加急！！求书〈MOOKWALKER〉！

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As I said before, in those early days "The Corporation" at Motown produced
and shaped all our music. I remember lots of times when I felt the song
should be sung one way and the producers felt it should be sung another way.
But for a long time I was very obedient and wouldn't say anything about it.
Finally it reached a point where I got fed up with being told exactly how to
sing. This was in 1972 when I was fourteen years old, around the time of the
song "Lookin' Through the Windows." They wanted me to sing a certain way,
and I knew they were wrong. No matter what age you are, if you have it and
you know it, then people should listen to you. I was furious with our
producers and very upset. So I called Berry Gordy and complained. I said
that they had always told me how to sing, and I had agreed all this time,
but now they were getting too . . . mechanical.

So he came into the studio and told them to let me do what I wanted to do. I
think he told them to let me be more free or something. And after that, I
started adding a lot of vocal twists that they really ended up loving. I'd
do a lot of ad-libbing, like twisting words or adding some edge to them.

When Berry was in the studio with us, he would always add something that was
right. He'd go from studio to studio, checking on different aspects of
people's work, often adding elements that made the records better. Walt
Disney used to do the same thing: he'd go check on his various artists and
say, "Well, this character should be more outgoing." I always knew when
Berry was enjoying something I was doing in the studio, because he has this
habit of rolling his tongue in his cheek when he's pleased by something. If
things were really going well, he'd punch the air like the ex-professional
boxer he is.

My three favourite songs from those days are "Never Can Say Goodbye," "I'll
Be There," and "ABC." I'll never forget the first time I heard "ABC." I
thought it was so good. I remember feeling this eagerness to sing that song,
to get in the studio and really make it work for us.

We were still rehearsing daily and working hard - some things didn't change
- but we were grateful to be where we were. There were so many people
pulling for us, and we were so determined ourselves that it seemed anything
could happen.

Once "I Want You Back" came out, everyone at Motown prepared us for success.
Diana loved it and presented us at a big-name Hollywood discotheque, where
she had us playing in a comfortable party atmosphere like at Berry's.
Following directly on the heels of Diana's event came an invitation to play
at the "Miss Black America" telecast. Being on the show would enable us to
give people a preview of our record and our show. After we got the
invitation, my brothers and I remembered our disappointment at not getting
to go to New York to do our first TV show because Motown had called. Now we
were going to do our first TV show and we were with Motown. Life was very
good. Diana, of course, put the cherry on top. She was going to host "The
Hollywood Palace," and big Saturday night show; it would be her last
appearance with the Supremes and the first major exposure for us. This meant
a lot to Motown, because by then they had decided that our new album would
be called "Diana Ross Presents the Jackson 5." Never before had a superstar
like Diana passed the torch to a bunch of kids. Motown, Diana, and five kids
from Gary, Indiana, were all pretty excited. By then "I Want You Back" had
come out, and Berry was proven right again; all the stations that played Sly
and the Beatles were playing us, too.

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As I mentioned earlier, we didn't work as hard on the album as we did on the
single, but we had fun trying out all sorts of songs - from "Who's Lovin'
You," the old Miracles' song we were doing in the talent show days, to
"Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah."

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We did songs on that album that appealed to a wide audience - kids,
teenagers, and grownups - and we all felt that was a reason for its big
success. We knew that "The Hollywood Palace" had a live audience, a
sophisticated Hollywood crowd, and we were concerned; but we had them from
the first note. There was an orchestra in the pit, so that was the first
time I heard all of "I Want You Back" performed live because I wasn't there
when they recorded the strings for the album. Doing that show made us feel
like kings, the way winning the citywide show in Gary had.

Selecting the right songs for us to do was going to be a real challenge now
that we weren't depending on other people's hits to win crowd. The
Corporation guys and Hal Davis were put to work writing songs especially for
us, as well as producing them. Berry didn't want to have to bail us all out
again. So even after our first singles hit number one on the charts, we were
busy with the follow-ups.

"I Want You Back" could have been sung by a grownup, but "ABC" and "The Love
You Save" were written for our young voices, with parts for Jermaine as well
as me - another bow to the Sly sound, which rotated singers around the
stage. The Corporation had also written those songs with dance routines in
mind: the steps our fans did at parties as well as those we did on stage.
The verses were tongue-twisting, and that's why they were split up between
Jermaine and me.

Neither of those records could have happened without "I Want You Back." We
were adding and subtracting ideas in the arrangements from that one mother
lode of a song, but the public seemed to want everything we were doing. We
later made two more records in the vein, "Mama's Pearl" and "Sugar Daddy,"
which reminded me of my own schoolyard days: "While I'm giving you the
candy, he's getting all your love!" We added one new wrinkle when Jermaine
and I sang harmony together, which always got an enthusiastic response when
we did it from the same mike on stage.

The pros have told us that no group had a better start than we did. Ever.
"I'll Be There" was our real breakthrough song; it was the one that said,
"We're here to stay." It was number one for five weeks, which is very
unusual. That's a long time for a song and the song was one of my favourites
of all the songs we've ever done. How I loved the words: "You and I must
make a pact, we must bring salvation back . . ." Willie Hutch and Berry
Gordy didn't seem like people who'd write like that. They were always
kidding around with us when we weren't in the studio. But that song grabbed
me from the moment I heard the demo. I didn't even know what a harpsichord
was until that record's opening notes were played for us. The song was
produced thanks to the genius of Hal Davis, assisted by Suzy Ikeda, my other
half who stood next to me song after song, making sure I put the right
emotion and feeling and heart into the composition. It was a serious song,
but we threw in a fun part when I sang "Just look over your shoulder,
honey!" Without the honey, that's right out of the Four Tops' great song
"Reach Out, I'll Be There." So we were feeling more and more like a part of
Motown's history as well as its future.

