加急！！求书〈MOOKWALKER〉！

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suppose I got my singing ability from my mother and, of course, from God.

Mom played the clarinet and the piano, which she taught my oldest sister,
Maureen, whom we call Rebbie, to play, just as she'd teach my other older
sister, LaToya. My mother knew, from an early age, that she would never
perform the music she loved in front of others, not because she didn't have
the talent and the ability, but because she was crippled by polio as a
child. She got over the disease, but not without a permanent limp in her
walk. She had to miss a great deal of school as a child, but she told us
that she was lucky to recover at a time when many died from the disease. I
remember how important it was to her that we got the sugar-cube vaccine. She
even made us miss a youth club show one Saturday afternoon - that's how
important it was in our family.

My mother knew her polio was not a curse but a test that God gave her to
triumph over, and she instilled in me a love of Him that I will always have.
She taught me that my talent for singing and dancing was as much God's work
as a beautiful sunset or a storm that left snow for children to play in.
Despite all the time we spent rehearsing and travelling, Mom would find time
to take me to the Kingdom Hall of the Jehovah's Witnesses, usually with
Rebbie and LaToya.

Years later, after we had left Gary, we performed on "The Ed Sullivan Show",
the live Sunday night variety show where America first saw the Beatles,
Elvis, and Sly and the Family Stone. After the show, Mr. Sullivan
complimented and thanked each of us; but I was thinking about what he had
said to me before the show. I had been wandering around backstage, like the
kid in the Pepsi commercial, and ran into Mr. Sullivan. He seemed glad to
see me and shook my hand, but before he let it go he had a special message
for me. It was 1970, a year when some of the best people in rock were losing
their lives to drugs and alcohol. An older, wiser generation in show
business was unprepared to lose its very young. Some people had already said
that I reminded them of Frankie Lymon, a great young singer of the 1950s who
lost his life that way. Ed Sullivan may have been thinking of all this when
he told me, "Never forget where your talent came from, that your talent is a
gift from God."

I was grateful for his kindness, but I could have told him that my mother
had never let me forget. I never had polio, which is a frightening thing for
a dancer to think about, but I knew God had tested me and my brothers and
sisters in other ways - our large family, our tiny house, the small amount
of money we had to make ends meet, even the jealous kids in the
neighbourhood who threw rocks at our windows while we rehearsed, yelling
that we'd never make it. When I think of my mother and our early years, I
can tell you there are rewards that go far beyond money and public acclaim
and awards.

My mother was a great provider. If she found out that one of us had an
interest in something, she would encourage it if there was any possible way.
If I developed an interest in movie stars, for instance, she'd come home
with an armful of books about famous stars. Even with nine children she
treated each of us like an only child. There isn't one of us who's ever
forgotten what a hard worker and great provider she was. It's an old story.
Every child thinks their mother is the greatest mother in the world, but we
Jacksons never lost that feeling. Because of Katherine's gentleness, warmth,
and attention, I can't imagine what it must be like to grow up without a
mother's love.

One thing I know about children is that if they don't get the love they need
from their parents, they'll get it from someone else and cling to that
person, a grandparent, anyone. We never had to look for anyone else with my
mother around. The lessons she taught us were invaluable. Kindness, love,
and consideration for other people headed her list. Don't hurt people. Never
beg. Never freeload. Those were sins at our house. She always wanted us to
give , but she never wanted us to ask or beg. That's the way she is.

I remember a good story about my mother that illustrates her nature. One
day, back in Gary, when I was real little, this man knocked on everybody's
door early in the morning. He was bleeding so badly you could see where he'd
been around the neighbourhood. No one would let him in. Finally he got to
our door and he started banging and knocking. Mother let him in at once.
Now, most people would have been too afraid to do that, but that's my
mother. I can remember waking up and finding blood on our floor. I wish we
could all be more like Mum.

The earliest memories I have of my father are of him coming home from the
steel mill with a big bag of glazed doughnuts for all of us. My brothers and
I could really eat back then and that bag would disappear with a snap of the
fingers. He used to take us all to the merry-go-round in the park, but I was
so young I don't remember that very well.

My father has always been something of a mystery to me and he knows it. One
of the few things I regret most is never being able to have a real closeness
with him. He built a shell around himself over the years and, once he
stopped talking about our family business, he found it hard to relate to us.
We'd all be together and he'd just leave the room. Even today it's hard for
him to touch on father and son stuff because he's too embarrassed. When I
see that he is, I become embarrassed, too.

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My father did always protect us and that's no small feat. He always tried to
make sure people didn't cheat us. He looked after our interests in the best
ways. He might have made a few mistakes along the way, but he always thought
he was doing what was right for his family. And, of course, most of what my
father helped us accomplish was wonderful and unique, especially in regard
to our relationships with companies and people in the business. I'd say we
were among a fortunate few artists who walked away from a childhood in the
business with anything substantial - money, real estate, other investments.
My father set all these up for us. He looked out for both our interests and
his. To this day I'm so thankful he didn't try to take all our money for
himself the way so many parents of child stars have. Imagine stealing from
your own children. My father never did anything like that. But I still don't
know him, and that's sad for a son who hungers to understand his own father.
He's still a mystery man to me and he may always be one.

What I got from my father wasn't necessarily God-given, though the Bible
says you reap what you sow. When we were coming along, Dad said that in a
different way, but the message was just as clear: You could have all the
talent in the world, but if you didn't prepare and plan, it wouldn't do you
any good.

Joe Jackson had always loved singing and music as much as my mother did, but
he also knew there was a world beyond Jackson Street. I wasn't old enough to
remember his band, the Falcons, but they came over to our house to rehearse
on weekends. The music took them away from their jobs at the steel mill,
where Dad drove a crane. The Falcons would play all over town, and in clubs
and colleges around northern Indiana and Chicago. At the rehearsals at our
house, Dad would bring his guitar out of the closet and plug it into the amp
he kept in the basement. He'd always loved rhythm and blues and that guitar
was his pride and joy. The closet where the guitar was kept was considered
an almost sacred place. Needless to say, it was off-limits to us kids. Dad
didn't go to Kingdom Hall with us, but both Mom and Dad knew that music was
a way of keeping our family together in a neighbourhood where gangs
recruited kids my brothers' ages. The three oldest boys would always have an
excuse to around when the Falcons came over. Dad let them think they were
being given a special treat by being allowed to listen, but he was actually
eager to have them there.

Tito watched everything that was going on with the greatest interest. He'd
taken saxophone in school, but he could tell his hands were big enough to
grab the chords and slip the riffs that my father played. It made sense that
he'd catch on, because Tito looked so much like my father that we all
expected him to share Dad's talents. The extent of the resemblance was scary
as he got older. Maybe my father noticed Tito's zeal because he laid down
rules for all my brothers: No one was to touch the guitar while he was out.
Period.

Therefore, Jackie, Tito, and Jermaine were careful to see that Mom was in
the kitchen when they "borrowed" the guitar. They were also careful not to
make any noise while removing it. They would then go back to our room and
put on the radio or the little portable record player so they could play
along. Tito would hoist the guitar onto his belly as he sat on the bed and
prop it up. He took turns with Jackie and Jermaine, and they'd all try the
scales they were learning in school as well as try to figure out how to get
the "Green Onions" part they'd hear on the radio.

By now I was old enough to sneak in and watch if I promised not to tell. One
day Mom finally caught them, and we were all worried. She scolded the boys,
but said she wouldn't tell Dad as long as we were careful. She knew that
guitar was keeping them from running with a bad crowd and maybe getting beat
up, so she wasn't about to take away anything that kept them within arm's
reach.

