There Goes Gravity: A Life in Rock and Roll

by Robinson, Lisa

  • • •

  Epilogue: Less than a year after John was shot and killed, I got a call from one of her assistants that Yoko was inviting me to the Dakota to see her. I was told that this would not be an interview, I needn’t bring a tape recorder. I hadn’t spoken to her since John had been murdered, although I had received word in the days after he was killed that it would be all right with her if I went on television, specifically the Tom Snyder show to talk about John. I went to see her at the Dakota. She was in their seventh-floor apartment, propped up on her king-sized bed, with lots of white pillows behind her head. She had tinted glasses on, and she talked very softly about the night of the murder and the days that followed: about all the fans singing in the street and how she could hear them all night long. She talked about John’s shattered eyeglasses. About how she had told Sean that John was dead. And she talked about her new album (Season of Glass). She said several times that this conversation was not an interview. I listened sympathetically. I expressed the expected condolences. I respected her wishes. I wrote nothing. And then, about a week or two later, I read the exact same conversation, practically word for word, written by someone else, in an interview in Rolling Stone magazine.

  Five

  Long before the disfiguring plastic surgeries, the onstage crotch-grabbing, the bizarre disguises, the over-the-top fantasyland ranch, the friendships with aging showbiz legends, the suspect marriages and subsequent divorces, the mysteriously conceived children, the drug addictions, the hospital stays, the grotesque chotchke hoarding, the child molestation accusations, the child molestation trial, and the involuntary manslaughter trial of “concierge” doctor Conrad Murray, Michael Jackson was one of the most enthusiastic, sweet, inquisitive teenagers I’d ever met.

  On October 8, 1972, I went to 4641 Hayvenhurst Drive in Encino, California, to meet the Jackson Five for the first time. I was there to do a big story for a little fan magazine I edited called Rock & Soul. We put the Jacksons on the cover as often as possible, because the family group had sold over fourteen million albums, had four Number One singles, and were teen heartthrobs—complete with lunchboxes, posters, a television cartoon show and dolls. Like most of the houses that Michael would live in for the rest of his life, it had a long driveway leading to a locked gate. This gate had a sign on it—“Beware of Guard Dog”—with the phone number of the dog training establishment. (“Promotion,” Michael would tell me later.) The family had two dogs: a German shepherd named Heavy, and a Doberman named Hitler. One of the Jackson kids, I don’t remember which one, told me that their bodyguard named the dog Hitler but they all officially referred to him in interviews as “Duke.” But unlike the other houses that Michael would live in, the house on Hayvenhurst was not crawling with security or cloaked in secrecy. In fact, Michael met me when I arrived, and was friendly, outgoing, curious, fun. For Katherine and Joseph Jackson and their nine children, this Encino house—with its swimming pool, small outdoor basketball court, lemon and orange trees, and room for the family’s menagerie (dogs, snakes, llama, giraffe)—was a “mansion.” Michael told me that Liberace used to live across the street and the Jacksons would visit him and look at his diamonds. On that day in October, Michael wore a short-sleeved brown shirt, jeans and sneakers. His hair was in an Afro. In his hand was a comb that he used to keep fluffing out his hair. He took me on a tour of the house—showing me the rehearsal room, the pay phone, and his bedroom, which he shared with his younger brother Randy. The bedroom had two beds, a telephone, a clock with time zones from various cities around the world, and a TV set. Michael showed me some dance steps—routines that had been drummed into him by his father, who managed the family group. By the time Michael was six, he had performed with his brothers Jackie, Tito, Jermaine and Marlon in strip clubs. When they performed at the Apollo Theater in Harlem, Michael stood in the wings and watched—no, studied—Jackie Wilson and James Brown. Michael was fourteen years old when I met him, but I thought he was twelve, because when the Jacksons were signed to Motown in 1969 and Michael was ten, he was told to say he was eight. Motown owner Berry Gordy thought it would sound “cuter.” After spending the day interviewing all of the brothers, but mostly chatting with Michael, I called a friend and said, “This kid is going to be the greatest entertainer ever. Seriously, like Frank Sinatra.”

