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on them. We had been in touch throughout the changes, and she had even met
up with us in Las Vegas, where she gave us tips during our run there. Diana
was going to play Dorothy, and since it was the only part that was
definitely cast, she encouraged me to audition. She also assured me that
Motown would not keep me from getting a part just to spite me or my family.
She would make sure of that if she had to, but she didn't think she'd have
to.

She didn't. It was Berry Gordy who said he hoped I'd audition for The Wiz .
I was very fortunate he felt that way, because I was bitten by the acting
bug during that experience. I said to myself, this is what I'm interested in
doing when I have a chance - this is it. When you make a film, you're
capturing something elusive and you're stopping time. The people, their
performances, the story become a thing that can be shared by people all over
the world for generations and generations. Imagine never having seen
Captains Courageous or To Kill a Mockingbird ! Making movies is exciting
work. It's such a team effort and it's also a lot of fun. Someday soon I
plan to devote a lot of my time to making films.

I auditioned for the part of the Scarecrow because I thought his character
best fit my style. I was too bouncy for the Tin Man and too light for the
Lion, so I had a definite goal, and I tried to put a lot of thought into my
reading and dancing for the part. When I got the call back from the
director, Sidney Lumet, I felt so proud but also a little scared. The
process of making a film was new to me, and I was going to have to let go of
my responsibilities to my family and my music for months. I had visited New
York, where we were shooting, to get the feel for Harlem that The Wiz ¦s
story called for, but I had never lived there. I was surprised by how
quickly I got used to the lifestyle. I enjoyed meeting a whole group of
people I'd always heard about on the other coast but had never laid eyes on.

Making The Wiz was an education for me on so many levels. As a recording
artist I already felt like an old pro, but the film world was completely new
to me. I watched as closely as I could and learned a lot.

During this period in my life, I was searching, both consciously and
unconsciously. I was feeling some stress and anxiety about what I wanted to
do with my life now that I was an adult. I was analysing my options and
preparing to make decisions that could have a lot of repercussions. Being on
the set of The Wiz was like being in a big school. My complexion was still a
mess during the filming of the movie, so I found myself really enjoying the
makeup. It was an amazing makeup job. Mine took five hours to do, six days a
week; we didn't shoot on Sundays. We finally got it down to four hours flat
after doing it long enough. The other people who were being made up were
amazed that I didn't mind sitting there having this done for such long
periods of time. They hated it, but I enjoyed having the stuff put on my
face. When I was transformed into the Scarecrow, it was the most wonderful
thing in the world. I got to be somebody else and escape through my
character. Kids would come visit the set, and I'd have such fun playing with
them and responding to them as the Scarecrow.

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I'd always pictured myself doing something very elegant in the movies, but
it was my experience with the makeup and costume and prop people in New York
that made me realise another aspect of how wonderful film-making could be. I
had always loved the Charlie Chaplin movies, and no one ever saw him doing
anything overtly elegant in the silent movie days. I wanted something of the
quality of his characters in my Scarecrow. I loved everything about the
costume, from the coil legs to the tomato nose to the fright wig. I even
kept the orange and white sweater that came with it and used it in a picture
session years later.

The film had marvellous, very complicated dance numbers, and learning them
was no problem. But that in itself became an unexpected problem with my
costars.

Ever since I was a very little boy, I've been able to watch somebody do a
dance step and then immediately know how to do it. Another person might have
to be taken through the movement step by step and told to count and put this
leg here and the hip to the right. When your hip goes to the left, put your
neck over there . . . that sort of thing. But if I see it, I can do it.

When we were doing The Wiz , I was being instructed in the choreography
along with my characters - the Tin Man, the Lion, and Diana Ross - and they
were getting mad at me. I couldn't figure out what was wrong until Diana
took me aside and told me that I was embarrassing her. I just stared at her.
Embarrassing Diana Ross? Me? She said she knew I wasn't aware of it, but I
was learning the dances much too quickly. It was embarrassing for her and
the others, who just couldn't learn steps as soon as they saw the
choreographer do them. She said he'd show us something and I'd just go out
there and do it. When he asked the others to do it, it took them longer to
learn. We laughed about it, but I tried to make the ease with which I
learned my steps less obvious.

