MJ (18 page)

Casper and Cooley aren’t sure how their dance clip came to Michael Jackson’s attention, but they suspect he watched the show as it aired—it was his song, after all. Some of those moves, particularly the pelvic thrusts and sideways motions that make dancers’ legs look like rubber bands, had already landed in the “Beat It” video. As he was preparing for
his
Motown 25
performance, Michael asked one of his managers to track down the duo. Jaxson, auditioning for
Sesame Street Live
in San Francisco, flew to Los Angeles, where he met Candidate at a large rehearsal space. A boom box sat on the floor. Michael introduced himself. They talked for five hours. All he wanted to talk about was the backslide.
“Where did it come from?” he kept asking. “Where did it start?”

They taught him the move. Unsurprisingly, MJ picked it up quickly. But he didn’t think he did. “I can’t feel it!” he kept saying.

“I understood that at the time,” Cooley recalls. “It’s more of a mime type of feel. Like you’re making a box, but you’re not making a box. If you’re doing it, it looks like you’re gliding.”

Cooley has spent much of his career giving credit to others for the backslide—Bill Bailey, James Brown, Shields and Yarnell. What frustrates him, years later, is that Jackson wasn’t similarly aggressive about giving credit to his forebears. In
Moonwalk
, Michael refers to the move as
“a break-dance step, a ‘popping’ type of thing that black kids had created dancing on street corners in the ghetto.”
“We kind of ended up being invisible,” says Cooley, now in his early fifties. “But we never said anything about it.”

The night before the taping of
Motown 25: Yesterday, Today, Forever
, MJ
rehearsed at Hayvenhurst. Katherine and La Toya were accustomed to Michael practicing every Saturday and Sunday in a room above the garage.
“I’m sure he was doing the moonwalk up there, but we never knew it,” Katherine said. In the kitchen, he played “Billie Jean.”
“I pretty much stood there and let the song tell me what to do,” he recalled. “I kind of let the dance create itself. I really let it
talk
to me; I heard the beat come in, and I took this spy’s hat and started to pose and step, letting the ‘Billie Jean’ rhythm create the movements. I felt almost compelled to let it create itself. I couldn’t help it.” Michael obviously had been thinking about 1974’s
The Little Prince
, in which a grown man befriends a magical young boy in a double-breasted peacoat. The great choreographer Bob Fosse shows up as a snake, modeling a half-dozen poses, gestures, and struts MJ would use for years, in the moonwalk and beyond.

Having secured the talent, de Passe and Gordy were able to make a
Motown 25
deal with NBC. They booked the Pasadena Civic Auditorium on March 25, 1983. During rehearsals, thirty-eight-year-old Diana Ross showed up in a long, white mink coat, Courvoisier in hand, worrying Gordy and de Passe by declaring she had the stomach flu. But the night of the show, she emerged from her limo glamorous as ever, mugging for photographers. Because the producers wanted young, new talent in the show, they hired British MTV star
Adam Ant to perform “Where Did Our Love Go?” in awkward new-wave makeup and what appeared to be a Revolutionary War costume.
“Now what
Adams Ant
had to do with Motown, you tell me. I have no idea,” says veteran Motown singer and songwriter Valerie Simpson, upset to this day that a songwriter segment she’d hosted was cut from the program. Ant, though, was intertwined with Motown history. Gordy had once tried to sign him, which led to his
spending the day with Michael Jackson and his family at their house on Hayvenhurst. Later, Michael called about the distinctive brocade jacket Ant had worn in the “Kings of the Wild Frontier” video. Ant put MJ in touch with his supplier, and the next thing he knew, Michael was wearing military jackets everywhere. Watching Michael on
Motown 25
, Ant’s concern was simply, “How the fuck do you follow that?” Says Ant: “It was like the Beatles on
Ed Sullivan
, that’s what it was.”

Michael Jackson and his brothers had taken the stage for the
Motown 25
taping in a conquering mood. Jackie wore a bright-green glittery open-collar shirt and black leather pants. Marlon was in a
Sgt. Pepper
–style topcoat; as a dancer, he had always fed off Michael, but this time he and Jackie came out as dueling dervishes. Jermaine returned to the band and provided an emotional boost. Michael, in particular, seemed moved to have him back. (None of the Jacksons had live microphones except Michael, so when Jermaine sang his bit in “I’ll Be There,” Michael walked over to share his mike with his brother, and they embraced; it was a beautiful moment of both reclaimed family unity and practiced showbiz.) It was the first time since Vegas that all the Jackson brothers
were onstage together, a fact not lost on Michael, who couldn’t contain himself when his younger brother, the newest member of the family group, came bounding onstage. “Randy!” he shouted.

