You Are Not Alone_Michael, Through a Brother’s Eyes (27 page)

The biggest game-changer of them all was the
Thriller
video, with a theme inspired by
American Werewolf in London
. Michael recruited that movie’s director John Landis for his $500,000-budget video. It was an astronomical amount of money for a music video. So much so that CBS Records refused to finance it. They felt the album’s sales had peaked and, therefore, it didn’t make financial sense. Michael’s vision was years ahead of the combined wisdom at CBS Records (which later became Sony) – and
his
balls made
them
more money in increased album sales after they had effectively given up the chase.

In the end, MTV and the sale of rights provided the funding and the 14-minute ‘film’ that followed was as pioneering as it was mesmerising. It heralded the start of a story-telling, cinematic approach to music videos. Michael’s thinking-outside-the-box took everyone else with him. He reset the rules and standard with everything he did. Before its official première in December 1983, he had gathered the family in the 32-seat theatre he’d built downstairs at Hayvenhurst with wood-panelled walls and gold-framed black-and-white photos of Shirley Temple, The Little Rascals and Charlie Chaplin. We took our places in the red velvet seats and Michael walked on to the small raised platform in front of the screen. He was nervous but excited, and explained that his new video was ‘shot like a film’ and he wanted our honest opinions at the end.

I don’t think there was one member of the family who wasn’t blown away. It was musical, choreographic, cinematic, makeup genius. What was funny was the reaction of the youngest kids in the family. Rebbie’s son Austin, then a toddler, freaked out afterwards whenever Michael went to cradle him. He screamed and bawled, convinced his uncle’s face was going to ‘change’ into that of a monster any minute. It was hard to explain to a kid that ‘I’m not really a werewolf,’ because that was exactly what he’d said in the video.

Unfortunately, the folk at the Kingdom Hall didn’t see the funny side. That epic video was, in Jehovah’s eyes, ‘evil and satanic’, because it celebrated the occult and the unseen world; ‘the great princes of darkness and the wicked spirits’ that the Bible warned against. That was why, at the video’s opening, there was a last-minute on-screen disclaimer added that read: ‘Due to my strong personal convictions, I wish to stress that this film in no way endorses a belief in the occult.’ That was not Michael’s idea. It was there at the insistence of the Kingdom Hall after the elders heard back from two Jehovah’s Witnesses who were on set with Michael
and became concerned by the video’s theme. He didn’t even write the disclaimer – director John Landis did.

This drama caused my brother a lot of unnecessary distress. He felt conflicted between his passion and his faith; he had only ever set out to be creative and entertaining, not offensive. I don’t know the full extent of the calls that went back and forth between Hayvenhurst and the Kingdom Hall, but I couldn’t believe there was even a fuss in the first place. It made me wonder why the elders hadn’t insisted on a disclaimer that said: ‘Due to my strong personal convictions, I wish to stress that I am not really a zombie but Michael Jackson.’ To me, the whole affair was
that
ridiculous. But Michael was typically compliant and didn’t voice any opposition. The whole thing was religion gone mad. I felt for Mother, too, because I know she came under tremendous pressure as the elders lobbied for the video not to be released, collectively failing to understand the distinction between creative brilliance and literal meaning. But contrary to what’s been long reported, Michael was not de-fellowshipped by his religion or threatened with it. Far from it. Instead, and from this point on, two slightly serious-looking elders would shadow him on tour just to ensure he didn’t stray from God’s path. As if Michael’s life wasn’t restricted enough, these two religious guards were posted as silent witnesses in the background to ‘monitor’ what he creatively did. When anyone asked who they were, they were just part of the entourage.

For the remainder of 1983 and throughout 1984, Michael still carried out his pioneering work as a dedicated Witness, going door-to-door to spread the word of Jehovah. When he could, he also attended the Kingdom Hall four times a week with Mother. The only difficulty now was that his fame was so great that he couldn’t walk up anyone’s path without causing a fuss or being praised – which defeated the object of honouring Jehovah. But if the
Thriller
video had taught him anything, it was the art of disguise. Obviously, he had learned not to dress up as a werecat, but he obtained a collection of props that included a fake moustache, spectacles, hats with attached wigs … and a fat suit.

