You Are Not Alone_Michael, Through a Brother’s Eyes (30 page)

But his best response would come in 1996, via the eloquence of one of his short-film videos for his single ‘Ghosts’ – a video co-scripted by novelist Stephen King, which broke the record for the longest-running music video ever made at 39 minutes 31 seconds. In it, he played himself as the owner of a haunted house behind Neverland-style gates in ‘Normal Valley’. He also wore a fat suit to play his arch nemesis: a white, middle-aged mayor, with grey hair and horn-rimmed spectacles, who was vowing to drive him out of town.

The dialogue in the video’s opening sequence mirrors how Michael felt he was viewed and treated. It carried a serious message while poking fun at people’s judgements of him. YouTube it and you’ll see Michael, in character, acting out what people said about him as he speaks the lines of the middle-aged man who’d led a group of concerned parents, with children in tow, to his house. For
‘Normal Valley’, read Santa Ynez, California – and Media Land. ‘We want you outta this town. We’re a nice normal town. Normal people. Normal kids. We don’t need freaks like you telling ghost stories … You’re weird … you’re strange, and I do not like you … The fun’s over … go back to the circus you freak … Don’t force us to get rough with you, because we will if we have to …’ Then watch Michael’s reaction as he plays himself, expressing both his calm and his pent-up anger before using his magic to silence every adult who projected their warped thinking on to him.

For me, that opening sequence is Michael venting his feelings through music. I remember his disguise vividly because, during a break in filming, he dropped by Hayvenhurst still in character, still wearing the fat suit, looking like a middle-aged white man with his grey wig and latex face. When he walked in, I instantly knew it was him because he winked at me but, beyond that, he was unrecognisable. Our cousin Tony Whitehead, who was carrying a book under his arm, was with me and he thought this ‘stranger’ was just another visitor. Michael decided to have some fun: he always liked a good laugh with Tony, who joined his tour crew as a carpenter and familiar face from 1988 onwards. So, Michael walked up to him, in character, as a white man, and said, ‘Hey, why do you have a book? Niggers don’t read!’

Tony, thick-set and big-necked, not someone you’d choose to confront, couldn’t believe what he’d heard. ‘What did you just say?’ he said, standing over Michael, ready to clock him.

‘Tony! TONY!’ he screamed. ‘It’s ME! IT’S ME!’

Our cousin stared into my brother’s eyes, trying to find the person he knew. ‘IT’S ME – MICHAEL!’ And that was when Tony stood down and we all fell about laughing.

IN THAT FINAL MONTH BEFORE THE
tour opening, attorneys seemed to argue and vote about every tiny detail, from how many tour dates (40 or 45) to the tour’s routing schedule; from this idea to that fee, from ‘we want this’ to ‘we want that’, from this cost to that ticket price. It was draining. Watching them feed different
advice into different brothers’ heads was painful, and I could see it sucking the energy out of Michael. Tour-weary before the tour had even begun. But I’ll say this about him: as much as it drove him mad, he never once shirked a meeting or ducked out of a conference call.

At one meeting, where another tiresome debate was going on, everyone was chipping in their two cents’ worth when I saw Michael mentally retreat and block out the noise. He leaned back in his chair and began scribbling; he was drawing Charlie Chaplin. Suddenly he looked like a kid killing time while the grown-ups argued around him – and it seemed the smartest escape. We were all brothers thinking the same thing by the end: we just wanted to escape the politics and get out onstage. Become what we knew best. Be all that we loved. As Michael said in his autobiography: ‘The tour was like: we’re a mountain. We’ve come to share our music with you. We have something we want to tell you.’

THE ULTIMATE REWARD COMES ALWAYS AND
only via the stage. Politics fade out and pale into insignificance the moment you hear the muffled roar of a capacity crowd from beneath a stadium. For any performance artist, it’s this moment that provides the purpose of living: the sweet taste of victory that we relive and chase ever afterwards. As kids, I don’t know how much of the Jackson 5 years, when we were packing out stadiums, we’d truly savoured but second time around, we were determined to soak up and capture every second and sensation. Tito said it at the outset: ‘It’s going to be the tour we never want to end.’