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I also learned that there could be a slightly vicious side to the business
of making a movie. Often when I was in front of the camera, trying to do a
serious scene, one of the other characters would start making faces at me,
trying to crack me up. I had always been drilled in serious professionalism
and preparedness and therefore I thought it was a pretty mean thing to do.
This actor would know that I had important lines to say that day, yet he
would make these really crazy faces to distract me. I felt it was more than
inconsiderate and unfair.

Much later Marlon Brando would tell me that people used to do that to him
all the time.

The problems on the set were really few and far between and it was great
working with Diana so closely. She's such a beautiful, talented woman. Doing
this movie together was very special for me. I love her very much. I have
always loved her very much.

The whole Wiz period was a time of stress and anxiety, even though I was
enjoying myself. I remember July 4 of that year very well, because I was on
the beach at my brother Jermaine's house, about half a block away along the
waterfront. I was messing around in the surf, and all of a sudden I couldn't
breathe. No air. Nothing. I asked myself what's wrong? I tried not to panic,
but I ran back to the house to find Jermaine, who took me to the hospital.
It was wild. A blood vessel had burst in my lung. It has never reoccurred,
although I used to feel little pinches and jerks in there that were probably
my imagination. I later learned that this condition was related to pleurisy.
It was suggested by my doctor that I try to take things a little slower, but
my schedule would not permit it. Hard work continued to be the name of the
game.

As much as I liked the old Wizard of Oz , this new script, which differed
from the Broadway production in scope rather than spirit, asked more
questions than the original movie and answered them too. The atmosphere of
the old movie was that of a magic kingdom sort of fairy tale. Our movie, on
the other hand, had sets based on realities that kids could identify with,
like schoolyards, subway stations, and the real neighbourhood that our
Dorothy came from. I still enjoy seeing The Wiz and reliving the experience.
I am especially fond of the scene where Diana asks, "What am I afraid of?
Don't know what I'm made of . . ." because I've felt that way many times,
even during the good moments of my life. She sings about overcoming fear and
walking straight and tall. She knows and the audience knows that no threat
of danger can hold her back.

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My character had plenty to say and to learn. I was propped up on my pole
with a bunch of crows laughing at me, while I sang "You Can't Win." The song
was about humiliation and helplessness - something that so many people have
felt at one time or another - and the feeling that there are people out
there who don't actively hold you back as much as they work quietly on your
insecurities so that you hold yourself back. The script was clever and
showed me pulling bits of information and quotations out of my straw while
not really knowing how to use them. My straw contained all the answers, but
I didn't know the questions.

The great difference between the two Wizard movies was that all the answers
are given to Dorothy by the Good Witch and by her friends in Oz in the
original, while in our version Dorothy comes to her own conclusions. Her
loyalty to her three friends and her courage in fighting Elvina in that
amazing sweatshop scene make Dorothy a memorable character. Diana's singing
and dancing and acting have stayed with me ever since. She was a perfect
Dorothy. After the evil witch had been defeated, the sheer joy of our
dancing took over. To dance with Diana in that movie was like an abridged
version of my own story - my knock-kneed walk and "bigfoot" spin were me in
my early days; our tabletop dance in the sweatshop scene was where we were
right then. Everything was onward and upward. When I told my brothers and
father I had gotten this part, they thought it might be too much for me, but
the opposite was true. The Wiz gave me new inspiration and strength. The
question became what to do with those things. How could I best harness them?

As I was asking myself what I wanted to do next, another man and I were
travelling parallel paths that would converge on the set of The Wiz . We
were in Brooklyn rehearsing one day, and we were reading our parts out loud
to one another. I had thought that learning lines would be the most
difficult thing I'd ever do, but I was pleasantly surprised. Everyone had
been kind, assuring me that it was easier that I thought. And it was.

We were doing the crows' scene that day. The other guys wouldn't even have
their heads visible in this scene because they'd be in crow costumes. They
seemed to know their parts backward and forward. I'd studied mine too, but I
hadn't said them aloud more than once or twice.