Originally the plan was for me to sing all the bouncy stuff and Jermaine to
do the ballads. But though Jermaine's voice at seventeen was more mature,
ballads were more my love, if not really my style - yet. That was our fourth
straight number one as a group, and a lot of people liked Jermaine's song "I
Found That Girl," the B-side of "The Love You Save," just as much as the
hits.

We worked those songs into one big medley, with plenty of room for dancing,
and we went back to that medley when we performed on all kinds of TV shows.
For instance, we played on "The Ed Sullivan Show" three different times.
Motown always told us what to say in interviews back then, but Mr. Sullivan
was one of the people who drew us out and made us feel comfortable. Looking
back, I wouldn't say Motown was putting us in any kind of straitjacket or
turning us into robots, even though I wouldn't have done it that way myself;
and if I had children, I wouldn't tell them what to say. The Motown people
were doing something with us that hadn't been done before, and who was to
say what was the right way to handle that sort of stuff?

Reporters would ask us all kinds of questions, and the Motown people would
be standing by to help us out or monitor the questions if need be. We
wouldn't have dreamed of trying anything that would embarrass them. I guess
they were worried about the possibility of our sounding militant the way
people were often doing in those days. Maybe they were worried after they
gave us those Afros that they had created little Frankensteins. Once a
reporter asked a Black Power question and the Motown person told him we
didn't think about that stuff because we were a "commercial product." It
sounded weird, but we winked and gave the power salute when we left, which
seemed to thrill the guy.

We even had a reunion with don Cornelius on his "Soul Train" show. He had
been a local disc jockey during our Chicago days, so we all knew one another
from that time. We enjoyed watching his show and picked up ideas from those
dancers who were from our part of the country.

The crazy days of the big Jackson 5 tours began right after the successes we
had with our records. It started with a big arena tour in the fall of 1970;
we played huge halls like Madison Square Garden and the Los Angeles Forum.
When "Never Can Say Goodbye" was a big hit in 1971, we played forty-five
cities that summer, followed by fifty more cities later that year.

I recall most of that time as a period of extreme closeness with my
brothers. We have always been a very loyal and affectionate group. We
clowned around, goofed off a lot together, and played outrageous pranks on
each other and the people who worked with us. We never got too rowdy - no
TV's sailed out of our hotel windows, but a lot of water was spilled on
various heads. We were mostly trying to conquer the boredom we felt from
being so long on the road. When you're bored on tour, you tend to do
anything to cheer yourself up. Here we were, cramped up in these hotel
rooms, unable to go anywhere because of the mobs of screaming girls outside,
and we wanted to have some fun. I wish we could have captured some of the
the stuff we did on film, especially some of the wild pranks. We'd all wait
until our security manager, Bill Bray, was asleep. Then we'd stage insane
fast-walk races in the hallways, pillow fights, tag-team wrestling matches,
shaving cream wars, you name it. We were nuts. We'd drop balloons and paper
bags full of water off hotel balconies and watch them explode. Then we'd die
laughing. We threw stuff at each other and spent hours on the phone making
fake calls and ordering immense room service meals that were delivered to
the rooms of strangers. Anyone who walked into one of our bedrooms had a
ninety percent chance of being drenched by a bucket of water propped over
the doors.

When we'd arrive in a new city, we'd try to do all the sightseeing we could.
We travelled with a wonderful tutor, Rose Fine, who taught us a great deal
and made sure we did our lessons. It was Rose who instilled in me a love of
books and literature that sustains me today. I read everything I could get
my hands on. New cities meant new places to shop. We loved to shop,
especially in bookstores and department stores, but as our fame spread our
fans transformed casual shopping trips into hand-to-hand combat. Being
mobbed by near hysterical girls was one of the most terrifying experiences
for me in those days. I mean, it was rough . We'd decide to run into some
department store to see what they had, and the fans would find out we were
there and would demolish the place, just tear it up. Counters would get
knocked over, glass would break, the cash registers would be toppled. All we
had wanted to do was look at some clothes! When those mob scenes broke out,
all the craziness and adulation and notoriety became more than we could
handle. If you haven't witnessed a scene like that, you can't imagine what
it's like. Those girls were serious . They still are. They don't realise
they might hurt you because they're acting out of love. They mean well, but
I can testify that it hurts be mobbed. You feel as if you're going to
suffocate or be dismembered. There are a thousand hands grabbing at you. One
girl is twisting your wrist this way while another girl is pulling your
watch off. They grab your hair and pull it hard, and it hurts like fire. You
fall against things and the scrapes are horrible. I still wear the scars,
and I can remember in which city I got each of them. Early on, I learned how
to run through crowds of thrashing girls outside of theatres, hotels, and
airports. It's important to remember to shield your eyes with your hands
because girls can forget they have nails during such emotional
confrontations. I know the fans mean well and I love them for their
enthusiasm and support, but crowd scenes are scary.

The wildest mob scene I ever witnessed happened the first time we went to
England. We were in the air over the Atlantic when the pilot announced that
he had just been told there were ten thousand kids waiting for us at
Heathrow Airport. We couldn't believe it. We were excited, but if we could
have turned around and flown home, we might have. We knew this was going to
be something, but since there wasn't enough fuel to go back, we flew on.
When we landed, we could see that the fans had literally taken over the
whole airport. It was wild to be mobbed like that. My brothers and I felt
fortunate to make it out of the airport alive that day.