Of course, something had to give sooner or later, and one day a string
broke. My brothers panicked. There wasn't time to get it repaired before Dad
came home, and besides, none if us knew how to go about getting it fixed. My
brothers never figured out what to do, so they put the guitar back in the
closet and hoped fervently that my father would think it broke by itself. Of
course, Dad didn't buy that, and he was furious. My sisters told me to stay
out of it and keep a low profile. I heard Tito crying after Dad found out
and I went to investigate, of course. Tito was on his bed crying when Dad
came back and motioned for him to get up. Tito was scared, but my father
just stood there, holding his favourite guitar. He gave Tito a hard,

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penetrating look and said, "Let me see what you can do."

My brother pulled himself together and started to play a few runs he had
taught himself. When my father saw how well Tito could play, he knew he'd
obviously been practising and he realised that Tito and the rest of us
didn't treat his favourite guitar as if it were a toy. It became clear to
him that what had happened had been only an accident. At this point my
mother stepped in and voiced her enthusiasm for our musical ability. She
told him that we boys had talent and he should listen to us. She kept
pushing for us, so one day he began to listen and he liked what he heard.
Tito, Jackie, and Jermaine started rehearsing together in earnest. A couple
of years later, when I was about five, Mom pointed out to my father that I
was a good singer and could play the bongos. I became a member of the group.

About then my father decided that what was happening in his family was
serious. Gradually he began spending less time with the Falcons and more
with us. We'd just woodshed together and he'd give us some tips and teach us
techniques on the guitar. Marlon and I weren't old enough to play, but we'd
watch when my father rehearsed the older boys and we were learning when we
watched. The ban on using Dad's guitar still held when he wasn't around, but
my brothers loved using it when they could. The house on Jackson Street was
bursting with music. Dad and Mom had paid for music lessons for Rebbie and
Jackie when they were little kids, so they had a good background. The rest
of us had music class and band in the Gary schools, but no amount of
practice was enough to harness all that energy.

The Falcons were still earning money, however infrequent their gigs, and
that extra money was important to us. It was enough to keep food on the
table for a growing family but not enough to give us things that weren't
necessary. Mom was working part-time at Sears, Dad was still working the
mill job, and no one was going hungry, but I think, looking back, that
things must have seemed one big dead end.

One day Dad was late coming home and Mom began to get worried. By the time
he arrived, she was ready to give him a piece of her mind, something we boys
didn't mind witnessing once in a while just to see if he could take it like
he dished it out, but when he poked his head through the door, he had a
mischievous look on his face and he was hiding something behind his back. We
were all shocked when he produced a gleaming red guitar, slightly smaller
than the one in the closet. We were all hoping this meant we'd get the old
one. But Dad said the new guitar was Tito's. We gathered around to admire
it, while Dad told Tito he had to share it with anyone who would practice .
We were not to take it to school to show it off. This was a serious present
and that day was a momentous occasion for the Jackson family.

Mom was happy for us, but she also knew her husband. She was more aware than
we of the big ambitions and plans he had for us. He'd begun talking to her
at night after we kids were asleep. He had dreams and those dreams didn't
stop with one guitar. Pretty soon we were dealing with equipment, not just
gifts. Jermaine got a bass and an amp. There were shakers for Jackie. Our
bedroom and living room began to look like a music store. Sometimes I'd hear
Mom and Dad fight when the subject of money was brought up, because all
those instruments and accessories meant having to go without a little
something we needed each week. Dad was persuasive, though, and he didn't
miss a trick.

We even had microphones in the house. They seemed like a real luxury at the
time, especially to a woman who was trying to stretch a very small budget,
but I've come to realise that having those microphones in our house wasn't
just an attempt to keep up with the Joneses or anyone else in amateur night
competitions. They were there to help us prepare. I saw people at talent
shows, who probably sounded great at home, clam up the moment they got in
front of a microphone. Others started screaming their songs like they wanted
to prove they didn't need the mikes. They didn't have the advantage that we
did - an advantage that only experience can give you. I think it probably
made some people jealous because they could tell our expertise with the
mikes gave us an edge. If that was true, we made so many sacrifices - in
free time, schoolwork, and friends - that no one had the right to be
jealous. We were becoming very good, but we were working like people twice
our age.

While I was watching my older brothers, including Marlon on the bongo drums,
Dad got a couple of young guys named Johnny Jackson and Randy Rancifer to
play trap drums and organ. Motown would later claim they were our cousins,
but that was just an embellishment from the P.R. people, who wanted to make
us seem like one big family. We had become a real band! I was like a sponge,
watching everyone, and trying to learn everything I could. I was totally
absorbed when my brothers were rehearsing or playing at charity events or
shopping centres. I was most fascinated when watching Jermaine because he
was the singer at the time and he was a big brother to me - Marlon was too
close to me in age for that. It was Jermaine who would walk me to
kindergarten and whose clothes would be handed down to me. When he did
something, I tried to imitate him. When I was successful at it, my brothers
and Dad would laugh, but when I began singing, they listened. I was singing
in a baby voice then and just imitating sounds. I was so young I didn't know
what many of the words meant, but the more I sang, the better I got.

I always knew how to dance. I would watch Marlon's moves because Jermaine
had the big bass to carry, but also because I could keep up with Marlon, who
was only a year older then me. Soon I was doing most of the singing at home
and preparing to join my brothers in public. Through our rehearsals, we were
all becoming aware of our particular strengths and weaknesses as members of
the group and the shift in responsibilities was happening naturally.

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Our family's house in Gary was tiny, only three rooms really, but at the
time it seemed much larger to me. When you're that young, the whole world
seems so huge that a little room can seem four times its size. When we went
back to Gary years later, we were all surprised at how tiny that house was.
I had remembered it as being large, but you could take five steps from the
front door and you'd be out the back. It was really no bigger then a garage,
but when we lived there it seemed fine to us kids. You see things from such
a different perspective when you're young. Our school days in Gary are a
blur for me. I vaguely remember being dropped off in front of my school on
the first day of kindergarten, and I clearly remember hating it. I didn't
want my mother to leave me, naturally, and I didn't want to be there.

In time I adjusted, as all kids do, and I grew to love my teachers,
especially the women. They were always very sweet to us and they just loved
me. Those teachers were so wonderful; I'd be promoted from one grade to the
next and they'd all cry and hug me and tell me how much they hated to see me
leave their classes. I was so crazy about my teachers that I'd steal my
mother's jewellery and give it to them as presents. They'd be very touched,
but eventually my mother found out about it, and put an end to my generosity
with her things. That urge that I had to give them something in return for
all I was receiving was a measure of how much I loved them at that school.

One day, in the first grade, I participated in a program that was put on
before the whole school. Everyone of us in each class had to do something,
so I went home and discussed it with my parents. We decided I should wear
black pants and a white shirt and sing "Climb Ev'ry Mountain" from The Sound
of Music . When I finished that song, the reaction in the auditorium
overwhelmed me. The applause was thunderous and people were smiling; some of
them were standing. My teachers were crying and I just couldn't believe it.
I had made them all happy. It was such a great feeling. I felt a little
confused too, because I didn't do anything special. I was just singing the
way I sang at home every night. When you're performing, you don't realise
what you sound like or how you're coming across. You just open your mouth
and sing.

