by Tavis Smiley
He yearns for that nurse.
16
Wordless
Michael loves the high Elizabethan language of Shakespeare. He has seen the plays and films about Hamlet and Lear and Macbeth. He appreciates these characters’ complexity. But sometimes language, especially the loftiest, taxes his mind. Sometimes he wishes to avoid even simple song lyrics. Sometimes he wants to lose himself in wordless music.
At the start of May of 2009, Kai Chase, the chef who had been told she would accompany the family to London, is dismissed by Michael’s assistant, Michael Amir. No reason is given. Michael is preoccupied with the upcoming shows. He knows he has less than ten short weeks to prepare for the London opening. He knows he needs to be more conscientious. Having missed many rehearsals and meetings, he also knows that without his hands-on participation, the shows will suffer. At the same time, he knows himself. He requires relaxation. He must resist the pressure to work night and day. He must not become obsessed. His fatherly duties come first. He must respect his peace of mind by protecting his tranquility. Mental tranquility is everything. Without it, he’ll crumble. With it, he’ll soar. Michael has every intention of soaring.
To maintain emotional balance, he has decided to turn his attention, at least for now, to the suite of classical music he has been composing for well over a year. Today he is meeting an orchestrator.
Composer-conductor David Michael Frank arrives at the Carolwood estate not knowing what to expect. When Michael appears dressed in black, Frank is cautious about shaking his hand. He has heard that Michael is germophobic. But there’s no hesitancy on Michael’s part. His handshake is robust. To Frank’s eyes, the singer appears thin but fit.
Michael recognizes Frank from when they worked together on a TV tribute to Sammy Davis Jr. at the Shrine Auditorium in the winter of 1989. Michael sang a song of heartfelt appreciation, “You Were There,” to the ailing entertainer, who would die a few months later.
Frank listens as Michael explains that he’s simultaneously working on three projects: the tour, new pop songs, and an album of classical music. It’s the classical music that requires Frank’s help.
Before they get to work, Michael wants to discuss music. Frank senses that the singer is hungry for intellectual dialogue. Michael mentions his love of Aaron Copland’s compositions, especially Rodeo, Fanfare for the Common Man, and Lincoln Portrait. He also mentions the music written by Leonard Bernstein for the film version of West Side Story. Frank wonders if Michael also knows Bernstein’s score for On the Waterfront. Michael does. A friend of the film’s star, Marlon Brando, Michael has watched the movie several times.
The talk turns from Leonard to Elmer Bernstein. The minute Frank names The Magnificent Seven his favorite Elmer score, Michael starts singing the theme. As the music talk continues, Prince and Paris wander in and out of the room. Exhortations of “I love you, Daddy,” “I love you, Paris,” “I love you, Prince” reverberate.
Paris finds her father a CD player so Frank can hear Michael’s work in progress. The instrumental music is ethereal and highly melodic. Michael explains that he needs Frank’s help with some incomplete sections.
They move from the main house to the pool house, where a piano is situated. As Frank sits at the keyboard, Michael hums one of the missing sections. Frank provides the harmonic structure under Michael’s melody.
“Your instincts are totally right about the chords,” Michael tells Frank.
Frank is impressed with Michael’s perfect pitch. For several minutes, the two musicians weave together their constructions, all the while capturing the sounds on Frank’s digital tape recorder. Each piece is from seven to ten minutes long. To Frank’s ears, one suggests an Irish origin; another has the feeling of John Barry’s score for Out of Africa. Each bears the mark of a mature composer.
Michael is delighted with Frank’s suggestions for bringing the music to fruition: the use of Celtic harps, the orchestration of a full string ensemble, the establishment of Michael’s melodies against countermelodies.
Before the session is over, Michael again stresses how these compositions are close to his heart. It is his lifelong wish to write beyond the categories in which he has previously worked.
Michael walks Frank to the door and thanks him for his time. He assures Frank that their writing sessions will continue. Meanwhile, Frank will begin writing arrangements and suggests that they set up a recording date at one of the big movie studios. Would Michael have someone call about arranging a budget? Michael readily agrees.