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I wouldn't trade my memories of those days with my brothers for anything. I
often wish I could relive those days. We were like the seven dwarfs: each of
us was different, each had his own personality. Jackie was the athlete and
the worrier. Tito was the strong, compassionate father figure. He was
totally into cars and loved putting them together and tearing them apart.
Jermaine was the one I was closest to when we were growing up. He was funny
and easygoing, and was constantly fooling around. It was Jermaine who put
all those buckets of cold water on the doors of our hotel rooms. Marlon was
and is one of the most determined people I've ever met. He, too, was a real
joker and prankster. He used to be the one who'd always get in trouble in
the early days because he'd be out of step or miss a note, but that was far
from true later.

The diversity of my brothers' personalities and the closeness we felt were
what kept me going during those gruelling days of constant touring.
Everybody helped everybody. Jackie and Tito would keep us from going too far
with our pranks. They'd seem to have us under control, and then Jermaine and
Marlon would shout, "Let's go crazy!!"

I really miss all that. In the early days we were together all the time.
We'd go to amusement parks or ride horses or watch movies. We did everything
together. As soon as someone said, "I'm going swimming," we'd all yell, "Me
too!"

The separation from my brothers started much later, when they began to get
married. An understandable change occurred as each of them became closest to
his wife and they became a family unit unto themselves. A part of me wanted
us to stay as we were - brothers who were also best friends - but change is
inevitable and always good in one sense or another. We still love each
other's company. We still have a great time when we're together. But the
various paths our lives have taken won't allow us the freedom to enjoy one
another's company as much as we did.

In those days, touring with the Jackson 5, I always shared a room with
Jermaine. He and I were close, both onstage and off, and shared a lot of the
same interests. Since Jermaine was also the brother most intrigued by the
girls who wanted to get at him, he and I would get into mischief on the

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road.

I think our father decided early on that he had to keep a more watchful eye
on us than on our other brothers. He would usually take the room next to
ours, which meant he could come in to check on us anytime through the
connecting doors. I really despised this arrangement, not only because he
could monitor our misbehaviour, but also because he used to do the meanest
things to us. Jermaine and I would be sleeping, exhausted after a show, and
my father would bring a bunch of girls into the room; we'd wake up and
they'd be standing there, looking at us, giggling.

Because show business and my career were my life, the biggest personal
struggle I had to face during those teenage years did not involve the
recording studios or my stage performance. In those days, the biggest
struggle was right there in my mirror. To a great degree, my identity as a
person was tied to my identity as a person was tied to my identity as a
celebrity.

My appearance began to really change when I was about fourteen. I grew quite
a bit in height. People who didn't know me would come into a room expecting
to be introduced to cute little Michael Jackson and they'd walk right past
me. I would say, "I'm Michael," and they would look doubtful. Michael was a
cute little kid: I was a gangly adolescent heading toward five feet ten
inches. I was not the person they expected or even wanted to see.
Adolescence is hard enough, but imagine having your own natural insecurities
about the changes your body is undergoing heightened by the negative
reactions of others. They seemed so surprised that I could change, that my
body was undergoing the same natural change everyone's does.

It was tough. Everyone had called me cute for a long time, but along with
all the other changes, my skin broke out in a terrible case of acne. I
looked in the mirror one morning and it was like, "OH NO!" I seemed to have
a pimple for every oil gland. And the more I was bothered by it, the worse
it got. I didn't realise it then, but my diet of greasy processed food
didn't help either.

I became subconsciously scarred by this experience with my skin. I got very
shy and became embarrassed to meet people because my complexion was so bad.
It really seemed that the more I looked in the mirror, the worse the pimples
got. My appearance began to depress me. So I know that a case of acne can
have a devastating effect on a person. The effect on me was so bad that it
messed up my whole personality. I couldn't look at people when I talked to
them. I'd look down, or away. I felt I didn't have anything to be proud of
and I didn't even want to go out. I didn't do anything.

My brother Marlon would be covered with pimples and he wouldn't care but I
didn't want to see anybody and I didn't want anyone to see my skin in that
shape. It makes you wonder about what makes us the way we are, that two
brothers could be so different.

I still had our hits records to be proud of, and once I hit the stage, I
didn't think about anything else. All that worry was gone.

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But once I came offstage, there was that mirror to face again.

Eventually, things changed. I started feeling differently about my
condition. I've learned to change how I think and learned to feel better
about myself. Most importantly, I changed my diet. That was the key.

In the fall of 1971 I cut my first solo record, "Got to Be There." It was
wonderful working on that record and it became one of my favourites. It was
Berry Gordy's idea that I should do a solo recording, and so I became one of
the first people in a Motown group to really step out. Berry also said he
thought I should record my own album. Years later, when I did, I realised he
was right.

There was a small conflict during that era that was typical of the struggles
I went through as a young singer. When you're young and have ideas, people
often think you're just being childish and silly. We were on tour in 1972,
the year "Got To Be There" became a big hit. One night I said to our record
manager, "Before I sing that song, let me go offstage and grab that little
hat I wore for the picture on the album cover. If the audience sees me
wearing that hat, they'll go crazy."

He thought it was the most ridiculous idea he had ever heard. I was not
allowed to do it because I was young, and they all thought it was a dumb
idea. Not long after that incident, Donny Osmond began wearing a very
similar hat all over the country and people loved it. I felt good about my
instincts; I had thought it would work. I had seen Marvin Gaye wear a hat
when he sang "Let's Get It On," and people went bananas. They knew what was
coming when Marvin put that hat on. It added excitement and communicated
something to the audience that allowed them to become more involved with the
show.