Soon Dad was grooming us for talent contests. He was a great trainer, and he
spent a lot of money and time working with us. Talent is something that God
gives to a performer, but our father taught us how to cultivate it. I think
we also had a certain instinct for show business. We loved to perform and we
put everything we had into it. He's sit at home with us every day after
school and rehearse us. We'd perform for him and he'd critique us. If you
messed up, you got hit, sometimes with a belt, sometimes with a switch. My
father was real strict with us - real strict. Marlon was the one who got in
trouble all the time. On the other hand, I'd get beaten for things that
happened mostly outside rehearsal. Dad would make me so mad and hurt that
I'd try to get back at him and get beaten all the more. I'd take a shoe and
throw it at him, or I'd just fight back, swinging my fists. That's why I got
it more than all my brothers combined. I would fight back and my father
would kill me, just tear me up. Mother told me I'd fight back even when I
was very little, but I don't remember that. I do remember running under
tables to get away from him, and making him angrier. We had a turbulent
relationship.

Most of the time, however, we just rehearsed. We always rehearsed.
Sometimes, late at night, we'd have time to play games or with our toys.
There might be a game of hide-and-go-seek or we'd jump rope, but that was
about it. The majority of our time was spent working. I clearly remember
running into the house with my brothers when my father came home, because
we'd be in big trouble if we weren't ready to start rehearsals on time.

Through all this, my mother was completely supportive. She had been the one
who first recognised our talent and she continued to help us realise our
potential. It's hard to imagine that we would have gotten where we did
without her love and good humour. She worried about the stress we were under
and the long hours of rehearsal, but we wanted to be the best we could be
and we really loved music.

Music was important in Gary. We had our own radio stations and nightclubs,

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and there was no shortage of people who wanted to be on them. After Dad ran
our Saturday afternoon rehearsals, he'd go see a local show or even drive
all the way to Chicago to see someone perform. He was always watching for
things that could help us down the road. He'd come home and tell us what
he'd seen and who was doing what. He kept up on all the latest stuff,
whether it was a local theatre that ran contests we could enter or a
Cavalcade of Stars show with great acts whose clothes or moves we might
adapt. Sometimes I wouldn't see Dad until I got back from Kingdom Hall on
Sundays, but as soon as I ran into the house he'd be telling me what he'd
seen the night before. He'd assure me I could dance on one leg like James
Brown if I'd only try this step. There I'd be, fresh out of church, and back
in show business.

We started collecting trophies with our act when I was six. Our lineup was
set; the group featured me at second from the left, and Jackie on my right.
Tito and his guitar took stage right, with Marlon next to him. Jackie was
getting tall and he towered over Marlon and me. We kept that setup for
contest after contest and it worked well. While other groups we'd meet would
fight among themselves and quit, we were becoming more polished and
experienced. The people in Gary who came regularly to see the talent shows
got to know us, so we would try to top ourselves and surprise them. We
didn't want them to begin to feel bored by our act. We knew change was
always good, that it helped us grow, so we were never afraid of it.

Winning an amateur night or talent show in a ten-minute, two-song set took
as much energy as a ninety-minute concert. I'm convinced that because
there's no room for mistakes, your concentration burns you up inside more on
one or two songs than it does when you have the luxury of twelve or fifteen
in a set. These talent shows were our professional education. Sometimes we'd
drive hundreds of miles to do one song or two and hope the crowd wouldn't be
against us because we weren't local talent. We were competing against people
of all ages and skills, from drill teams to comedians to other singers and
dancers like us. We had to grab that audience and keep it. Nothing was left
to chance, so clothes, shoes, hair, everything had to be the way Dad planned
it. We really looked amazingly professional. After all this planning, if we
performed the songs the way we rehearsed them, the awards would take care of
themselves. This was true even when we were in the Wallace High part of town
where the neighbourhood had its own performers and cheering sections and we
were challenging them right in their own backyards. Naturally, local
performers always had their own very loyal fans, so whenever we went off our
turf and onto someone else's, it was very hard. When the master of
ceremonies held his hand over our heads for the "applause meter," we wanted
to make sure that the crowd knew we had given them more than anyone else.

As players, Jermaine, Tito, and the rest of us were under tremendous
pressure. Our manger was the kind who reminded us that James Brown would
fine his Famous Flames if they missed a cue or bent a note during a
performance. As lead singer, I felt I - more than the others - couldn't
afford an "off night." I can remember being onstage at night after being
sick in bed all day. It was hard to concentrate at those times, yet I knew
all the things my brothers and I had to do so well that I could have
performed the routines in my sleep. At times like that, I had to remind
myself not to look in the crowd for someone I knew, or at the emcee, both of
which can distract a young performer. We did songs that people knew from the
radio or songs that my father knew were already classics. If you messed up,
you heard about it because the fans knew those songs and they knew how they
were supposed to sound. If you were going to change an arrangement, it
needed to sound better than the original.

We won the citywide talent show when I was eight with our version of the
Temptations' song "My Girl." The contest was held just a few blocks away at
Roosevelt High. From Jermaine's opening bass notes and Tito's first guitar
licks to all of us singing the chorus, we had people on their feet for the
whole song. Jermaine and I traded verses while Marlon and Jackie spun like
tops. It was a wonderful feeling for all of us to pass that trophy, our
biggest yet, back and forth between us. Eventually it was propped on the
front seat like a baby and we drove home with Dad telling us, "When you do
it like you did tonight they can't not give it to you."

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We were now Gary city champions and Chicago was our next target because it
was the area that offered the steadiest work and the best word of mouth for
miles and miles. We began to plan our strategy in earnest. My father's group
played the Chicago sound of Muddy Waters and Howlin' Wolf, but he was
open-minded enough to see that the more upbeat, slicker sounds that appealed
to us kids had a lot to offer. We were lucky because some people his age
weren't that hip. In fact, we knew musicians who thought the sixties sound
was beneath people their age, but not Dad. He recognised great singing when
he heard it, even telling us that he saw the great doo-wop group from Gary,
the Spaniels, when they were stars not that much older than we. When Smokey
Robinson of the Miracles sang a song like "Tracks of My Tears" or "Ooo, Baby
Baby," he'd be listening as hard as we were. The sixties didn't leave
Chicago behind musically, Great singers like the Impressions with Curtis
Mayfield, Jerry Butler, Major Lance, and Tyrone Davis were playing all over
the city at the same places we were. At this point my father was managing us
full-time, with only a part-time shift at the mill. Mom had some doubts
about the soundness of this decision, not because she didn't think we were
good but because she didn't know anyone else who was spending the majority
of his time trying to break his children into the music business. She was
even less thrilled when Dad told her he had booked us as a regular act at
Mr. Lucky's, a Gary nightspot. We were being forced to spend our weekends in
Chicago and other places trying to win an ever-increasing number of amateur
shows, and these trips were expensive, so the job at Mr. Lucky's was a way
to make it all possible. Mom was surprised at the response we were getting
and she was very pleased with the awards and the attention, but she worried
about us a lot. She worried about me because of my age. "This is quite a
life for a nine-year-old," she would say, staring intently at my father.

I don't know what my brothers and I expected, but the nightclub crowds
weren't the same as the Roosevelt High crowds. We were playing between bad
comedians, cocktail organists, and strippers. With my Witness upbringing,
Mom was concerned that I was hanging out with the wrong people and getting
introduced to things I'd be better off learning much later in life. She
didn't have to worry; just one look at some of those strippers wasn't going
to get me that interested in trouble - certainly not at nine years old! That
was an awful way to live, though, and it made us all the more determined to
move on up the circuit and as far away from that life as we could go.