The omens had started to look good when we were kerb-side at Kansas City airport, ahead of our first concert. This happy-looking guy was helping load our bags into one of the vans when he said: ‘Remember me?’

I stared at him. ‘Wesley?’

It was the catcher I’d collided with that day playing for Katz Kittens in Gary. What a small world we lived in. We compared the scars we still carried above our eyes. ‘That collision ended our baseball career,’ I said. ‘Not sure Jackie’s forgiven you!’

‘You guys don’t seem to have done too badly.’ He winked. Everything about 1984 would be tinged with that kind of nostalgia. Memories would be everywhere. Even below the stage: we’d ensured there was a disco club there for crew and friends, and called it Mr Lucky’s.

Come opening night, we had massive support from everyone we knew in the industry and Michael boasted about one particular telegram he’d received from Marlon Brando. The line I remember ran, ‘MICHAEL – DON’T MAKE AN ASS OF YOURSELF AND FOR GOD’S SAKE, DON’T FALL IN THE ORCHESTRA PIT – MARLON’.

Backstage, as 45,000 people packed into Arrowhead Stadium, we formed a huddle just like we used to, stacked our hands in the middle and then heard that growing sound: ‘JACKSONS! JACKSONS! JACKSONS!’

The stage was monster – something like four storeys high, 150 feet wide and weighing 350 tons. But the crowd saw nothing up there at first, except a stone boulder with a protruding sword and two giant images of an oak tree at either side of the stage. There was no set. No instruments. No band. Michael wanted everything hidden at first, and then a city would rise out of nowhere, triggered by Randy, dressed as a knight, pulling the sword from the stone to slay alien-like Cretons. Then the sword glowed and sparkled, the stadium went dark and Randy dashed to join us below as we took our positions and lined up as five, standing on a flight of steps. Facing out, it was me on bass far left, Randy, Michael in the middle, Marlon, and Tito on guitar, all wearing our Aviators and standing slightly stooped to keep our heads below stage level.

‘Arise, world, and behold the protection of the kingdom!’ declared a booming voice over the speakers.

We heard the screams of old; we sensed a familiar euphoria.

‘You all ready?’ said Michael, leaning forward.

‘Let’s tear this place UP!’ shouted Marlon, echoed by Randy.

Giant floodlights beamed outwards, bathing the entire stadium in light as we started to rise, five silhouettes, statuesque. Only my
eyes moved behind the shades – I couldn’t help but suck up the exhilaration at seeing a sea of people, hands in the air, with banners and signs that read: ‘We (heart) You Michael!’ or ‘J5’ or ‘Jacksons = Victory’. We were standing there for the longest time. Let ’em wait, said Michael. Build the anticipation. Send ’em crazy. On this, his first stepping out since
Thriller
, he knew he held the threads to 45,000 people’s emotions.

We took slow, deliberate footsteps down the stairway in sync and each step lit up as we did so. At the bottom we waited, then raised our hands in sync to remove our sunglasses as the lights swivelled and turned on us. Then Michael gave his cue – a jab of his sequin-gloved hand. Cue the beat into ‘Wanna Be Startin’ Something’. In a 15-song set, we performed a Jackson 5 medley, Michael sent them wild with hits like ‘Human Nature’ and ‘Billie Jean’, and we performed our duet ‘Tell Me I’m Not Dreaming’ at the end of my solo set, which included ‘Let’s Get Serious’, before Michael gave ‘Rock With You’ and ‘Beat It’.

For the first time in years, I was in musical heaven. If Motown 25 had been the reigniting of old magic, this was its explosion. And as much as the press would throw more crap at Michael, he had only to step out on stage to know where the love was. ‘MICHAEL! MICHAEL! MICHAEL!’ they chanted. I watched him watching them – a crowd aged from five to 70. Saluting them, blowing kisses, disbelieving it. Wearing the biggest smile on his face.

Anyone who says – as many have – that ‘Victory’ was a miserable experience for him doesn’t have a clue what they’re talking about. There was always a world of difference between the business and the show for Michael, and it was this kind of love that expunged the frustration that had preceded the tour. It was a buzz that would sustain us across five months, 47 American and eight Canadian cities. You ask any of the brothers today what the best time of their lives was, and I’m pretty sure they’ll each say, ‘Victory.’ Half the time, we just wanted to shut ourselves away as brothers because when it was just the six of us – with no one whispering divisive advice in our ears – we were in sync.