I was already a devoted fan of film and animation by the time "The Jackson
Five" Saturday morning cartoon show started appearing over network
television in 1971. Diana Ross had enhanced my appreciation of animation
when she taught me to draw, but being a cartoon character pushed me over the
brink into a full-time love of the movies and the kind of animated motion
pictures pioneered by Walt Disney. I have such admiration for Mr. Disney and
what he accomplished with the help of so many talented artists. When I think
about the joy he and his company have brought to millions of children - and
adults - the world over, I am in awe.

I loved being a cartoon. It was so much fun to get up on Saturday mornings
to watch cartoons and look forward to seeing ourselves on the screen. It was
like a fantasy come true for all of us.

My first real involvement with films came when I sang the title song for the
movie Ben in 1972.

Ben meant a lot to me. Nothing had ever excited me as much as going to the
studio to put my voice on film. I had a great time. Later, when the movie
came out, I'd go to the theatre and wait until the end when the credits
would flash on, and it would say, "'Ben' sung by Michael Jackson." I was
really impressed by that. I loved the song and loved the story. Actually,
the story was a lot like E.T. It was about a boy who befriended a rat.
People didn't understand the boy's love for this little creature. He was
dying of some disease and his only true friend was Ben, the leader of the
rats in the city where they lived. A lot of people thought the movie was a
bit odd, but I was not one of them. The song went to number one and is still
a favourite of mine. I have always loved animals and I enjoy reading about
them and seeing movies in which they're featured.

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Chapter Three - Dancing Machine
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The media write weird stuff about me all the time. The distortion of the
truth bothers me. I usually don't read a lot of what is printed, although I
often hear about it.

I don't understand why they feel the need to make up things about me. I
suppose if there's nothing scandalous to report, it's necessary to make
things interesting. I take some small pride in thinking that I've come out
pretty well, all things considered. A lot of children in the entertainment
business ended up doing drugs and destroying themselves: Frankie Lymon,
Bobbie Driscoll, any of a number of child stars. And I can understand their
turning to drugs, considering the enormous stresses put upon them at a young
age. It's a difficult life. Very few manage to maintain any semblance of a
normal childhood.

I myself have never tried drugs - no marijuana, no cocaine, nothing. I mean,
I haven't even tried these things.

Forget it.

This isn't to say we were never tempted. We were musicians doing business
during an era when drug use was common. I don't mean to be judgmental - it's
not even a moral issue for me - but I've seen drugs destroy too many lives
to think they're anything to fool with. I'm certainly no angel, and I may
have my own bad habits, but drugs aren't among them.

By the time Ben came out, we knew that we were going to go around the world.
American soul music had become as popular in other countries as blue jeans
and hamburgers. We were invited to become part of that big world, and in
1972 we began our first overseas tour with a visit to England. Though we'd
never been there before or appeared on British television, people knew all
the words to our songs. They even had wide scarves with our pictures on them
and "Jackson 5" written in big broad letters. The theatres were smaller than
the ones we were used to playing in the United States, but the enthusiasm
from the crowds was very gratifying as we'd finish each song. They didn't
scream during the songs the way crowds did back home, so people over there
could actually tell how good Tito was getting on the guitar, because they
could hear him.

We took Randy along because we wanted to give him the experience and allow
him to see what was going on. He wasn't officially part of our act, but
stayed in the background with bongos. He had his own Jackson 5 outfit, so
when we introduced him, people cheered. The next time we came back, Randy
would be a part of the group. I had been the bongo player before Randy, and
Marlon had played them before me, so it had become almost a tradition to
break the new guy in on those crazy little drums.

We had three years of hits behind us when we toured Europe that first time,
so there was enough to please both the kids who followed our music and the
Queen of England, whom we met at a Royal Command Performance. That was very
exciting for us. I had seen photographs of other groups, like the Beatles,
meeting the Queen after command performances, but I never dreamed we'd get
the chance to play for her.

England was our jumping-off point, and it was different from any place we'd
been before, but the farther we travelled, the more exotic the world looked.
We saw the great museums of Paris and the beautiful mountains of
Switzerland. Europe was an education in the roots of Western culture and, in
a way, a preparation for visiting Eastern countries that were more
spiritual. I was very impressed that the people there didn't value material
things as much as they did animals and nature. For instance, China and Japan
were places that helped me grow because these countries made me understand
there was more to life than the things you could hold in your hand or see
with you eyes. And in all of these countries, the people had heard of us and

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liked our music.

Australia and New Zealand, our next stops, were English-speaking, but we met
people who were still living in tribes in the outback. They greeted us as
brothers even though they didn't speak our language. If I'd ever needed
proof that all men could be brothers, I certainly had it during that tour.

And then there was Africa. We had read up on Africa because our tutor, Miss
Fine, had prepared special lessons on the customs and history of each
country we visited. We didn't get to see the prettier parts of Africa, but
the ocean and the shore and the people were unbelievably beautiful near the
coast where we were. We went to a game reserve one day and observed animals
roaming wild. The music was eye-opening too. The rhythms were phenomenal.
When we first came off the plane, it was dawn and there was a long line of
Africans dancing in their native costumes, with drums and shakers. They were
dancing all around, welcoming us. They were really into it. Boy, it was
something. What a perfect way to welcome us to Africa. I'll never forget
that.