Being at Mr. Lucky's meant that for the first time in our lives we had a
whole show to do - five sets a night, six nights a week - and if Dad could
get us something out of town for the seventh night, he was going to do it.
We were working hard, but the bar crowds weren't bad to us. They liked James
Brown and Sam and Dave just as much as we did and, besides, we were
something extra that came free with the drinking and the carrying on, so
they were surprised and cheerful. We even had some fun with them on one
number, the Joe Tex song "Skinny Legs and All." We'd start the song and
somewhere in the middle I'd go out into the audience, crawl under the
tables, and pull up the ladies' skirts to look under. People would throw
money as I scurried by, and when I began to dance, I'd scoop up all the
dollars and coins that had hit the floor earlier and push them into the
pockets of my jacket.

I wasn't really nervous when we began playing in because of all the
experience I'd had with talent show audiences. I was always ready to go out
and perform, you know, just do it - sing and dance and have some fun.

We worked in more than one club that had strippers in those days. I used to
stand in the wings of this one place in Chicago and watch a lady whose name
was Mary Rose. I must have been nine or ten. This girl would take off her
clothes and her panties and throw them to the audience. The men would pick
them up and sniff them and yell. My brothers and I would be watching all
this, taking it in, and my father wouldn't mind. We were exposed to a lot
doing that kind of circuit. In one place they had cut a little hole in the
musician's dressing room wall that also happened to act as a wall in the
ladies' bathroom. You could peek through this hole, and I saw stuff I've
never forgotten. Guys on that circuit were so wild, they did stuff like
drilling little holes into the walls of the ladies' loo all the time. Of
course, I'm sure that my brothers and I were fighting over who got to look
through the hole. "Get outta the way, it's my turn!" Pushing each other away
to make room for ourselves.

Later, when we did the Apollo Theater in New York, I saw something that
really blew me away because I didn't know things like that existed. I had
seen quite a few strippers, but that night this one girl with gorgeous
eyelashes and long hair came out and did her routine. She put on a great
performance. All of a sudden, at the end, she took off her wig, pulled a
pair of big oranges out of her bra, and revealed that she was a hard-faced
guy under all that makeup. That blew me away. I was only a child and
couldn't even conceive of anything like that. But I looked out at the
theatre audience and they were going for it. applauding wildly and cheering.
I'm just a little kid, standing in the wings, watching this crazy stuff.
     I was blown away.

As I said, I received quite an education as a child. More than most. Perhaps
this freed me to concentrate on other aspects of my life as an adult.

One day, not long after we'd been doing successfully in Chicago clubs, Dad
brought home a tape of some songs we'd never heard before. We were
accustomed to doing popular stuff off the radio, so we were curious why he
began playing these songs over and over again, just one guy singing none too
well with some guitar chords in the background. Dad told us that the man on
the tape wasn't really a performer but a songwriter who owned a recording
studio in Gary. His name was Mr. Keith and he had given us a week to
practice his songs to see if we could make a record out of them. Naturally,
we were excited. We wanted to make a record, any record.

We worked strictly on the sound, ignoring the dancing routines we'd normally
work up for a new song. It wasn't as much fun to do a song that none of us
knew, but we were already professional enough to hide our disappointment and
give it all we could. When we were ready and felt we had done our best with
the material, Dad got us on tape after a few false starts and more than a
few pep talks, of course. After a day or two of trying to figure out whether
Mr. Keith liked the tape we had made for him, Dad suddenly appeared with
more of his songs for us to learn for our first recording session.

Mr. Keith, like Dad, was a mill worker who loved music, only he was more
into the recording and business end. His studio and label were called
Steeltown. Looking back on all this, I realize Mr. Keith was just as excited
as we were. His studio was downtown, and we went early one Saturday morning
before "The Road Runner Show," my favourite show at the time. Mr. Keith met
us at the door and opened the studio. He showed us a small glass booth with
all kinds of equipment in it and explained what various tasks each
performed. It didn't look like we'd have to lean over any more tape
recorders, at least not in this studio. I put on some big metal headphones,
which came halfway down my neck, and tried to make myself look ready for
anything.

As my brothers were figuring out where to plug in their instruments and
stand, some backup singers and a horn section arrived. At first I assumed
they were there to make a record after us. We were delighted and amazed when
we found out they were there to record with us. We looked over at Dad, but
he didn't change expression. He'd obviously known about it and approved.
Even then people knew not to throw Dad surprises. We were told to listen to
Mr. Keith, who would instruct us while we were in the booth. If we did as he
said, the record would take care of itself.

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After a few hours, we finished Mr. Keith's first song. Some of the backup
singers and horn players hadn't made records either and found it difficult,
but they also didn't have a perfectionist for a manager, so they weren't
used to doing things over and over the way we were. It was at times like
these that we realized how hard Dad worked to make us consummate
professionals. We came back the next few Saturdays, putting the songs we'd
rehearsed during the week into the can and taking home a new tape of Mr.
Keith's each time. One Saturday, Dad even brought his guitar in to perform
with us. It was the one and only time he ever recorded with us. After the
records were pressed, Mr. Keith gave us some copies so that we could sell
them between sets and after shows. We knew that wasn't how the big groups
did it, but everyone had to start someplace, and in those days, having a
record with your group's name on it was quite something. We felt very
fortunate.

That first Steeltown single, "Big Boy," had a mean bass line. It was a nice
song about a kid who wanted to fall in love with some girl. Of course, in
order to get the full picture, you have to imagine a skinny nine-year-old
singing this song. The words said I didn't want to hear fairy tales any
more, but in truth I was far too young to grasp the real meanings of most of
the words in these songs. I just sang what they gave me.

When that record with its killer bass line began to get radio play in Gary,
we became a big deal in out neighborhood. No one could believe we had our
own record. We had a hard time believing it.

After that first Steeltown record, we began to aim for all the big talent
shows in Chicago. Usually the other acts would look me over carefully when
they met me, because I was so little, particularly the ones who went on
after us. One day Jackie was cracking up, like someone had told him the
funniest joke in the world. This wasn't a good sign right before a show, and
I could tell Dad was worried he was going to screw up onstage. Dad went over
to say a word to him, but Jackie whispered something in his ear and soon Dad
was holding his sides, laughing. I wanted to know the joke too. Dad said
proudly that Jackie had overheard the headlining act talking among
themselves. One guy said, "We'd better not let those Jackson 5 cut us
tonight with that midget they've got."

I was upset at first because my feelings were hurt. I thought they were
being mean. I couldn't help it that I was the shortest, but soon all the
other brothers were cracking up too. Dad explained that they weren't
laughing at me. He told me that I should be proud, the group was talking
trash because they thought I was a grown-up posing as a child like one of
the Munchkins in The Wizard Of Oz. Dad said that if I had those slick guys
talking like the neighborhood kids who gave us grief back in Gary, then we
had Chicago on the run.

We still had some running of our own to do. After we played some pretty good
clubs in Chicago, Dad signed us up for the Royal Theatre amateur night
competition in town. He had gone to see B. B. King at the Regal the night he
made his famous live album. When Dad gave Tito that sharp red guitar years
earlier, we had teased him by thinking of girls he could name his guitar
after, like B. B. King's Lucille. We won that show for three straight weeks,
with a new song every week to keep the regular members of the audience
guessing. Some of the other performers complained that it was greedy for us
to keep coming back, but they were after the same thing we were. There was a
policy that if you won the amateur night three straight times, you'd be
invited back to do a paid show for thousands of people, not dozens like the
audiences we were playing to in bars. We got that opportunity and the show
was headlined by Gladys Knight and the Pips, who were breaking in a new song
no one knew called "I Heard It Through The Grapevine." It was a heady night.