A few weeks later, Michael calls Frank to ask if he’s making progress. Frank says that he is, but he still hasn’t heard from anyone in Michael’s camp. Michael reassures him that someone will be in touch. He reasserts his wish that this new music be as beautiful as Debussy’s Arabesque no. 1, a piece he has committed to memory. He also mentions a jazz composition he has recently completed.
Given Michael’s hectic rehearsal schedule, Frank suggests that they record these pieces in London when the This Is It shows are over. Michael concurs.
The idea lingers in Michael’s mind. It isn’t merely that he seeks recognition beyond his role as pop star. Classical and jazz melodies have been haunting him for years. He cannot escape their lure. Music does not simply amuse or divert Michael; it pursues him. The motifs preoccupying his mind have been there since he was a child. The preoccupation can be a source of pleasure or exasperation, depending upon the theme. If Michael feels victimized, for example, his method is to extricate himself through song. Take “D.S.,” the song from HIStory that attacks Tom Sneddon, the Santa Barbara district attorney who for twelve years unsuccessfully struggled to take Michael down. Written after the initial accusations in 1993 but before the trial in 2005, “D.S.” is Michael’s method of purging his rage. Sneddon, fictionalized as “Dom Sheldon,” is characterized as a “cold man.” Michael imagines D.S. in cahoots with the CIA and the KKK, an insanely zealous prosecutor who will go to any length to get his man, dead or alive. On this track, a restrained rhythm and blues guitarist will not do. Michael employs Slash, the gunslinger guitarist from Guns N’ Roses, to decapitate his opponent.
Michael’s only effective weapon is his music. He is not a forceful speaker or a convincing polemicist. In Live from Neverland Valley, his famous 1993 television appearance, he explained his recent rehab for pain pill addiction and the “horrifying experience” of being scandalized by the “incredible, terrible mass media” for publicizing the false allegations against him. At the start, he said that “I am doing well and I am strong,” but the sight of Michael—seated before the camera in an open-collar red shirt, his hair askew, his face a whiter shade of pale—was hardly reassuring. His testimony felt forced and overwrought. Watching him, one had the feeling that he’d have been far more convincing had he sung a song about his predicament.
The songs of his innocence—“Childhood,” for instance, which like “D.S.” is from HIStory—perhaps do far more to win us over than any prepared statements. And, while Michael is not the author of “Man in the Mirror,” when he performs that song, we believe that he is genuinely self-reflective and self-critical.
Self-consciousness, though, never impedes Michael’s creative process. As a pure artist, he is possessed. He has no choice but to express the sounds inside his head. He must write. During his darkest days—alone in Moscow, exiled in Arabia, isolated in Ireland—music is always his way out. The music never stops. And if now, in the spring of 2009, music is renewing his spirit, he is doubly grateful for the fact that the music has assumed a wordless shape. He has lived through enough stories. In his songs he has told enough tales. He is delighted to be composing motifs free of narrative form. His classical and jazz pieces are about feelings unrelated to events. They are about pure joy, an emotional state that has long eluded him. To remain in this state is Michael’s purpose in connecting with David Michael Frank. When Frank says that when they record he will be using a baton that once belonged to Leonard Bernstein, Micha
el, who once met the late maestro, is thrilled.
If there was only a way to forgo the impending series of shows and devote himself entirely to making music without considering the marketplace! No thought of sales! No worries about breaking records! No anxiety about being considered irrelevant and out of fashion!
Yet anxiety follows Michael like a recurring ailment for which there seems to be no cure. Anxiety about the heavy schedule of rehearsals. Anxiety about the upcoming dates. Anxiety about the way he feels and the way he looks.
For these all-important dates—these super-critical comeback concerts—he must look better than at any time in his life. That’s why the Botox treatments are so crucial. Botox will erase any trace of aging, mask any imperfections, and give him the confidence to reintroduce himself to his army of fans. Botox will also keep him from being soaked in sweat after each dance number. He can’t stop getting Botox.