  *

  Michael asked me more questions that day than I asked him. He told me he was going to London “to perform for the Queen,” and asked if I had seen her palace. He said he wanted to go shopping for souvenirs and antiques. He said the Temptations and the Supremes told him Ringo Starr had taken them shopping when they went to London. I told him about the antiques on Portobello Road, and he asked, “Cheap?” He asked if I had ever heard of Napoleon—he said he “wanted to see him” when he was in Paris. He asked what airline I took to Europe. He asked if I’d heard of the comic actor Marty Feldman. He asked what kind of tape recorder I was using. We talked about how, if tape recorders were made much smaller, people were going to be able to sneak them into concerts and make bootlegs. I asked him the usual fan magazine questions: what did he like to do in his spare time? “Swim . . . play pool,” he said. “When we lived in the other house we would go to the park to play basketball, but now we have everything here.” There was a discussion about my maroon nail polish. He told me he loved magic tricks. He practiced speaking in French. When I asked him if he ever got scared onstage, he said, “No. If you know what you’re doing, you’re not scared onstage.”

  *

  Like Rock Scene magazine, Rock & Soul was a newsprint fan magazine that featured similar budget ads: “How to Make Others Secretly Do Your Bidding!!!” and ads for wigs, self-defense manuals, and products to help people put “Wate-On.” This magazine too, was a family affair: Richard and my sister (and longtime assistant) Deane Zimmerman and a few of our friends did all the so-called editorial. Mostly, we ran “photo spreads” of Michael with various celebrities—Liza Minnelli, Caroline and John F. Kennedy Jr., and the young actress Stephanie Mills, star of the Broadway version of The Wiz. When Michael’s black teenage fans got angry because he was photographed with white girls (Brooke Shields, Tatum O’Neal), his publicist decided it would be a good idea for him to be pictured with Stephanie as often as possible. Those photos with Michael and Stephanie littered the pages of Rock & Soul until we decided it was just too much of a setup. Even then, it was obvious that Michael was the most charismatic of the brothers, and the star. We got along instantly, and I visited him and his family several times over the course of the next few years. Michael often called me on the telephone. Or a publicist called and put him on the phone. And when he came to New York—to perform at Radio City Music Hall and, later, Madison Square Garden—we would catch up.

  *

  On February 5, 1975, we met at the Warwick Hotel in New York City. He was, by then, sixteen, but it’s possible I still thought he was fourteen. He was self-conscious about his acne, and admitted that his brothers teased him about it. We talked about Dancing Machine, the first album that Motown had allowed the brothers to produce themselves. “I got to sing free,” Michael said. “It was the first time I got to do my own thing. Our persistence in continually telling the record company we didn’t want other writers, was what finally changed their mind. You’ve got to remember,” he said, “I’ve been around studios since I was a child, and I just picked it up.” He talked about Stevie Wonder; he admired him because he was always able to “sing free” and insisted on recording where he wanted to record, rather than the Motown studios. “Only a producer-singer knows what he’s doing,” Michael said, “because he sings also. When you’re being told what to do, it’s not free.” What had he previously been told to do? “Sing this word this way, this line this way, go up and down—like that,” he said. “It’s not being ‘you,’ and you’re trying to get the ‘you’ out. Like Gladys Knight; she sings freely and look how great she is.” He talked about the Jacksons’ concerts and said, “There�
��s no reason why we can’t do anything we want to do onstage. We really would like to do something like Emerson, Lake and Palmer or some of those rock groups do—like when the piano turns around in the air. We have lots of ideas like that and we intend to do them in future shows.”

  Once again I asked him what he did in his “spare” time. He said because they traveled so much for their shows, he liked to stay at home and read. “The dictionary, adventure books, all sorts of things,” he said. “I had four weeks off and stayed home.” He told me he hated parties, unless it was a party where you could just talk. “And when there are other entertainers there, it’s even better.” We talked about whether or not he could go out to concerts, and he said whenever he went out, there was always a problem. “But,” he added, “that’s the only way you can really tell what’s happening.” He said he always wanted to work with Barbra Streisand, and that he wrote a ballad he thought would be perfect for her. “Ballads are more special,” he said. “You can have a pop song that will be known for three weeks and after that you hear nothing about it. But if you do a good ballad, it’ll be in the world forever. Like Stevie’s ‘Living in the City’—it’s a great song and I love it, it opens up the minds of a lot of people. But it won’t be around as long as a song like ‘My Cherie Amour’ or ‘You Are the Sunshine of My Life.’”