After Chicago, we had one more big amateur show we really felt we needed to
win: the Apollo Theatre in New York City. A lot of Chicago people thought a
win at the Apollo was just a good luck charm and nothing more, but Dad saw
it as much more than that. He knew New York had a high caliber of talent
just like Chicago and he knew there were more record people and professional
musicians in New York than Chicago. If we could make it in New York, we
could make it anywhere. That's what a win at the Apollo meant to us.

Chicago had sent a kind of scouting report on us to New York and our
reputation was such that the Apollo entered us in the "Superdog" finals,
even though we hadn't been to any of the preliminary competitions. By this
time, Gladys Knight had already talked to us about coming to Motown, as had
Bobby Taylor, a member of the Vancouvers, with whom my father had become

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friendly. Dad had told them we'd be happy to audition for Motown, but that
was in out future. We got to the Apollo at 125th Street early enough to get
a guided tour. We walked through the theatre and stared at all of the
pictures of the stars who'd played there, white as well as black. The
manager concluded by showing us to the dressing room, but by then I had
found pictures of all my favourites.

While my brothers and I were paying dues on the so-called "chitlin'
circuit," opening for other acts, I carefully watched all the stars because
I wanted to learn as much as I could. I'd stare at their feet, the way they
held their arms, the way they gripped a microphone, trying to decipher what
they were doing and why they were doing it. After studying James Brown from
the wings, I knew every step, every grunt, every spin and turn. I have to
say he would give a performance that would exhaust you, just wear you out
emotionally. His whole physical presence, the fire coming out of his pores,
would be phenomenal. You'd feel every bead of sweat on his face and you'd
know what he was going through. I've never seen anybody perform like him.
Unbelievable, really. When I watched somebody I liked, I'd be there. James
Brown, Jackie Wilson, Sam and Dave, the O'Jays - they all used to really
work an audience. I might have learned more from watching Jackie Wilson than
from anyone or anything else. All of this was a very important part of my
education.

We would stand offstage, behind the curtains, and watch everyone come off
after performing and they'd be all sweaty. I'd just stand aside in awe and
watch them walk by. And they would all wear these beautiful patent-leather
shoes. My whole dream seemed to center on having a pair of patent-leather
shoes. I remember being so heartbroken because they didn't make them in
little boys' sizes. I'd go from store to store looking for patent-leather
shoes and they'd say, "We don't make them that small." I was so sad because
I wanted to have shoes that looked the way those stage shoes looked,
polished and shining, turning red and orange when the lights hit them. Oh,
how I wanted some patent-leather shoes like the ones Jackie Wilson wore.

Most of the time I'd be alone backstage. My brothers would be upstairs
eating and talking and I'd be down in the wings, crouching real low, holding
on to the dusty, smelly curtain and watching the show. I mean, I really did
watch every step, every move, every twist, every turn, every grind, every
emotion, every light move. That was my education and my recreation. I was
always there when I had free time. My father, my brothers, other musicians,
they all knew where to find me. They would tease me about it, but I was so
absorbed in what I was seeing, or in remembering what I had just seen, that
I didn't care. I remember all those theatres: the Regal, the Uptown, the
Apollo - too many to name. The talent that came out of those places is of
mythical proportions. The greatest education in the world is watching the
masters at work. You couldn't teach a person what I've learned just standing
and watching. Some musicians - Springsteen and U2, for example - may feel
they got their education from the streets. I'm a performed at heart. I got
mine from the stage.

Jackie Wilson was on the wall at the Apollo. The photographer captured him
with one leg up, twisted, but not out of position from catching the mike
stand he'd just whipped back and forth. He could have been singing a sad
lyric like "Lonely Teardrops," and yet he had that audience so bug-eyed with

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his dancing that no one could feel sad or lonely.

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Sam and Dave's picture was down the corridor, next to an old big-band shot.
Dad had become friendly with Sam Moore. I remember being happily amazed that
he was nice to me when I met him for the first time. I had been singing his
songs for so long that I thought he'd want to box my ears. And not far from
them was "The King of Them All, Mr. Dynamite, Mr. Please Please Himself,"
James Brown. Before he came along, a singer was a singer and a dancer was a
dancer. A singer might have danced and a dancer might have sung, but unless
you were Fred Astaire or Gene Kelly, you probably did one better than the
other, especially in a live performance. But he changed all that. No
spotlight could keep up with him when he skidded across the stage - you had
to flood it! I wanted to be that good.

We won the Apollo amateur night competition, and I felt like going back to
those photos on the walls and thanking my "teachers." Dad was so happy he
said he could have flown back to Gary that night. He was on top of the world
and so were we. My brothers and I had gotten straight A's and we were hoping
we might get to skip a "grade." I certainly sensed that we wouldn't be doing
talent shows and strip joints much longer.

In the summer of 1968 we were introduced to the music of a family group that
was going to change our sound and our lives. They didn't all have the same
last name, they were black and white, men and women, and they were called
Sly and the Family Stone. They had some amazing hits over the years, such as
"Dance to the Music," "Stand," "Hot Fun in the Summertime." My brothers
would point at me when they heard the line about the midget standing tall
and by now I'd laugh along. We heard these songs all over the dial, even on
the rock stations. They were a tremendous influence on all of us Jacksons
and we owe them a lot.

After the Apollo, we kept playing with one eye on the map and one ear to the
phone. Mom and Dad had a rule about no more than five minutes a call, but
when we came back from the Apollo, even five minutes was too long. We had to
keep the lines clear in case anyone from a record company wanted to get in
touch with us. We lived in fear of having them get a busy signal. We wanted
to hear from one record company in particular, and if they called, we wanted
to answer.

While we waited, we found out that someone who had seen us at the Apollo had
recommended us to "The David Frost Show" in New York City. We were going to
be on TV! That was the biggest thrill we'd ever had. I told everyone at
school, and told the ones who didn't believe me twice. We were going to
drive out there in a few days. I was counting the hours. I had imagined the
whole trip, trying to figure out what the studio would be like and how it
would be to look into a television camera.

I came home with the travelling work my teacher had made up in advance. We
had one more dress rehearsal and then we'd make a final song selection. I
wondered which songs we'd be doing.

That afternoon, Dad said the trip to New York was cancelled. We all stopped
in our tracks and just stared at him.

We were shocked. I was ready to cry. We had been about to get our big break.
How could they do this to us? What was going on? Why had Mr. Frost changed
his mind? I was reeling and I think everyone else was, too. "I cancelled
it," my father announced calmly. Again we all stared at him, unable to
speak. "Motown called." A chill ran down my spine.

I remember the days leading up to that trip with near-perfect clarity. I can
see myself waiting outside Randy's first-grade classroom. It was Marlon's
turn to walk him home, but we switched for today.

Randy's teacher wished me luck in Detroit, because Randy had told her we
were going to Motown to audition. He was so excited that I had to remind
myself that he didn't really know what Detroit was. All the family had been
talking about was Motown, and Randy didn't even know what a city was. The
teacher told me he was looking for Motown on the globe in the classroom. She
said that in her opinion we should do "You Don't Know Like I Know" the way
she saw us do it at the Regal in Chicago when a bunch of teachers drove over
to see us. I helped Randy put his coat on and politely agreed to keep it in
mind - knowing that we couldn't do a Sam and Dave song at a Motown audition
because they were on Stax, a rival label. Dad told us the companies were
serious about that kind of stuff, so he wanted us to know there'd be no
messing around when we got there. He looked at me and said he'd like to see
his ten-year-old singer make it to eleven.