And the craftspeople in the marketplace were incredible. People were making
things as we watched and selling other things. I remember one man who made
beautiful wood carvings. He'd ask you what you wanted and you'd say, "A
man's face," and he'd take a piece from a tree trunk, slice it, and create
this remarkable face. You could watch him do it right before your eyes. I'd
just sit there and watch people step up to ask him to make something for
them and he'd do this whole thing over and over.

It was a visit to Senegal that made us realise how fortunate we were and how
our African heritage had helped to make us what we were. We visited an old,
abandoned slave camp at Gore Island and we were so moved. The African people
had given us gifts of courage and endurance that we couldn't hope to repay.

I guess if Motown could have had us age the way they wanted us to, they
would have wanted Jackie to stay the age he was when we became a headline
act and have each of us catch up with him - although I think they'd have
wanted to keep me a year or so younger, so I could still be a child star.

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That may sound nonsensical, but it really wasn't much more farfetched than
the way they were continuing to mold us, keeping is from being a real group
with its own internal direction and ideas. We were growing up and we were
expanding creatively. We had so many ideas we wanted to try out, but they
were convinced that we shouldn't fool with a successful formula. At least
they didn't drop us as soon as my voice changed, as some said they might.

It got to the point that it seemed there were more guys in the booth than
there were on the studio floor at any given time. They all seemed to be
bumping into one another, giving advice and monitoring our music.

Our loyal fans stuck with us on records like "I Am Love" and "Skywriter."
These songs were musically ambitious pop recordings, with sophisticated
string arrangements, but they weren't right for us. Sure, we couldn't do
"ABC" all our lives - that was the last thing we wanted - but even the older
fans thought "ABC" had more going for it, and that was hard for us to live
with. During the mid-seventies we were in danger of becoming an oldies act,
and I wasn't even eighteen yet.

When Jermaine married Hazel Gordy, our boss's daughter, people were winking
at us, saying that we'd always be looked after. Indeed, when "Get It
Together" came out in 1973, it got the same treatment from Berry that "I
Want You Back" had gotten. It was our biggest hit in two years, though you
could have said it was more like a bone transplant than the spanking little
baby that our first hit was. Nevertheless, "Get It Together" had good, tough
low harmony, a sharper wah-wah guitar, and strings that buzzed like
fireflies. Radio stations liked it, but not as much as the new dance clubs
called discos did. Motown picked up on this and brought back Hal Davis from
The Corporation days to really put the juice into "Dancing Machine." The
Jackson 5 were no longer just the backup group for the 101 Strings or
whatever.

Motown had come a long way from the early days when you could find good
studio musicians supplementing their session pay with bowling alley gigs. A
new sophistication turned up in the music on "Dancing Machine." That song
had the best horn part we'd worked with yet and a "bubble machine" in the
break, made out of synthesizer noise, that kept the song from going
completely out of style. Disco music had its detractors, but to us it seemed
our rite of passage into the adult world.

I loved "Dancing Machine," loved the groove and the feel of that song. When
it came out in 1974, I was determined to find a dance move that would
enhance the song and make it more exciting to perform - and, I hoped, more
exciting to watch.

So when we sang "Dancing Machine" on "Soul Train," I did a street-style
dance move called the Robot. That performance was a lesson to me in the
power of television. Overnight, "Dancing Machine" rose to the top of the
charts, and within a few days it seemed that every kid in the United States
was doing the Robot. I had never seen anything like it.

Motown and the Jackson 5 could agree on one thing: As our act grew, our
audience should too. We had two recruits coming up: Randy had already toured
with us, and Janet was showing talent with her singing and dancing lessons.

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We couldn't put Randy and Janet into our old lineup any more than we could
put square pegs into round holes. I wouldn't insult their considerable
talent by saying that show business was so in their blood that they just
took their places automatically, as if we'd reserved a spot for them. They
worked hard and earned their places in the group. They didn't join us
because they ate meals with us and shared our old toys.

If you just went by blood, I'd have as much crane operator in me as singer.
You can't measure these things. Dad worked us hard and kept certain goals in
sight while spinning dreams at night.

Just as disco might have seemed like a very unlikely place for a kids' group
to become a grown-up act, Las Vegas, with its showcase theatres, wasn't
exactly the family atmosphere that Motown had originally groomed us for, but
we decided to play there just the same. There wasn't much to do in Las Vegas
if you didn't gamble, but we thought of the theatres in the city as just big
clubs with the club hours and clientele of our Gary and South Side Chicago
days - except for the tourists. Tourist crowds were a good thing for us,
since they knew our old hits and would watch our skits and listen to new
songs without getting restless. It was great to see the delight on their
faces when little Janet came out in her Mae West costume for a number or
two.

We had performed skits before, in a 1971 TV special called Goin' Back To
Indiana , which celebrated our Gary homecoming the first time we all decided
to return. Our records had become hits all over the world since we'd seen
our hometown last.

It was even more fun to do skits with nine of us, instead of just five, plus
whatever guests happened to appear with us. Our expanded lineup was a dream
come true for Dad. Looking back, I know the Las Vegas shows were an
experience I'll never recapture. We didn't have the high-pressure concert
crowd wanting all our hit songs and nothing more. We were temporarily freed
from the pressures of having to keep up with what everyone else was doing.
We had a ballad or two in every show to break in my "new voice." At fifteen,
I was having to think about things like that.

There were people from CBS Television at our Las Vegas shows and they
approached us about doing a variety show for the upcoming summer. We were
very interested and pleased that we were being recognised as more than just
a "Motown group." Over time, this distinction would not be lost on us.
Because we had creative control over our Las Vegas revue, it was harder for
us to return to our lack of freedom in recording and writing music once we
got back to Los Angeles. We'd always intended to grow and develop in the
musical field. That was our bread and butter, and we felt we were being held
back. Sometimes I felt we were being treated as if we still lived in Berry
Gordy's house - and with Jermaine now a son-in-law, our frustration was only
heightened.