Michael ran through “I Want You Back,” “Never Can Say Goodbye,” and “I’ll Be There” exactly as he’d done for fourteen straight years. The Jackson 5 had always exuded an element of contained chaos—Michael had to keep his talent from spilling onto the stage in order to preserve his role within the group. He strutted and stepped in unison with his brothers, sporadically popping in front of them, spinning and crooning. The audience, both that night at the auditorium and a month later, when the show aired on NBC, had every reason to believe this performance would be the show’s emotional peak.

Neither the viewers nor the Jackson brothers knew his costume throughout the reunion medley—
black jacket covered in sequins (borrowed from his mother), silver lamé shirt, black trousers with high cuffs, white socks, Fred Astaire–style loafers, a white glove on his left hand containing
1,200 rhinestones sewn by hand, and a curly-mullet hairstyle matching the cover of
Thriller
—was designed not for sentimentality but action. After finishing their Motown medley, the brothers bounded offstage, proud, hugging each other, sipping generously, as always, from the crowd’s adoration. Then Michael delivered a
speech by
Motown 25
scriptwriter Buz Kohan. “Yeah,” Michael said, as the applause died down. “Aw. You’re beautiful.”

The moment begins to resemble the color seeping into
The Wizard of Oz
—out of the past, into the present. “Yeah,” Michael says again. “I have to say, those were the good old days.” He speaks in short, declaratory sentences, breathing hard. “I love those songs,” he says. “Those were magic moments. All my brothers. Including Jermaine. Those were good songs. I like those songs a lot.” Then his tone changes, and Michael looks directly into the camera—he’s Elvis Presley, aware of his power. “But especially, I like . . .” Somebody in the audience, a kid or a woman, audibly spoils the suspense: “
Billie Jean!
” Michael doesn’t care. He raises his right eyebrow. He’s staring
straight ahead but not at anything, looking beyond the crowd—“. . . the
new
songs.”

Music history remembers this speech the way it remembers the throwaway lines Presley, in the studio with his band, delivered in 1954. After halting the bluegrass ballad “Milkcow Blues Boogie,” Elvis declared, “Hold it, fellas. That don’t
move
me. Let’s get real,
real
gone for a change.” The resulting fast-paced version of “Milkcow” wasn’t technically the birth of rock ’n’ roll, but listening today, it feels like it. The moment echoed Benny Goodman, onstage in 1935 at Hollywood’s Palomar ballroom, initially leading his orchestra in super-slow dinner-party music. When nobody paid attention, he reversed course with Fletcher Henderson’s jumping arrangement for “King Porter Stomp.” A dance-floor riot ensued and the big-band swing era was born.

Michael reaches down for his black fedora, which resembles the bowler Bob Fosse wore in
The Little Prince
. His longtime assistant, Nelson P. Hayes, had placed it there while the camera had been focused elsewhere.
“He must have made me rehearse that spot twenty times just to make sure that hat was going to be there, where it was supposed to be,” Hayes recalls. It’s dawning on the old Motown pros gathered at the auditorium just how meticulously Michael had choreographed this moment.

Drums:
Bum-
bap,
bum-
bap,
bum-
bap.
Michael twirls to the left. He’s posing, hat upside-down in his right hand. He plops the hat on his head.
Bass
. Michael thrusts his crotch forward, again and again, then kicks his right leg so it’s almost horizontal. For the next six seconds, his movements are so quick and fluid and connected that it’s almost impossible to deconstruct and identify them. Michael splays his legs. He does more kicks. He holds a pose, then another in the reverse direction. He waves his hat to the right, but it’s a basketball head fake, and instead he tosses it offstage to the left. He claps. He tap-dances, glides a little.
Synths.
Two more thrusts of the crotch, then a hair-combing motion—the suggestion of a rockabilly greaser. At this time, Fred Astaire and Gene Kelly are old men, and “The Band Wagon” and “Singin’ in the
Rain” seem hopelessly out of fashion in the rock era. Michael is bringing them back—the elegance, the dance tricks that seem like magic. Michael concentrates their moves into tantalizing bursts.