We left the Garrett Elementary School building for the short walk home, but
we had to hurry. I remember getting anxious as a car swept by, then another.
Randy took my hand, and we waved to the crossing guard. I knew La Toya would
have to go out if her way tomorrow to take Randy to school because Marlon
and I would be staying over in Detroit with the others.

The last time we played at the Fox Theatre in Detroit, we left right after
the show and got back to Gary at five o'clock in the morning. I slept in the
car most of the way, so going to school that morning wasn't as bad as it
might have been. But by the afternoon three o'clock rehearsal I was dragging
around like someone with lead weights for feet.

We could have left that night right after our set, since we were third on
the bill, but that would have meant missing the headliner, Jackie Wilson.
I'd seen him on other stages, but at the Fox he and his band were on a
rising stage that moved up as he start his show. Tired as I was after school
the next day, I remember trying some of those moves in rehearsal after
practising in front of a long mirror in the bathroom at school while the
other kids looked on. My father was pleased and we incorporated those steps
into one of my routines.

Just before Randy and I turned the corner onto Jackson Street, there was a
big puddle. I looked for cars but there weren't any, so I let go of Randy's
hand and jumped the puddle, catching on my toes so I could spin without
getting the cuffs of my corduroys wet. I looked back at Randy, knowing that
he wanted to do the things I did. He stepped back to get a running start,
but I realised that it was a pretty big puddle, too big for him to cross
without getting wet, so, being a big brother first and a dance teacher
second, I caught him before he landed short and got wet.

Across the street the neighbourhood kids were buying candy, and even some of
the kids who were giving me a hard time at school asked when we were going
to Motown. I told them and bought candy for them and Randy, too, with my
allowance. I didn't want Randy to feel bad about my going away.

As we approached the house I heard Marlon yell, "Someone shut that door!"
The side of out VW minibus was wide open, and I shuddered, thinking about
how cold it was going to be on the long ride up to Detroit. Marlon had beat
us home and was already helping Jackie load the bus with our stuff. Jackie
and Tito got home in plenty of time for once: They were supposed to have
basketball practice, but the winter in Indiana had been nothing but slush
and we were anxious to get a good start. Jackie was on the high school
basketball team that year, and Dad liked to say that the next time we went
to play in Indianapolis would be when Roosevelt went to the state
championships. The Jackson 5 would play between the evening and morning
games, and Jackie would sink the winning shot for the title. Dad liked to
tease us, but you never knew what might happen with the Jacksons. He wanted
us to be good at many things, not just music. I think maybe he got that
drive from his father, who taught school. I know my teachers were never as
hard on us as he was, and they were getting paid to be tough and demanding.

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Mom came to the door and gave us the thermos and the sandwiches she had
packed. I remember her telling me not to rip the dress shirt she had packed
for me after sewing it up the night before. Randy and I helped put some
things in the bus and then went back into the kitchen, where Rebbie was
keeping one eye on Dad's supper and the other on little Janet, who was in
the high chair.

Rebbie's life was never easy as the oldest. We knew that as soon as the
Motown audition was over, we'd find out if we had to move or not. If we did,
she was going to move South with her fiance. She always ran things when Mom
was at night school finishing the high school diploma she was denied because
of her illness. I couldn't believe it when Mom told us she was going to get
her diploma. I remember worrying that she'd have to go to school with kids
Jackie's or Tito's age and that they'd laugh at her. I remember how she
laughed when I told her this and how she patiently explained that she'd be
with other grown-ups. It was interesting having a mother who did homework
like the rest of us.

Loading up the bus was easier than usual. Normally Ronnie and Johnny would
have come to back us up, but Motown's own musicians would be playing being
us, so we were going alone. Jermaine was in our room finishing some of his
assignments when I walked in. I knew he wanted to get them out of the way.
He told me that we ought to take off for Motown by ourselves and leave Dad,
since Jackie had taken driver's ed and was in possession of a set of keys.
We both laughed, but deep down I couldn't imagine going without Dad. Even on
the occasions when Mom led out after-school rehearsals because Dad hadn't
come home from his shift on time, it was still like having him there because
she acted as his eyes and ears. She always knew what had been good the night
before and what had gotten sloppy today. Dad would pick it up from there at
night. It seemed to me that they almost gave each other signals or something
- Dad could always tell if we had been playing like we were supposed to by
some invisible indication from Mom.

There was no long good-bye at the door when we left for Motown. Mom was used
to our being away for days, and during school vacations. LaToya pouted a
little because she wanted to go. She had only seen us in Chicago, and we had
never been able to stay long enough in places like Boston of Phoenix to
bring her back anything. I think our lives must have seemed pretty glamorous
to her because she had to stay home and go to school. Rebbie had her hands
full trying to put Janet to sleep, but she called good-bye and waved. I gave
Randy a last pat on the head and we were off.

Dad and Jackie went over the map as we drove away, mostly out of habit,
because we had been to Detroit before, of course. We passed Mr. Keith's
recording studio downtown by City Hall as we made our way through town. We
had done some demos at Mr. Keith's that Dad sent to Motown after the
Steeltown record. The sun was going down when we hit the highway. Marlon
announced that if we heard one of our records on WVON, it was going to bring
us luck. We all nodded. Dad asked us if we remembered what WVON stood for as
he nudged Jackie to keep quiet. I kept looking out the window, thinking
about the possibilities that lay ahead, but Jermaine jumped in. "Voice of
the Negro," he said. Soon we were calling roll all over the dial. "WGN -
World's Greatest Newspaper." The Chicago Tribune owned it.) "WLS - World's
Largest Store." (Sears) "WCFL . . ." We stopped, stumped. "Chicago
Federation of Labor," Dad said, motioning for the thermos. We turned onto
I-94, and the Gary station faded into a Kalamazoo station. We began flipping
around, looking for Beatle music on CKLW from Windsor, Ontario, Canada.

I had always been a Monopoly fan at home, and there was something about
driving to Motown that was a little like that game. In Monopoly you go
around the board buying things and making decisions; the "chitlin' circuit"
of theatres where we played and won contests was kind of like a Monopoly
board full of possibilities and pitfalls. After all the stops along the way,
we finally landed at the Apollo Theatre in Harlem, which was definitely Park
Place for young performers like us. Now we were on our way up Boardwalk,
heading for Motown. Would we win the game or slide past Go with a long board
separating us from our goal for another round?

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There was something changing in me, and I could feel it, even shivering in
the minibus. For years we'd make the drive over to Chicago wondering if we
were good enough to ever get out of Gary, and we were. Then we took the
drive to New York, certain that we'd fall off the edge of the earth if we
weren't good enough to make it there. Even those nights in Philadelphia and
Washington didn't reassure me enough to keep me from wondering if there
wasn't someone or some group we didn't know about in New York who could beat
us. When we tore it down at the Apollo, we finally felt that nothing could
stand in our way. We were going to Motown, and nothing there was going to
surprise us either. We were going to surprise them, just like we always did.

Dad pulled the typewritten directions out of the glove compartment and we
pulled off the highway, passing the Woodward Avenue exit. There weren't many
people on the streets because it was a school night for everybody else.