On Monday, May 4, and Tuesday, May 5, he goes back to Dr. Arnold Klein’s office for more dermatological treatments and more Demerol—three hundred milligrams each day—to dull the pain. On Wednesday, May 6, the Demerol is reduced to two hundred milligrams. For eight weeks, since March 12, Michael has been injected with heavy-duty Botox and Botox-related medicines; it is also for eight weeks that he has been fed a steady diet of extraordinarily high doses of Demerol.
If his mind was clearer, perhaps he could work with David Michael Frank again. If his mind was clearer, perhaps he could begin attending rehearsals more consistently. If his mind was clearer, perhaps he could meet with management to make certain that his interests were being protected.
Instead, after these long and exhausting treatments at Klein’s office, his energy is sapped. It’s enough to go home and be with the kids. Enough to insulate himself in the cocoon of the Carolwood estate. Enough to select a film with the charm to captivate his heart and soul, a film with the power to turn his mind from his own problems to the problems of a fictional character, a character whom he can shower with love and affection.
One such character is Antoine Doinel, hero of François Truffaut’s 1959 classic, The 400 Blows, an autobiographical treatment of the director’s troubled childhood. Michael counts it among his favorite films. He returns to it in the privacy of the lush screening room, with the knowledge that it will comfort him. Comfort comes in the form of Truffaut’s extraordinary empathy for children. Like the director himself, Michael feels deeply for Antoine, with his inability to adjust to a life controlled by callous adults: uncaring teachers, insensitive parents, apathetic neighbors. Michael identifies with the desperate loneliness that sits at the heart of Truffaut’s central character. As a child commanded by his father, surrounded by his brothers, and adored by his fans, Michael nonetheless felt isolated and misunderstood. Like Antoine Doinel, he walked through the world as an alien.
Even today he feels suffocated by an odd sense of estrangement. He wants to reengage with the world. That’s what this upcoming series of shows is all about. He wants to reengage with his family and fans. But he also fears the consequences of doing so, of falling back into the vortex of hyperactivity—the concerts, the praise, the attacks, the ungodly amount of scrutiny—that alienates him from normal life.
So he clings to his children. He withdraws into the absolute closest unit—his own nuclear family of four—hoping that, inspired by films like The 400 Blows, he will find the strength to venture back out and reassert his autobiographical art, his release from the pressures that continue to make his inability to sleep a diurnal nightmare.
17
Vulnerable Today, Ruthless Tomorrow
By the end of the first week of May of 2009, Michael faces two grim developments.
His former manager Raymone Bain, who also served as his public relations liaison during the 2005 trial, files a suit against him in Washington, DC, for $44 million. Bain managed Michael in 2006 and 2007. It was she who initially introduced him to AEG, although at the time of that first meeting with the company’s Randy Phillips—early 2007—Michael expressed no interest in touring. Now that Michael has agreed to perform, Bain is demanding 10 percent of the AEG deal.
Another lawsuit is brought, this one from actress Ola Ray, who appeared as Michael’s love interest in the video for “Thriller.” Ray is contending that she is owed royalties from that video. Earlier in 2009, John Landis, the video’s director and cowriter, also sued Michael for back royalties.
Meanwhile, of all those managers courting Michael, Frank Dileo, with his wily strategy, has been most effective. After Leonard Rowe—and his hookup with Patrick Allocco, who was behind AllGood Entertainment’s Jacksons reunion concert—reestablished a close rapport with Joseph and Katherine and subsequently Michael, Dileo courted Rowe and Allocco in opposing AEG. He further aligned himself with Michael’s parents in their opposition to Tohme Tohme. But when it looked as though the AEG O2 concert contract was a lock and Michael had no interest in the reunion date, Dileo switched sides, dropping Rowe/Allocco and assuring AEG that he and he alone had Michael’s ear. It wasn’t long before Dileo was working out of the AEG office.
Because Dileo knows the artist so well, he is especially sensitive to those times when Michael cannot focus on managerial matters. That’s when he moves in. Early May is such a time. Michael’s passivity—or exhaustion—creates a space that Dileo quickly occupies.