As Michael mouths the first line of “Billie Jean”—“She was more like a beauty queen”—his feet are unable to stop, bouncing left and right. Finally he settles down, eyes closed, concentrating into the microphone, tapping his left foot to the beat. He punctuates certain lines—“she caused a SCENE”—with high kicks, nearly parallel to the floor. Every moment is more intriguing than the next—he plants his foot to spin in a tight circle like he did with the Jackson 5, then holds his fists to his face, as if pleading, like James Brown, before hiking up his pants to display his white socks. For a moment, the camera catches a glimpse of the audience, unusually racially diverse for a concert hall in 1983, blacks and whites clapping together in tuxedos and gowns. The “Billie Jean” guitar solo arrives and recedes.

Finally, as Michael executes the moonwalk, formerly known as the backslide, formerly a dance belonging to the Electric Boogaloos, Cab Calloway, James Brown, Damita Jo Freeman, Casper and Cooley, Jeffrey Daniel, Mr. Bojangles, Bob Fosse, Marcel Marceau, and Shields and Yarnell, a sort of screech erupts from the crowd. “During rehearsals, he never did
that
. Only when he did the show,” recalls Russ Terrana, who as Motown’s veteran chief recording engineer was outside in the sound truck, taping
Motown 25
for posterity.
“My crew just went, ‘What the hell was that?’ You could hear the audience going, ‘
Awwww-awwwww!
’ ”

Another leg kick, another whoop, another pose on the toes, two more spins, another brief glimpse of the moonwalk, and Michael is done. Is something different about his nose? It looks sculpted, precise, fussy, with thin little nostrils, not big and bold like it used to be. If anybody lingers over this detail, it is lost, for now, in the bigger story about the moonwalk. He bows and he is off. His brothers, mouths open in the wings throughout the performance, recover enough to slap Michael on the back when he returns. Before long, all the Motown stars are
huddled around him.
“When everybody ran up to congratulate him, it was like he wasn’t there. He had an out-of-body experience or something,” Valerie Simpson recalls. “He couldn’t respond to anybody. He wasn’t back to himself yet. He couldn’t come down to where he had gone to deal with us. It was just very, very eerie.” Afterward, MJ would say he was preoccupied—he had meant to stay on his toes a few ticks longer during the performance, and he felt like he’d failed. Nobody else noticed.

The day after the show aired, on May 16, 1983, Michael Jackson received a call from
Fred Astaire. (
“Oh, come on,” was Michael’s first reaction.) Astaire was eighty-four. He had filmed his final movie,
Ghost Story
, two years earlier.
“You’re a hell of a mover. Man, you really put them on their asses last night,” Fred Astaire told Michael Jackson. “You’re an angry dancer. I’m the same way. I used to do the same thing with my cane.” It remains a mystery exactly where the anger appears in Astaire’s elegant ballroom dancing—his persona in movies is bemused and easygoing—but “Billie Jean” was, in fact, an angry song, reflecting Michael’s feelings of fear and distrust for those around him. Michael was also angry at his father, who was still tomcatting around on Katherine and milking the family for cash.

“It was the greatest compliment I had ever received in my life,” Jackson would say of Astaire’s call, “and the only one I had ever wanted to believe.”

After Michael spoke with Fred on the phone, he went into the bathroom and threw up.

Another thing happened the day after NBC aired
Motown 25
.
“Our sales just exploded,” recalls Ron McCarrell, then Epic Records’ vice president of marketing. “It just kind of turned the turbo chargers on for that whole project. We shipped one million units a month for eighteen months. We were shipping ’em one way, and they weren’t bringing them back.” By the end of 1983,
Thriller
had sold
twenty-two million copies.

“The
Thriller
phenomenon was so overwhelming, probably more
than Beatlemania, more than Elvis,” says John Branca, Michael’s lawyer. “Studio heads, kings, queens—everybody wanted to get with Michael.” It would change the life of everybody who worked on it.

*  *  *

The ascent of
Thriller
brought out the ugliness in Joe Jackson. Michael’s managers, Weisner and DeMann, had been signed to one deal, and Joe had continued to manage him under a separate deal. In March 1983, two months before
Motown 25
aired, both deals expired. It was Michael who swung the ax. He remembered Weisner and DeMann predicting
Thriller
sales of a minuscule two million, when, after
Motown 25
, it was selling that amount every two weeks.
Weisner received a letter one day from a lawyer saying the Weisner-DeMann management deal was over.