Dad was a little nervous about whether our accommodations would be okay,
which surprised me until I realised the Motown people had picked the hotel.
We weren't used to having things done for us. We liked to be our own bosses.
Dad had always been our booking agent, travel agent, and manager. When he
wasn't taking care of the arrangements, Mom was. So it was no wonder that
even Motown managed to make Dad feel suspicious that he should have made the
reservations, that he should have handled everything.

We stayed at the Gotham Hotel. The reservations had been made and everything
was in order. There was a TV in our room, but all the stations had signed
off, and with the audition at ten o'clock, we weren't going to get to stay
up any later anyway. Dad put us right to bed, locked the door, and went out.
Jermaine and I were too tired to even talk.

We were all up on time the next morning; Dad saw to that. But, in truth, we
were just as excited as he was and hopped out of bed when we called us. The
audition was unusual for us because we hadn't played in many places where
they expected us to be professional. We knew it was going to be difficult to
judge whether we were doing well. We were used to audience response whether
we were competing or just performing at a club, but Dad had told us the
longer we stayed, the more they wanted to hear.

We climbed into the VW, after cereal and milk at the coffee shop. I noticed
they offered grits on the menu, so I knew there were a lot of Southern
people who stayed there. We had never been to the South then and wanted to
visit Mom's part of the country someday. We wanted to have a sense of our
roots and those of other black people, especially after what had happened to
Dr. King. I remember so well the day he died. Everyone was torn up. We
didn't rehearse that night. I went to Kingdom Hall with Mom and some of the
others. People were crying like they had lost a member of their own family.
Even the men who were usually pretty unemotional were unable to control
their grief. I was too young to grasp the full tragedy of the situation, but
when I look back on that day now, it makes me want to cry - for Dr. King,
for his family, and for all of us.

Jermaine was the first to spot the studio, which was known as Hitsville,
U.S.A. It looked kind of run-down, which was not what I'd expected. We
wondered who we might see, who might be there making a record that day. Dad
had coached us to let him do all the talking. Our job was to perform like
we'd never performed before. And that was asking a lot, because we always
put everything into each performance, but we knew what he meant.

There were a lot of people waiting inside, but Dad said the password and a
man in a shirt and tie came out to meet us. He knew each of our names, which
astounded us. He asked us to leave our coats there and follow him. The other
people just stared through us like we were ghosts. I wondered who they were
and what their stories were. Had they travelled far? Had they been here day
after day hoping to get in without an appointment?

When we entered the studio, one of the Motown guys was adjusting a movie
camera. There was an area set up with instruments and microphones. Dad
disappeared into one of the sound booths to talk to someone. I tried to
pretend that I was at the Fox Theatre, on the rising stage, and this was
just business as usual. I decided, looking around, that if I ever built my
own studio, I'd get a mike like the one they had at the Apollo, which rose
out of the floor. I nearly fell on my face once running down those basement
steps while trying to find out where it went when it slowly disappeared
beneath the stage floor.

The last song we sang was "Who's Lovin' You." When it ended, no one
applauded or said a word. I couldn't stand not knowing, so I blurted, "How
was that?" Jermaine shushed me. The older guys who were backing us up were
laughing about something. I looked at them out of the corner of my eye.
"Jackson Jive, huh?" one of them called out with a big grin on his face. I
was confused, I think my brothers were too.

The man who had led us back said, "Thanks for coming up." We looked at Dad's
face for some indication, but he didn't seem pleased or disappointed. It was
still daylight out when we left. We took I-94 back to Gary, subdued, knowing
there was homework to do for class tomorrow, wondering if that was all there
was to that.

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Chapter Two – The Promised Land
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We were jubilant when we learned we had passed the Motown audition. I
remember Berry Gordy sitting us all down and saying that we were going to
make history together. "I'm gonna make you the biggest thing in the world,"
he said, "and you're gonna be written about in history books." He really
said that to us. We were leaning forward, listening to him, and saying,
"Okay! Okay!" I'll never forget that. We were all over at his house, and it
was like a fairy tale come true listening to this powerful, talented man
tell us we were going to be very big. "Your first record will be a number
one, your second record will be a number one, and so will your third record.
Three number one records in a row. You'll hit the charts just as Diana Ross
and the Supremes did." This was almost unheard of in those days, but he was
right; we turned around and did just that. Three in a row.

So Diana didn't find us first, but I don't think we'll ever be able to repay
Diana properly for all she did for us in those days. When we finally moved
to Southern California, we actually lived with Diana and stayed with her for
more than a year on a part-time basis. Some of us lived with Berry Gordy and
some of us with Diana, and then we would switch. She was so wonderful,
mothering us and making us feel right at home. She really helped take care
of us for at least a year and a half while my parents closed up the Gary
house and looked for a house we could all live in here in California. It was
great for us because Berry and Diana lived on the same street in Beverly
Hills. We could walk up to Berry's house and then go back to Diana's. Most
of the time I'd spend the day at Diana's and the night at Berry's. This was
an important period in my life because Diana loved art and encouraged me to
appreciate it too. She took the time to educate me about it. We'd go out
almost every day, just the two of us, and buy pencils and paint. When we
weren't drawing or painting, we'd go to museums. She introduced me to the
works of the great artists like Michelangelo and Degas and that was the
start of my lifelong interest in art. She really taught me a great deal. It
was so new to me and exciting. It was really different from what I was used
to doing, which was living and breathing music, rehearsing day in and day
out. You wouldn't think a big star like Diana would take the time to teach a
kid to paint, to give him an education in art, but she did and I loved her
for it. I still do. I'm crazy about her. She was my mother, my lover, and my
sister all combined in one amazing person.

Those were truly wild days for me and my brothers. When we flew to
California from Chicago, it was like being in another country, another
world. To come from our part of Indiana, which is so urban and often bleak,
and to land in Southern California was like having the world transformed
into a wonderful dream. I was uncontrollable back then. I was all over the
place - Disneyland, Sunset Strip, the beach. My brothers loved it too, and
we got into everything, like kids who had just visited a candy store for the
first time. We were awestruck by California; trees had oranges and leaves on
them in the middle of winter. There were palm trees and beautiful sunsets,
and the weather was so warm. Every day was special. I would be doing
something that was fun and wouldn't want it to end, but then I'd realise
there was something else to do later that was going to be just as enjoyable
and that I could look forward to just as much. Those were heady days.

One of the best parts of being there was meeting all the big Motown stars
who had emigrated to California along with Berry Gordy after he moved from
Detroit. I remember when I first shook Smokey Robinson's hand. It was like
shaking hands with a king. My eyes lit up with stars, I remember telling my
mother that his hand felt as if it was layered with soft pillows. You don't
think about the little impressions people walk away with when you're a star
yourself, but the fans do. At least, I know I did. I mean, I walked around
saying, "His hand is so soft ." When I think about it now, it sounds silly,
but it made a big impression on me. I had shaken Smokey Robinson's hand.
There are so many artists and musicians and writers I admire. When I was
young, the people I watched were the real showmen - James Brown, Sammy
Davis, Jr., Fred Astaire, Gene Kelly. A great showman touches everybody;
that's the real test of greatness and these men have it. Like Michelangelo's
work, it touches you, I don't care who you are. I am always excited when I
get a chance to meet someone whose work has affected me in some way. Maybe
I've read a book that has touched me deeply or made me think about things
that I haven't focused on before. A certain song or style of singing can
excite me or move me and become a favourite that I'll never tire of hearing.
A picture or a painting can reveal a universe. In the same vein, an actor's
performance or a collective performance can transform me.

