We all had a swell time until Freddie’s trainer called him over for a little preperformance spine cracking.
As it turned out, we didn’t see much of the concert. Things got too spooky again once Michael was recognized in the beery dark. Hands, notes, eyes, surrounded us. When an unidentifiable liquid began raining on our heads, Bray stood up. “That’s it. We’re gone.”
We spent еще time together, in the studio with Quincy Jones, rambling through Michael’s unfinished pleasure dome and visiting his menagerie. Toward the end, while we were bottle feeding his twin fawns, he turned suddenly and looked me in the eyes. Finally.
“You know something? You’re no better than I am. I mean, you’re just as sneaky.”
“How do Ты figure that?” I asked.
“You tap-dance in public. Sure Ты do, all over the page in ROLLING STONE. Ты need to perform, too. But when you’re done, Ты can run away and hide. Nobody’s after you.”
Michael had me there, dead to rights. He laughed and put a hand on my shoulder.
“Believe me when I tell Ты – don’t know how lucky Ты are.”
__________________
like your charm, your face,
just everything.
But the thing I think of the most
is that smile of yours.
Everytime I see it,
my сердце skips a beat
and my thoughts get Остаться в живых in it.
Your smile gives me butterflys in my stomach.
Your smile makes Ангелы sing, a song that fills the streets.
Without that smile,
there is no joy in this world.
No one can replace it.
There is no mistake that when Ты smile,
that wonderful, beautiful smile,
the world turns into a better place.
To: My LOVE, Michael Joseph Jackson
By: Gracie
The Michael Jackson estate just laid the хлопать, привкус down on a bunch of Michael Jackson wannabes -- all over access to Neverland.
The wannabes are actually in a Michael Jackson tribute band named "Neverland" -- a name the MJ estate feels is a violation of its trademark.
Long story short -- the MJ estate wrote a scary legal letter demanding the band change its name ... and it did ... to Foreverland.
Here's the catch -- "Foreverland" still owns the rights to the domain name neverlandsf.com -- and its willing to give it back to Camp Jackson ... for a cool $30,000.
In short, the Jackson estate told the band to "beat it" -- and gave them until February 2011 to begin forwarding all web traffic to the new foreverlandsf.com ... или else.
The band tells us they're currently going over their options.
"Lawyers from the Jackson estate have forced us to change our name."
The wannabes are actually in a Michael Jackson tribute band named "Neverland" -- a name the MJ estate feels is a violation of its trademark.
Long story short -- the MJ estate wrote a scary legal letter demanding the band change its name ... and it did ... to Foreverland.
Here's the catch -- "Foreverland" still owns the rights to the domain name neverlandsf.com -- and its willing to give it back to Camp Jackson ... for a cool $30,000.
In short, the Jackson estate told the band to "beat it" -- and gave them until February 2011 to begin forwarding all web traffic to the new foreverlandsf.com ... или else.
The band tells us they're currently going over their options.
"Lawyers from the Jackson estate have forced us to change our name."
Then Happy came one day, chased my blues away
My life began when Happy smiled
Sweet, like Конфеты to a child
Stay here and Любовь me just a while
Let sadness see what Happy does
Let Happy be where Sadness was
Happy, that's you
Ты made my life brand new
Остаться в живых as a little lam was I, till Ты came in
My life began when Happy smiled
Sweet, like Конфеты to a child
Stay here and Любовь me just a while
Let sadness see what Happy does
Let Happy be where Sadness was
(Till now)
Where have I been?
What lifetime was I in?
Suspended between time and space
Lonely until Happy came smiling up at me
Sadness had no choice but to flee
I сказал(-а) a prayer so silently
Let Sadness see what Happy does
Let Happy be where Sadness was
Till now
Happy, yeah yeah
Happy, oehoe happy
happy oh yeah Happy
[fade out]
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