  *

  In February 1977, we talked on the phone about interviews. “People talk to you and they want to know about you,” he said, “but interviews help entertainers one hundred percent. I don’t [only] mean promotion-wise. I mean, when they ask you questions, it helps you to think about your life, to look at your future. It makes you think about what you’re going to be doing in the next ten years.” I asked him if he ever got bored. Only when he was stuck inside a hotel room with too many fans outside, he said. But, he was quick to add, sticking to the script that demonstrated his early Motown media training, he felt an obligation to his fans. “They made you who you are. They’re the ones who buy the records. If an entertainer did a concert and nobody showed up, he wouldn’t do the concert. So he owes it to them.” I asked if he resented never having had a normal childhood. “No,” he said. “There’s such a thing as talent, and I was taught that this was given to me. If I didn’t like doing it, if it [felt like] work, I don’t think I would have lasted this long. I’d probably go crazy.” Another time, when we met in New York at the Plaza Hotel, Michael was wearing a blue sweater, blue pants, a white shirt and, for some reason, an Electric Light Orchestra pin. When it was time to take photos, his publicist called him into another room to tell him to take his undershirt off; Michael came back and said he could have told him that in front of me. Michael said he’d seen The Wiz on Broadway three times but wanted to stay an extra day so he could see it again. He asked Bob Gruen questions about lighting while Bob took photos. Michael had visited the Bronx Zoo that morning; it was his first time there. He said he liked the exotic birds the best, that they used to have some at the Encino house but the mating calls were so loud it drove the neighbors crazy, so the birds had to go. He asked if Coney Island was still any good. He compared Disneyland to Disney World and said, “Disney World is better; it’s more of a world, like they say. It’s a resort, it has everything—golf, tennis, hotels. It’s all fantasy, all the time.”

  *

  Michael, along with all of his brothers and his sisters LaToya and Janet, answered a Rock & Soul questionnaire when he was eighteen years old. Among Michael’s questions and answers: What do you do in your spare time? Read, think, write songs. Would you like to get married? Later in life. What kind of girl would you like to marry? Kind. How many children would you like to have? 20, adopted, all races. What would you do if someone gave you a million dollars? Invest. Of all the places you’ve been to in America, which one would you like to go back to and why? Hawaii. Wisconsin. I love it. What was the biggest thrill of your life? Finding what I was searching for. Who has helped you most with your career? My father. Experience. Of all the performers you’ve worked with, who do you admire the most? Fred Astair [sic]. Stevie Wonder. What do you like most about your work? Learning. What do you dislike about your work? Arguing. What is your most prized material possession? A child. Words of wisdom. Who is your favorite actor? Heston, Brando, Bruce Dern. Who is your favorite actress? Garland. Bette Davis. Do you have a nickname? Nose. (And then, crossed out, niger [sic]). What do you daydream about? Future.

  • • •

  Towards the end of 1977, when I asked Michael if he still liked meeting his fans, for the first time, a more independent, even slightly cynical tone crept into his conversation. No longer spouting the Motown party line, he said, “I enjoy all that sometimes, seeing people who love me, or buy my records. But sometimes, people think you owe your life to them. They have a bad attitude—like ‘I made you who you are.’ That may be true—but not that one person. And, if the music wasn’t good, they wouldn’t have bought it. Some of them think they actually own you. They’ll say, ‘Sit down,’ ‘Sign this,’ or ‘Can I have your autograph?’ and I’ll say, ‘Yes, do you have a pen?’ And they say, ‘No, go get one.’ Honestly. I’m not exaggerating. But I just try to deal with it.”

  In October 1977, there was a party for Michael at Studio 54. On hand were the dancers from The Wiz, his mother Katherine, sisters Janet and LaToya, and brothers Marlon and Tito. Also present were Epic Records executives, CBS Records president Walter Yetnikoff, and assorted drag queens. Michael and I sat together on one of the sofas on the side of the dance floor. He told me that he loved New York City. “It’s the perfect spot for me,” he said. “When I’m in New York I get up early and I have a whole schedule. I’m going to see this play, I’m going to have lunch, I’m going to see a movie. I like the energy. Whenever I come back home, I look forward to going back to New York—I love the big stores, I love everything.” He said he had the time of his life in New York filming (the flop movie) The Wiz, and now, what he really wanted to do, more than anything, was make more movies. “I can go on tour and it’s exciting, but when it’s done, it’ll be lost to the world. If I do a movie, it’s a moment captured for eternity. The stars die—like Charlie Chaplin—but his films will be here forever. If he did Broadway and plays while he was alive, he would have been lost to the world.” I asked him about working with Diana Ross—who he adored—in The Wiz. Michael said, “It was incredible. I learned so much from her. We’re like brother and sister. She made sure I was okay on the set; she was very protective. I just loved the world of movie making; I love it more than reality. Sometimes I just wish I could wake up in the morning to a big production dance number.”