“Frank Dileo was a great operator,” said Walter Yetnikoff, his former boss, in 2014. “Michael recognized Frank’s ability to get things done. If Frank was ruthless—as any good showbiz manager needs to be—well, hell, so much the better. Michael has a ruthless streak himself.”
“Michael is the kind of guy who’s absolutely vulnerable today and ruthless tomorrow,” claimed Greg Phillinganes, the brilliant pianist-composer-arranger who worked on many of Michael’s major projects. “I don’t mean that he’s hypocritical—he’s not. He simply has these two sides to him. His ultrasensitivity is real. He’s not simply sensitive to himself, but to others. I remember when he first began approaching me to tour with him. It was while we were in the studio recording Bad. In that sweet high-pitched voice of his, he’d walk by my keyboards and say, ‘Hey, Greg, you like performing live, don’t you?’ I’d say, ‘Yes,’ and then he’d move on. Next day he might say, ‘Hey, Greg, I hear you like touring. Is that right?’ ‘Sure,’ I’d respond. But then another two or three weeks would go by before he’d actually come out and ask me to join his upcoming tour. Eventually, when he asked me to be his musical director, it was with that same tentative tone. I interpreted it two ways. First, he sincerely didn’t want to impose upon my professional life. He wanted to make sure touring was something I genuinely wanted. And secondly, I believe he spoke so tentatively because he didn’t want to be rejected. To avoid hearing me say no, he made it easy for me to avoid committing.
“I’ve always thought his ruthless side came out in the famous story about him and Paul McCartney. One day he’s hanging out with Paul, who’s taking him under his wing and schooling him about the great value of music publishing. And then, like lightning, Michael has struck a deal to buy the Beatles’ catalog, much to Paul’s chagrin.
“On a much smaller scale, I got a taste of Michael’s methodology when he called me to write with him. This was at the end of the seventies, during the Off the Wall sessions. I went to the small studio he had on Hayvenhurst, when he was still living with his parents. He said, ‘I have this song, but it’s missing a part.’ The song turned out to be ‘Don’t Stop ’Til You Get Enough.’ I wrote the part quickly. Michael loved what I’d done and said that it pulled the whole song together. Silently, I tried to figure out what percentage of the song I had just written. Perhaps a third. But I didn’t want to sound greedy, so when Michael asked me what my contribution might be worth, I said, ‘Ten percent.’ He agreed. For weeks afterward, I was walking on air. I had collaborated with Michael Jackson!
“Before the record came out, though, I got a call from Michael’s manager. ‘In reviewing that song,�
� he said, ‘Michael has concluded that you really didn’t write anything, but rather, you merely helped him arrange it. Therefore, there’s no writing credit and no royalties.’ You can imagine how I was crushed. I thought of going directly to Michael, but I didn’t. Michael hates confrontations and I couldn’t see myself cornering him.
“The only other time I wished I had spoken directly to Michael was during the Dangerous tour. We were in Dublin, on our way to London, and I was unhappy with the music. It wasn’t up to par. The concerts were raggedy. That may be because Michael was struggling with his demons and had problems focusing. Because I loved Michael and really cared about his show, I wanted to speak to him. I wanted to tell him how critical it was to tighten up the presentation. I pressed security to get me a meeting. They promised that they’d get Michael on the phone and had me wait in my hotel room. The call never came. Later, I learned Michael was out shopping for toys. I dragged myself through several more shows, including Bucharest and Tokyo, but I was drained. Michael had insulated himself from me, his own musical director. My spirit was depleted and I never toured with him again.”
On May 8, 2009, Michael’s spirit may be revived by the fact that, at long last, AEG has formally agreed to hire Dr. Conrad Murray as his personal doctor. Michael is comforted by the fact that Murray has begun to spend the night at the Carolwood estate. Unlike registered nurse Cherilyn Lee, Murray is willing to administer propofol. In fact, Murray will soon place his third order for the drug, along with several benzodiazepine medicines, with a pharmacy service in Las Vegas.
The absence of an anesthesiologist does not deter either Michael or Murray. They have never reconnected with Dr. David Adams, the anesthesiologist they met in Vegas, either because he was too expensive or because they have decided he isn’t necessary.