When he experimented with these different disguises, and went from door to door without being mobbed, he realised that his only chance of anonymity lay in becoming somebody else. From inside Hayvenhurst, he had only to look at the CCTV monitors to see the daily crowd of fans waiting at the gate and the numbers swelled after
Thriller
. I suspect it was then that he resolved to become the master of disguise and felt confident that he could fool everyone. Even those closest to him.

OUR FATHER HAD BEEN AN AMAZING
coach, but he wasn’t really equipped for the Hollywood machine and Michael’s worldwide fame had outgrown him. The other brothers also recognised his limitations and had to explain to Joseph – at first in writing – that his managerial services were no longer required. It hurt him, too. ‘I can’t believe they’re doing this. I can’t believe they’re leaving me,’ he told Mother, the one person he allowed to see him vulnerable.

It can’t have been easy being dismissed by the kids whose careers he helped make, but as much as he’d lost his power base, it wasn’t as if he was shut out completely. All the brothers, including Michael, would continue to seek his advice over the years and we somehow knew he’d never be far away with another world-beating idea.

Ultimately, the managerial change had a knock-on effect to Michael’s wider management set-up – the Joseph-appointed team of Ron Weisner and Freddy DeMann who’d arrived in 1978. Michael was encouraged to find new management and his favoured candidate, Frank Dileo, vice-president of promotions at the Epic label, landed the job. With his vast experience and jovial manner, the man from Philly, nicknamed Tookie, was an indispensable asset for a long time. Those two were a double-act that gelled from day one. They reminded me of Abbott and Costello because Frank was the roly-poly guy with a thick cigar in his mouth, while Michael was the one doing all the mad capers. Frank was a deflector and mouthpiece – a front man – but his know-how also brought a new slickness to all that Michael did.

John Branca, a fair-haired New Yorker, had become my brother’s new attorney and he, too, would provide expert guidance in the years ahead. The Branca-Dileo combination was the professional operation Michael was happy to have surrounding him. Meanwhile, Weisner and Mann would manage the other brothers as the Jacksons.

By now, all the family knew that Michael’s fame was at a level none of us had experienced before, but aside from the sales figures, the non-stop media coverage and the fans outside the gates, it was hard for us to measure. One day, La Toya was out and about in Beverly Hills when she got snarled up in traffic. Every street around her was gridlocked. She waved to a police officer and asked if there’d been an accident.

‘There’s no accident,’ he told her. ‘That Michael Jackson fella’s just walked into a shop.’

‘Oh,’ said La Toya. ‘Okay.’

When she relayed that story, we started to understand the reality we’d now be dealing with.

THERE HAD BEEN A LOT OF
changes in my career, too. Ironically, it was Joseph who suggested that I needed to shake things up a little. ‘You’ve gone as far as you can at Motown – you need a change. You need to go see Clive Davis.’

Joseph had known Clive since he was president of Columbia Records before he had founded and built the growing empire of Arista Records. Everyone in the music industry knew of Clive, a savvy trail-blazer with a nose for hits who had previously signed artists like Janis Joplin, Earth, Wind & Fire, Bruce Springsteen and Aretha Franklin to name a few. Starting Arista from scratch, he’d taken the label from a big fat zero to $70 million in his first four years and his roster of acts was growing all the time. As Joseph told me then, ‘
That
is a man who knows what he’s doing and where he’s going.’

Before I went to see Clive, at a meeting that Joseph would arrange, I needed to speak with Mr Gordy. I couldn’t line
something up and then jump ship without letting him know. When we had the ‘big talk’, we both knew that my solo career and producer work had exhausted all its options at Motown and our professional relationship had reached a natural end. But that didn’t make my heart weigh any lighter. As we talked, he made it easier for me. ‘You and Hazel need to see how it is to work with other people,’ he told me, ‘and get out from beneath my wings. As your father-in-law, I want to see you grow.’

Although several years remained on my contract, he released me and, after 14 years at Motown, I left with immense gratitude, with songs still inside me – and as a ready and able producer. This time, leaving felt right and the circumstances were never in dispute. The difference was that I had no one in my ear telling me what to do.