I’ve read the accounts that would have people believe Michael was ‘increasingly difficult’ on the road and was suddenly ‘unreasonable’ in his ‘demands’. We apparently feuded so much that we had to have rooms on different floors in hotels; we ‘didn’t speak
en route
to stadiums’; and we especially ‘glared’ at Michael’s guests. I honestly think some people wanted so badly to believe that the discord in the promoter/attorney meetings extended into the dressing room and hotels which it did not. No one focuses on how we went out there night after night and kicked ass on stage with a chemistry that spoke for itself. I guess success stories fall flat where news coverage is concerned. As Michael always said, ‘When they can’t pick fault with the performance, they’ll pick fault with the person.’

I had a long-time suspicion that it was in the interests of people who worked with Michael to plant subliminal messages of conflict – both with the media and in his ears – because they wanted to be his replacement ‘brothers’ and it was far more profitable to slice into a financial pie that was for Michael alone, rather than a pie that had to be cut six ways. Many times during ‘Victory’, I thought back to when Joseph had gathered those twigs in Gary and bunched them together. Inseparable. Unbreakable. Stronger together than apart. Now, in 1984, having endured the wrench of separation once before, I held even tighter to that teaching as the entourage swelled around us.

BAKANA THE BENGAL TIGER JOINED US
on the road. Bubbles stayed at home. He would have to wait for Michael’s ‘Bad’ Tour.

Bakana, named after the Fijian island, was my ‘plus one’, and stayed in my room. After raising a mountain lion, I had bought a cat from a friend and I had been raising her like a child, bottle-feeding her in my arms and taming her for the tour. I appreciate keeping a tiger is not something most ordinary folk would do but in Hollywood as they say, anything goes. Don’t forget Dean Martin and his pet bear! Anyway I would sometimes have to give Bakana a little bop on the nose from time to time when she got slightly
rowdy, hissed and showed her fangs. As part of this taming process, I posted a photo of myself inside her cage and left one of my old shirts in a corner – I hoped to get her used to my face and smell. But I returned one day to find the photo eaten and the shirt in shreds, so we had to work a bit harder at our relationship. Thankfully, by the time ‘Victory’ began, she was impeccably behaved and took to touring like a duck to water.

We often had to take different floors at hotels because there were only so many suites per floor. Occasionally, due to a limited number of suites, we stayed in different hotels. The days of sharing rooms were over, but there was still an open-door policy between us and we each had our own assigned security. Michael loved the thrill of us sneaking my tiger through hotel kitchens – entering via back routes as always – after she had travelled to each destination via the crew bus. On arrival in each city, we just threw a blanket over her cage and pretended it was musical equipment. Then, once in the suite, we’d do what we’d always done and blow up the phones of room service, ordering ice-cream, fries, fruit … and lots and lots of raw meat for Bakana. ‘What are you doing up there? Barbecuing?’ asked the always-agreeable voice in the kitchens.

‘Yeah, we’re throwing some meat on the grill on the balcony,’ I’d say, as Michael muffled his laughter. Room service staff always seemed to accept our story that we took a travelling barbecue wherever we went. ‘So much hotel food, we just like cooking it ourselves,’ I said.

Bakana loved the five-star cuisine, even if the wardrobe department didn’t love Bakana. It was usual for a rolling rack of outfits to be wheeled into our rooms each day, but I’d always find my clothes hanging outside on the door knob and the door frame. As Bill Bray said, ‘There ain’t nobody going in Jermaine’s room when that joker’s got a tiger in there!’

Michael helped nurture Bakana on the road and was as unafraid as the other brothers when he fed her meat and gave her a bottle of milk. When we came offstage, all pumped and unable to sleep, there was no better release than wrestling with a growing tiger on
the carpet. But, eventually, just as with Bubbles, she became fully grown and the decision was taken to release her into a national park in Oregon. For many years, there was a tiger running wild out there with as many fond memories of the ‘Victory’ Tour as we had.