In those days Motown had never recorded a kids' group. In fact the only
child singer they had ever produced was Stevie Wonder. So Motown was
determined that if they were going to promote kids, they'd promote the kind
of kids who were good at more than just singing and dancing. They wanted
people to like us because of who we were, not just because of our records.
They wanted us to set an example by sticking to our schoolwork and being
friendly to our fans, reporters, and everyone who came in contact with us.
This wasn't hard for us because our mother had raised us to be polite and
considerate. It was second nature. Our only problem with schoolwork was that
once we became well known, we couldn't go to school because people would
come into our classrooms through the windows, looking for an autograph or a
picture. I was trying to keep up with my classes and not to be the cause of
disruptions, but it finally became impossible and we were given tutors to
teach us at home.

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During this period a lady named Suzanne de Passe was having a great effect
on our lives. She worked for Motown, and it was she who trained us
religiously once we moved to L.A. She also became a manager for the Jackson
5. We lived with her occasionally, ate with her, and even played with her.
We were a rowdy, high-spirited bunch, and she was young herself and full of
fun. She really contributed a lot toward the shaping of the Jackson 5, and
I'll never be able to thank her enough for all she did.

I remember Suzanne showing us these charcoal sketches of the five of us. In
each sketch we had a different hairstyle. In another set of colour drawings
we were all pictured in different clothes that could be switched around like
Colorforms. After we all decided on the hairstyles, they took us to a barber
so he could make us match up with our pictures. Then, after she showed us
the clothes, we went down to a wardrobe department where they gave us
outfits to try on. They'd see us in one set of clothes, decide the clothes
weren't right, and we'd all go back to the Colorforms to "try on" some more.

We had classes in manners and grammar. They gave us a list of questions, and
they said they were the kinds of questions that we could expect people to
ask us. We were always being asked about our interests and our hometown and
how we liked singing together. Fans and reporters alike wanted to know how
old we each were when we started performing. It was hard to have your life
turn into public property, even if you appreciated that people were
interested in you because of your music.

The Motown people tested us on the answers to questions we hadn't heard from
anyone yet. They tested us on grammar. And table manners. When we were
ready, they brought us in for the last alterations on our sleeves and the
trimming of our new Afros.

After all that there was a new song to learn called "I Want You Back." The
song had a story behind it that we found out about little by little. It was
written by someone from Chicago named Freddie Perren. He had been Jerry
Butler's pianist when we opened for Jerry in a Chicago nightclub. He had
felt sorry for these little kids the club owner had hired, figuring the club
couldn't afford to get anyone else. His opinion changed dramatically when he
saw us perform.

As it turned out, "I Want You Back" was orginally called "I Want To Be Free"
and was written for Gladys Knight. Freddie had even thought that Berry might
go over Gladys's head and give the song to the Supremes. Instead, he
mentioned to Jerry that he'd just signed this group of kids from Gary,
Indiana. Freddie put two and two together, realised it was us, and decided
to trust fate.

When we were learning the Steeltown songs back in Gary, Tito and Jermaine
had to pay special attention because they were responsible for playing on
those records. When they heard the demo for "I Want You Back," they listened
to the guitar and bass parts, but Dad explained that Motown didn't expect
them to play on our records; the rhythm track would be taken care of before
we put our vocals down. But he reminded them that this would put more
pressure on them to keep up their practice independently, because we'd have
to duplicate those songs in front of our fans. In the meantime, all of us
had lyrics and cues to learn.

The guys looking after us in the singing department were Freddy Perrin and
Bobby Taylor and Deke Richards, who, along with Hal Davis and another Motown
guy named "Fonce" Mizell, were part of the team that wrote and produced our
first singles. Together these guys were called "The Corporation." We went
over to Richard's apartment to rehearse, and he was impressed that we had
prepared so well. He didn't have to do much tinkering with the vocal
arrangement he'd worked out, and he thought that while we were still hot, we
should go right to the studio and cut our parts. The following afternoon we
went to the studio. We were all so happy with what we got that we took our
rough mix over to Berry Gordy. It was still midafternoon when we arrived at
his studio. We figured that once Berry heard it, we'd be home in time for
supper.

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But it was one in the morning when I finally slumped in the back seat of
Richard's car, bobbing and steadying my head all the way home to fight off
sleep. Gordy hadn't liked the song we did. We went over every part again,
and when we did, Gordy figured out what changes he had to make in the
arrangement. He was trying new things with us, like a school chorus master
who has everyone singing their part as if they're singing alone, even if you
can't hear him or her distinctly for the crowd. After he was through
rehearsing us as a group, and he had reworked the music, he took me aside,
one on one, to explain my part. He told me exactly what he wanted and how he
wanted me to help him get it. Then he explained everything to Freddie
Perren, who was going to record it. Berry was brilliant in this area. Right
after the single was released, we went in to cut an album. We were
particularly impressed with the "I Want You Back" session then because that
one song took more time (and tape) than all the other songs on the record
combined. That's the way Motown did things in those days because Berry
insisted on perfection and attention to detail. I'll never forget his
persistence. This was his genius. Then and later, I observed every moment of
the sessions where Berry was present and never forgot what I learned. To
this day I use the same principles. Berry was my teacher and a great one. He
could identify the little elements that would make a song great rather than
just good. It was like magic, as if Berry was sprinkling pixie dust over
everything.

For me and my brothers, recording for Motown was an exciting experience. Our
team of writers shaped our music by being with us as we recorded it over and
over, molding and sculpting a song until it was just perfect. We would cut a
track over and over for weeks until we got it just as they wanted it. And I
could see while they were doing it that it was getting better and better.
They would change words, arrangements, rhythms, everything. Berry gave them
the freedom to work this way because of his own perfectionist nature. I
guess if they hadn't been doing it, he would have. Berry had such a knack.
He'd just walk into the room where we were working and tell me what to do
and he'd be right. It was amazing.

When "I Want You Back" was released in November 1969, it sold two million
copies in six weeks and went to number one. Our next single, "ABC," came out
in March 1970 and sold two million records in three weeks. I still like the
part where I say, "Siddown, girl! I think I loove you! No, get up, girl,
show me what you can do! " When our third single, "The Love You Save," went
to number one in June of 1970, Berry's promise came true.

When our next single, "I'll Be There," was also a big hit in the fall of
that year, we realised we might even surpass Berry's expectations and be
able to pay him back for all the effort he had made for us.

My brothers and I - our whole family - were very proud. We had created a new
sound for a new decade. It was the first time in recording history that a
bunch of kids had made so many hit records. The Jackson 5 had never had much
competition from kids our own age. In the amateur days there was a kids'
group called the Five Stairsteps that we used to see. They were good, but
they didn't seem to have the strong family unit that we did, and sadly they
broke up. After "ABC" hit the charts in such a big way, we started seeing
other groups that record companies were grooming to ride the bandwagon we
had built. I enjoyed all these groups: the Partridge Family, the Osmonds,
the DeFranco Family. The Osmonds were already around, but they were doing a
much different style of music, like barbershop harmony and crooning. As soon
as we hit, they and the other groups got into soul real fast. We didn't
mind. Competition, as we know, was healthy. Our own relatives thought "One
Bad Apple" was us. I remember being so little that they had a special apple
crate for me to stand on with my name on it so I could reach the microphone.
Microphones didn't go down far enough for kids my age. So many of my
childhood years went by that way, with me standing on that apple box singing
my heart out while other kids were outside playing.