Clive Davis asked to see me at his bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel. When he came out west from New York, that was where he stayed: Bungalow 1B, with poolside cabana number 10. Always. Clive was a creature of habit.

When I parked, I suddenly felt nauseous and uncertain – perhaps because I’d always thought that the day I left Motown would be to reunite with my brothers and this wasn’t moving me towards that. So, as I walked up the pathway to the bungalows, I found myself questioning the wisdom of this move.

As I reached Clive’s bungalow, a monster bee buzzed around me with the determined assault of an Apache helicopter. I’m petrified of bees, and I took this as a sign that said, ‘Stay away,’ or ‘Danger’. So I headed back down the path.

‘JERMAINE! Where you going?’

I turned around and there was Clive – smart, wearing sunglasses – at his door, waving someone off, and waving me in. Ozzy Osbourne said, ‘Hi!’ as our appointments crossed each other.

‘Perfect timing, come on in,’ said Clive.

Over the next hour, we had a fine meeting and I liked him enormously. Whatever his mind is spinning with, you always feel like you’ve got his full-on attention. I told him that I still wanted to
make great music and he gave me some pointers as to how he saw things. The upshot was that we shook hands and I signed to Arista.

‘Now, before you leave, can you put your producer’s cap on for a minute?’ he asked. ‘I have this new artist …’ He pushed a tape into his VHS recorder and we sat back to watch this tall girl with model looks and an incredible voice singing in a club in somewhere like New Jersey. She must have been about 18. That was my first sight and sound of Whitney Houston. ‘She needs material,’ he said. ‘She’s going to be huge. I’m working with other producers. We’re not rushing her. What do you think?’

I blurted out what was in my head the moment I heard her voice: Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell. That’s the gold standard I had in mind. A duet. Me and her. ‘I’d be excited to work with her,’ I said. ‘We’d be perfect together.’

THE FIRST TIME I SAW WHITNEY
in the flesh was at a studio in Hollywood. She was even more gorgeous in person. She walked over, we shook hands, and there was one of those recognitions that sends all sorts of wires sparking and fusing on the inside. I caught her during a break in recording, and she was smoking. ‘You don’t want to smoke those,’ I said. ‘They’ll ruin your voice.’

She smiled. ‘You might want to live more dangerously,’ she said.
Touché
. This girl was quick-witted with a confidence that trod on your toes. She was that mix of street-smart East-Coast girl with an air of innocence and a vast talent. I found that a hypnotic combination.

Her voice had strength, passion and softness, and she could use every element of her range to tell a song’s story. She could sing anything. We would spend a lot of time in the studio together, recording duets and in production, and soon enough, she was calling me Jackson, not Jermaine, setting the easy atmosphere in which we worked. We had an instant mutual respect for each other and a growing attraction. During our increasing time together, it was what we didn’t say – yet still conveyed – that sent me into a head-spin. I kept reminding myself about Hazel, the family, and
everything I had built and everyone I loved. This was the stuff they didn’t warn you about when you got married, aged 19. They didn’t tell you that when you grew up there would be super-human forces to drag you towards temptation. No matter your intentions, you shall be tested. And this collaboration, with an as yet unknown artist, was to be mine.

WHEN THEY WORK, COLLABORATIONS ARE LIKE
a love affair between sounds and voices. When an artist and a producer, or two artists, find that symbiotic match in the studio, there is no better creative feeling in the world.

Michael was fortunate enough to work with some of the best names in the music industry, but the man he most looked forward to teaming up with was his ‘musical prophet’, Stevie Wonder. Stevie was, and remains, a big friend of the family after working with us on many unreleased Jackson 5 tracks (and we did the background dooda-waps on his hit ‘You Haven’t Done Nothing’). We all shared the same precision: building up a song, seeing it as a piece of intricate art that only came together layer by layer, detail by detail, instrument by instrument. It was, Stevie always said, ‘about painting a picture using sound’. One sound was one colour. Blended together, music formed – and this was how a blind man approached his craft. He was a regular visitor to Hayvenhurst, as was Michael to Wonderland Studios, Hollywood, where he was allowed to observe Stevie put together his outstanding work on
Songs in the Key of Life
. ‘It was like being a fly on the wall of the greatest composer of all time,’ said Michael.