  *

  In 1979, after he recorded his smash solo album Off the Wall, he talked about his producer Quincy Jones. He said that Quincy had worked with all the greats—Billie Holiday, Dinah Washington—and, he said “I wanted to watch and learn from a giant. I wanted an album that wouldn’t just consist of one kind of music, because I love all kinds of music. I don’t like to label music. It’s like saying this child is white, this child is black, this child is Japanese—but they’re all children. It reminds me of prejudice. If somebody has a wonderful song that’s right for me, I’d love to do it. That’s what I enjoy most about doing solo albums. With the Jacksons, we were just doing our own thing in our little private world. That’s why I didn’t want the Jacksons to produce my album. I don’t want the same sound. Mine is different.”

  • • •

  Michael and I talked a lot about television, which he referred to as “the biggest audience in the world.” In 1969, Diana Ross had “presented” the Jackson Five on the Ed Sullivan show and was forever incorrectly credited with discovering them. But Suzanne de Passe, who was in charge of artist relations at Motown, brought the Jackson Five to Berry Gordy. Suzanne, a friend of mine, told me that in 1983, when she and Berry Gordy wanted Michael to perform on the Motown 25 TV special, which she produced, the negotiations were intense. Agent Michael Ovitz—who, at
that time, reportedly “ran” Hollywood—was involved. He sat at the head of the table during the negotiations, but had to leave the meeting early to go and see Barbra Streisand or someone. Michael felt disrespected and he cried. He wouldn’t perform with his brothers on the show unless he was given a solo spot. At first, he refused to allow them to film the number. Then, he insisted on creative control of the final edit. Berry Gordy had to go to the studio where Michael was recording to ask him to do it to get him to do it. Of course, Michael’s astonishing solo performance of “Billie Jean” on that show—with the hat and the glove and the moonwalk—sent him into the stratosphere. It was one of those landmark showbiz performances that put him in a category he could never top, and quite possibly, from which he would ultimately never recover.

  *

  Suzanne de Passe worked as a vice president at Motown, co-wrote the screenplay for Lady Sings the Blues, and produced the Motown 25 special as well as numerous other TV shows. She recalled the first time she saw the Jackson Five in 1968. “I was in my apartment at 1300 East Lafayette Street in Detroit, where many of the Motown artists lived,” she said. “I was home one afternoon and [musician] Bobby Taylor called up and asked if I would come down to his apartment. He said he wanted me to see something, and I said no. I wasn’t about to go to some man’s apartment. But he said come on, so I did, and he opened the door and there were all these kids sort of strewn across his living room. He clapped his hands and went, ‘OK everybody, this is Suzanne de Passe and she works for Berry Gordy and you need to sing for her because she can get you the audition.’ So they snapped to—they had their drummer and keyboard player with them—they sang, and I was blown away. Bobby had seen them at the Apollo, possibly on Amateur Night, and had convinced Joseph [Jackson] that if he drove to Detroit, he would get them an audition with Motown. I was wowed. So the next day, I told Mr. Gordy on the phone what I’d seen, and I said, ‘I think you should sign these kids.’ And he said, ‘Kids? I don’t want any kids. You know how much trouble it is with Stevie Wonder and the teachers, and when you’re a minor you have to have a special chaperone and court approval of the contract, and it is a problem.’ He said no. I had to really muster up all my courage and go back to him and say, ‘Really, I don’t think you can afford not to see these kids.’ Finally he agreed to see them.” According to Berry Gordy, who I’ve talked to at length about Motown, “When I first met with Michael, I thought he was a little Frankie Lymon kind of guy. Suzanne brought them to me, and it’s true, I didn’t want any kids. Stevie Wonder had five people with him, a tutor and this and that . . . but [when] they came in, I had a new video camera, and I said this is special, we should capture this.” He also told me, “It hurt when they left Motown—Diana, Marvin, Michael. I look unhappy on Motown 25, because my company was losing millions of dollars.”