By the time we began putting our own act together, there were signs that
other Motown institutions were changing. Marvin Gaye took charge of his own
music and produced his masterpiece album, What's Goin' On . Stevie Wonder
was learning more about electronic keyboards than the experienced studio
hired guns - they were coming to him for advice. One of our last great
memories from our Motown days is of Stevie leading us in chanting to back up
his tough, controversial song "You Haven't Done Nothin'." Though Stevie and
Marvin were still in the Motown camp, they had fought for - and won - the
right to make their own records, and even to publish their own songs. Motown
hadn't even budged with us. To them we were still kids, even if they weren't
dressing us and "protecting" us any longer.

Our problems with Motown began around 1974, when we told them in no
uncertain terms that we wanted to write and produce our own songs.
Basically, we didn't like the way our music sounded at the time. We had a
strong competitive urge and we felt we were in danger of being eclipsed by
other groups who were creating a more contemporary sound.

Motown said, "No, you can't write your own songs; you've got to have
songwriters and producers." They not only refused to grant our requests,
they told us it was taboo to even mention that we wanted to do our own
music. I really got discouraged and began to seriously dislike all the
material Motown was feeding us. Eventually I became so disappointed and
upset that I wanted to leave Motown behind.

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When I feel that something is not right, I have to speak up. I know most
people don't think of me as tough or strong-willed, but that's just because
they don't know me. Eventually my brothers and I reached a point with Motown
where we were miserable but no one was saying anything. My brothers didn't
say anything. My father didn't say anything. So it was up to me to arrange a
meeting with Berry Gordy and talk to him. I was the one who had to say that
we - the Jackson 5 - were going to leave Motown. I went over to see him,
face to face, and it was one of the most difficult things I've ever done. If
I had been the only one of us who was unhappy, I might have kept my mouth
shut, but there had been so much talk at home about how unhappy we all were
that I went in and talked to him and told him how we felt. I told him I was
unhappy.

Remember, I love Berry Gordy. I think he's a genius, a brilliant man who's
one of the giants of the music business. I have nothing but respect for him,
but that day I was a lion. I complained that we weren't allowed any freedom
to write songs and produce. He told me that he still thought we needed
producers to make hit records.

But I knew better, Berry was talking out of anger. That was a difficult
meeting, but we're friends again, and he's still like a father to me - very
proud of me and happy about my success. No matter what, I will always love
Berry because he taught me some of the most valuable things I've learned in
my life. He's the man who told the Jackson 5 they would become a part of
history, and that is exactly what happened. Motown has done so much for so
many people over the years. I feel we're fortunate to have been one of the
groups Berry personally introduced to the public and I owe enormous thanks
to this man. My life would have been very different without him. We all felt
that Motown started us, supporting our professional careers. We all felt our
roots were there, and we all wished we could stay. We were grateful for
everything they had done for us, but change is inevitable. I'm a person of
the present, and I have to ask, How are things going now? What's happening
now? What's going to happen in the future that could affect what has
happened in the past?

It's important for artists always to maintain control of their lives and
work. There's been a big problem in the past with artists being taken
advantage of. I've learned that a person can prevent that from happening by
standing up for what he or she believes is right, without concern for the
consequences. We could have stayed with Motown; but if we had, we'd probably
be an oldies act.

I knew it was time for change, so we followed our instincts, and we won when
we decided to try for a fresh start with another label. Epic

We were relieved that we had finally made our feelings clear and cut the
ties that were binding us, but we were also really devastated when Jermaine
decided to stay with Motown. He was Berry's son-in-law and his situation was
more complicated than ours. He thought it was more important for him to stay
than to leave, and Jermaine always did as his conscience told him, so he
left the group.

I clearly remember the first show we did without him, because it was so
painful for me. Since my earliest days on the stage - and even in our
rehearsals in our Gary living room - Jermaine stood at my left with his
bass. I depended on being next to Jermaine. And when I did that first show
without him there, with no one next to me, I felt totally naked onstage for
the first time in my life. So we worked harder to compensate for the loss of
one of our shining stars, Jermaine. I remember that show well because we got
three standing ovations. We worked hard .

When Jermaine left the group, Marlon had a chance to take his place and he
really shone onstage. My brother Randy officially took my place as bongo
player and the baby of the band.

Around the time that Jermaine left, things were further complicated for us
because of the fact that we were doing a stupid summer replacement TV
series. It was a dumb move to agree to do that show and I hated every minute
of it.

I had loved the old "Jackson Five" cartoon show. I used to wake up early on
Saturday mornings and say, "I'm a cartoon!" But I hated doing this
television show because I felt it would hurt our recording career rather
than help it. I think a TV series is the worst thing an artist who has a
recording career can do. I kept saying, "But this is gonna hurt our record
sales." And others said, "No, it's gonna help them."