MICHAEL DIDN’T NEED PETS AS COMPANIONS
because he had his two extra guests in tow: his ever-present shadows from the Kingdom Hall. Following through from the ‘Thriller’ video, ‘Victory’ allowed me to see first hand the set-up of having two independent Jehovah’s Witnesses travelling with him city to city. This pair – a man and a woman, both nice enough people – were always immaculately turned out and hovered without saying too much. They were just a … presence. I’d like to say that they faded inconspicuously into the background but it’s hard to ignore people whose role you know is to ‘monitor’ everything. I started wondering what their thoughts were about Randy slaying alien-like Cretons at the start of each concert. Nothing was said, so I presumed Jehovah only had a problem with the occult, not encounters of the third kind.

At first, Michael seemed okay with this arrangement because the monitors were presumably as good as having God’s eyes watching over him. But if there was one overwhelming characteristic of my brother, it was his need for space – especially creative space. It was as essential to him as food and water. Place him in a straitjacket of discipline in any way and he was always going to rebel. I had never known someone so self-disciplined and yet he struggled to tolerate being disciplined by others. So it was never going to end well when he had to think inside the box when his instinct was to think outside it.

Michael started to make his point at the very start of ‘Victory’. We rode together as brothers en route to stadiums, but didn’t always share the same vehicle at other times because the elders took up two seats alongside Michael. Often, there was also Frank Dileo and photographer Harrison Funk. Growing entourages meant that it wasn’t always possible to travel together. But the
following story was a funny memory of Michael’s that Harrison – whose friendship and lens was trusted to roam freely with him for many years – has assisted with.

Their van had stopped at a set of traffic lights in Kansas City when Michael spotted three hookers on the street corner, with one wearing sequined hot pants. Michael’s eye couldn’t help but wander. ‘Oh my goodness, hurt me!’ he said, playfully – Jackson-speak for ‘Oh wow, she’s looking hot’. Then, just as the lights were about to change, he stuck his gloved hand out of the window and waved. Three hookers did a double-take, wondering if that was … just maybe … it can’t be … Michael Jackson. Just to make sure that they were certain, Michael opened the van door a little and, looking back as the van began to move away, he showed his face, chuckled, and then slammed the door tight. He twisted around in his seat to watch three hookers jumping up and down with excitement. I don’t know what the two Jehovah’s Witnesses made of this interaction but it made Michael’s day and made one thing clear: he wasn’t
always
going to be squeaky-clean.

The ‘monitors’ would stay in place for three more years. But then, in 1987, each side’s tolerance of the situation mutually expired when he shot the video for ‘Smooth Criminal’. Ironically, the inspiration behind this hit would have been enough for the Kingdom Hall to get stirred up again, but they never found out because Michael kept that inspiration hidden, for understandable reasons. The video had an Al Capone-style feel, but ‘Smooth Criminal’ was actually inspired by a serial killer who spread fear throughout Los Angeles and San Francisco between 1984 and 1985. Richard Ramirez, a self-confessed devil worshipper, was the ‘Night Stalker’ who took 14 lives. In most cases, he forced his way into people’s homes before brutally murdering them with a knife (hence the appearance of a flashing blade in the video). As Michael’s first verse described:

There were two reasons not to reveal this inspiration at the time: first, so that the media didn’t accuse him of glorifying such a heinous crime; and second, he didn’t want the elders to know that a worshipper of the occult partly ‘inspired’ this song. But if he thought he had been clever in swerving trouble, he was mistaken because, in the end, the elders found something else to be upset about. During the music video, there was a scene where Michael sprayed an underground bar with bullets, using a machine-gun. It was a real firearm, and one that he’d been trained to use by ammunition experts on set. It was fun, harmless and necessary for the story-line. But no Jehovah’s Witness is allowed to hold or possess a firearm, let alone use one. The official rebuke from the Kingdom Hall was harsh. It asked Michael to consider where his priorities lay: as a Jehovah’s Witness or as an artist. As distraught as my brother was by this implied choice, it was the final straw: what church asks you to reconsider the very gift that God gave you? Michael had been the perfect ‘disciple’, going door to door in Encino, but that seemed to count for nothing when his creativity was up against the rule book.