They were totally wrong. We had to dress in ridiculous outfits and perform
stupid comedy routines to canned laughter. It was all so fake. We didn't
have time to learn or master anything about television. We had to create
three dance numbers a day, trying to meet a deadline. The Nielsen ratings
controlled our lives from week to week. I'd never do it again. It's a
dead-end road. What happens is partly psychological. You are in people's
homes every week and they begin to feel they know you too well. You're doing
all this silly comedy to canned laughter and your music begins to recede
into the background. When you try to get serious again and pick up your
career where you left off, you can't because you're overexposed. People are
thinking of you as the guys who do the silly, crazy routines. One week
you're Santa Claus, the next week you're Prince Charming, another week
you're a rabbit. It's crazy, because you lose your identity in the business;
the rocker image you had is gone. I'm not a comedian. I'm not a show host.
I'm a musician. That's why I've turned down offers to host the Grammy Awards
and the American Music Awards. Is it really entertaining for me to get up
there and crack a few weak jokes and force people to laugh because I'm
Michael Jackson, when I know in my heart that I'm not funny?

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After our TV show I can remember doing theatres-in-the-round where the stage
didn't revolve because if they had turned it, we would have been singing to
some empty seats. I learned something from that experience and I was the one
who refused to renew our contract with the network for another season. I
just told my father and brothers that I thought it was a big mistake, and
they understood my point of view. I had actually had a lot of misgivings
about the show before we started taping it, but I ended up agreeing to give
it a try because everyone thought it would be a great experience and very
good for us.

The problem with TV is that everything must be crammed into a little space
of time. You don't have time to perfect anything. Schedules - tight
schedules - rule your life. If you're not happy with something, you just
forget it and move on to the next routine. I'm a perfectionist by nature. I
like things to be the best they can be. I want people to hear or watch
something I've done and feel that I've given it everything I've got. I feel
I owe an audience that courtesy. On the show our sets were sloppy, the
lighting was poor, and our choreography was rushed . Somehow, the show was a
big hit. There was a popular show on opposite us and we beat them out in the
Nielsens. CBS really wanted to keep us, but I knew that show was a mistake.
As it turned out, it did hurt our record sales and it took us a while to
recover from the damage. When you know something's wrong for you, you have
to make difficult decisions and trust your instincts.

I rarely did TV after that; the Motown 25 special is the only show that
comes to mind. Berry asked me to be on that show and I kept trying to say
no, but he finally talked me into it. I told him I wanted to do "Billie
Jean" even though it would be the only non-Motown song on the show, and he
readily agreed. "Billie Jean" was number one at the time. I choreographed
our routines, so I was pretty wrapped up in those numbers, but I had a good
notion of what I wanted to do with "Billie Jean." I had a sense that the
routine had worked itself out in my mind while I was busy with other things.
I asked someone to rent or buy me a black fedora - a spy hat - and the day
of the show I began putting the routine together. I'll never forget that
night, because when I opened my eyes at the end, people were on their feet
applauding. I was overwhelmed by the reaction. It felt so good.

Our only "break" during the Motown-to-Epic switch was the TV show. While
that was all going on, we heard that Epic had Kenny Gamble and Leon Huff
working on demos for us. We were told we'd be recording in Philadelphia
after our shows were all done.

If there was anyone who stood to gain the most from switching labels, it was
Randy, who was now part of the Five. But now that he finally was one of us,
we were no longer known as the Jackson 5. Motown said that the group's name
was the company's registered trademark, and that we couldn't use it when we
left. That was hardball, of course, so we called ourselves the Jacksons from
that time on.

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Dad had met with the Philly guys while negotiations were going on with Epic.
We'd always had great respect for the records that Gamble and Huff had
overseen, records like "Backstabbers" by the O'Jays, "If You Don't Know Me
By Now," by Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes(featuring Teddy Pendergrass),
and "When Will I See You Again," by the Three Degrees, along with many other
hits. They told Dad they'd been watching us, and they said they wouldn't
mess with our singing. Dad mentioned that we were hoping to have a song or
two of our own included in the new album, and they promised to give them a
fair hearing.

We'd gotten to talk with Kenny and Leon and their team of people, which
included Leon McFadden and John Whitehead. They showed what they could do
for themselves when they made "Ain't No Stoppin' Us Now" in 1979. Dexter
Wanzel was also a part of this team. Kenny Gamble and Leon Huff are such
pros. I actually got a chance to watch them create as they presented songs
to us and that helped my songwriting a lot. Just watching Huff play the
piano while Gamble sang taught me more about the anatomy of a song than
anything else. Kenny Gamble is a master melody man. He made me pay closer
attention to the melody because of watching him create. And I would watch,
too. I'd sit there like a hawk, observing every decision, listening to every
note. They'd come to us in our hotel and play a whole album's worth of music
for us. That's the way we'd be introduced to the songs they had chosen for
our album - aside from the two songs we were writing ourselves. It was an
amazing thing to be present for.

We had cut some demos of our songs at home during our breaks from shooting,
but we decided to wait on those - we felt there was no sense putting a gun
to anyone's head. We knew that Philly had a lot to offer us, so we'd save
our surprise for them later.

Our two songs, "Blues Away" and "Style of Life," were two hard secrets to
keep at the time because we were so proud of them. "Style of Life" was a jam
that Tito directed, and it was in keeping with the nightclub groove that
"Dancing Machine" got us into, but we kept it a little leaner and meaner
than Motown would have cut it.

"Blues Away" was one of my first songs, and though I don't sing it any more,
I'm not embarrassed to hear it. I couldn't have gone on in this business if
I had ended up hating my own records after all that work. It's a light song
about overcoming a deep depression - I was going for the Jackie Wilson
"Lonely Teardrops" way of laughing on the outside to stop the churning
inside.

When we saw the cover art for The Jacksons album, the first we cut for Epic,
we were surprised to see that we all looked alike. Even Tito looked skinny!
I had my "crown" Afro then, so I didn't stick out so much, I guess. Still,
once we performed our new songs like "Enjoy Yourself" and "Show You the Way
to Go," people knew I was still second from the left, right out front. Randy
took Tito's old spot on my far right, and Tito moved into the old place
Jermaine had. It took a long time for me to feel comfortable with that, as
I've mentioned, though it was through no fault of Tito's.

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Those two singles were fun records - "Enjoy Yourself" was great for dancing.
It had rhythm guitar and horns that I really liked. It was also a number one
record. For my taste, I leaned a little more toward "Show You the Way to Go"
because it showed what good regard the Epic people had for our singing. We
were all over that record and it was the best one we did. I loved the high
hat and strings fluttering alongside us like birds' wings. I'm surprised
that song in particular wasn't a bigger hit.

Though we couldn't spell it out, we kind of hinted about our situation in a
song called "Living Together," which Kenny and Leon chose with us in mind.
"If we're going to stick together, we've got to be a family. Have yourself a
real good time, but don't you know it's getting late." The strings pointed
and thrust like they did in "Backstabbers," but that was a Jacksons'
message, even if it wasn't in the Jacksons' style - yet.

Gamble and Huff had written enough songs for another album, but we knew from
experience that while they were doing what they did best, we were losing
some of our identity. We were honoured to be a part of the Philly family,
but that wasn't enough for us. We were determined to do all of the things we
had wanted to do for so many years. That's why we had to go back into our
Encino studio and work together again as a family.

Going Places , our second album for Epic, was different from our first.
There were more songs with messages and not as many dance songs. We knew
that the message to promote peace and let music take over was a good one,
but again it was more like the old O'Jays' "Love Train" and not really our
style.

Still, maybe it wasn't a bad thing that there was no big pop hit on Going
Places because it made "Different Kind of Lady" an obvious choice for club
play. It was positioned in the middle of side one, so there were two Gamble
and Huff songs sandwiching it, and our song stood out like a ball of fire.
That was a real band cooking, with the Philly horns giving it one
exclamation point after another, just as we'd hoped. That's the feel we were
trying for when we were making demos with our old friend Bobby Taylor before
going to Epic. Kenny and Leon put the finishing touches on it, the icing,
but on this one we'd baked the cake ourselves.

After Going Places was in the stores, Dad asked me to accompany him to a
meeting with Ron Alexenburg. Ron signed us for CBS, and he really believed
in us. We wanted to convince him that we were ready now to take charge of
our own music. We felt that CBS had evidence of what we could do on our own,
so we stated our case, explaining that we'd originally wanted Bobby Taylor
to work with us. Bobby had stuck with us through all those years, and we had
thought he'd be a fine producer for us. Epic wanted Gamble and Huff because
they had the track record, but maybe they were the wrong jockeys or we were
the wrong horses for them, because we were letting them down in the sales
department through no fault of our own. We had a strong work ethic that
backed up everything we did.

Mr. Alexenburg was certainly used to dealing with performers, although I'm
sure that among his business friends he could be just as cutting about
musicians as we musicians could be when we were swapping our own stories

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among ourselves. But Dad and I were on the same wavelength when it came to
the business side of music. People who make music and people who sell
records are not natural enemies. I care as much about what I do as a
classical musician, and I want what I do to reach the widest possible
audience. The record people care about their artists, and they want to reach
the widest market. As we sat in the CBS boardroom eating a nicely catered
lunch, we told Mr. Alexenburg that Epic had done its best, and it wasn't
good enough. We felt we could do better, that our reputation was worth
putting on the line.

When we left that skyscraper known as Black Rock, Dad and I didn't say much
to each other. The ride back to the hotel was a silent one, with each of us
thinking our own thoughts. There wasn't much to add to what we had already
said. Our whole lives had been leading to that single, important
confrontation, however civilised and aboveboard it was. Maybe Ron Alexenburg
has had reason to smile over the years when he remembers that day.

When that meeting took place at CBS headquarters in New York, I was only
nineteen years old. I was carrying a heavy burden for nineteen. My family
was relying on me more and more as far as business and creative decisions
were concerned, and I was so worried about trying to do the right thing for
them; but I also had an opportunity to do something I'd wanted to do all my
life - act in a film. Ironically the old Motown connection was paying a late
dividend.

Motown had bought the rights to film the Broadway show known as The Wiz even
as we were leaving the company. The Wiz was an updated, black-orientated
version of the great movie The Wizard of Oz , which I had always loved. I
remember that when I was a kid The Wizard of Oz was shown on television once
a year and always on a Sunday night. Kids today can't imagine what a big
event that was for all of us because they've grown up with videocassettes
and the expanded viewing that cable provides.

I had seen the Broadway show too, which was certainly no letdown. I swear I
saw it six or seven times. I later became very friendly with the star of the
show, Stephanie Mills, the Broadway Dorothy. I told her then, and I've
always believed since, that it was a tragedy that her performance in the
play could not have been preserved on film. I cried time after time. As much
as I like the Broadway stage, I don't think I'd want to play on it myself.
When you give a performance, whether on record or on film, you want to be
able to judge what you've done, to measure yourself and try to improve. You
can't do that in an untaped or unrecorded performance. It makes me sad to
think of all the great actors who have played roles we would give anything
to see, but they're lost to us because they couldn't be, or simply weren't,
recorded.

If I had been tempted to go onstage, it would probably have been to work
with Stephanie, although her performances were so moving that I might have
cried right there in front of the audience. Motown bought The Wiz for one
reason, and as far as I was concerned, it was the best reason possible:
Diana Ross.

Diana was close to Berry Gordy and had her loyalties to him and to Motown,
but she did not forget us just because our records now had a different label