The directions called for me to pull a piece of paper from my straw and read
it. It was a quote. The author's name, Socrates, was printed at the end. I
had read Socrates, but I had never pronounced his name, so I said,
"Soh-crates," because that's the way I had always assumed it was pronounced.
There was a moment's silence before I heard someone whisper,
"Soh-ruh-teeze." I looked over at this man I vaguely recognised. He was not
one of the actors, but he seemed to belong there. I remember thinking he
looked very self-confident and had a friendly face.

I smiled, a little embarrassed at having mispronounced the name, and thanked
him for his help. His face was naggingly familiar, and I was suddenly sure
that I had met him before. He confirmed my suspicions by extending his hand.

"Quincy Jones. I'm doing the score."

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Chapter Four - Me And Q
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I had actually first met Quincy Jones in Los Angeles when I was about twelve
years old. Quincy later told me that at the time Sammy Davis, Jr., had said
to him, "This kid is gonna be the next biggest thing since sliced bread."
Something like that, anyway, and Quincy said, "Oh yeah?" I was little at the
time, but I vaguely remembered Sammy Davis introducing me to Q.

Our friendship really began to blossom on the set of The Wiz , and it
developed into a father-and-son relationship. After The Wiz I called him and
said, "Look, I'm going to do an album - do you think you could recommend
some producers?"

I wasn't hinting. My question was a naive but honest one. We talked about
music for a while, and, after coming up with some names and some
half-hearted hemming and hawing, he said, "Why don't you let me do it?"

I really hadn't thought of it. It sounded to him as if I was hinting, but I
wasn't. I just didn't think he would be that interested in my music. So I
stammered something like, "Oh sure, great idea. I never thought about that."

Quincy still kids me about it.

Anyway, we immediately began to plan the album that became Off the Wall .

My brothers and I decided to form our own production company, and we began
thinking about names to call it.

You don't find many articles about peacocks in the newspaper, but around
this time I found the only one that mattered. I had always thought peacocks
were beautiful and had admired one that Berry Gordy had at one of his homes.
So when I read the article, which had an accompanying picture of a peacock,
and revealed a great deal about the bird's characteristics, I was excited. I
thought I might have found the image we were looking for. It was an in-depth
piece, a little dry in places, but interesting. The writer said that the
peacock's full plumage would explode only when it was in love, and then all
the colours would shine - all the colours of the rainbow on one body.

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I was immediately taken with that beautiful image and the meaning behind it.
That bird's plumage conveyed the message I was looking for to explain the
Jacksons and our intense devotion to one another, as well as our
multifaceted interests. My brothers liked the idea, so we called our new
company Peacock Productions, to sidestep the trap of relying too heavily on
the Jackson name. Our first world tour had focused our interest in uniting
people of all races through music. Some people we knew wondered what we
meant when we talked about uniting all the races through music -after all,
we were black musicians. Our answer was "music is colour-blind." We saw that
every night, especially in Europe and the other parts of the world we had
visited. The people we met there loved our music. It didn't matter to them
what colour our skin was or which country we called home.

We wanted to form our own production company because we wanted to grow and
establish ourselves as a new presence in the music world, not just as
singers and dancers, but as writers, composers, arrangers, producers, and
even publishers. We were interested in so many things, and we needed an
umbrella company to keep track of our projects. CBS had agreed to let us
produce our own album - the last two albums had sold well, but "Different
Kind of Lady" showed a potential that they agreed was worth letting us
develop. They did have one condition for us: they assigned an A&R man, Bobby
Colomby, who used to be with Blood, Sweat, and Tears, to check in with us
from time to time to see how we were doing and to see if we needed any help.
We knew that the five of us needed some outside musicians to get the best
possible sound, and we were weak in two areas: the keyboard and arranging
sides of things. We had been faithfully adding all the new technology to our
Encino studio without really having a mastery of it. Greg Phillinganes was
young for a studio pro, but that was a plus as far as we were concerned
because we wanted someone who would be more open to newer ways of doing
things than the seasoned veterans we had encountered over the years.

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He came to Encino to do preproduction work, and we all took turns surprising
each other. Our mutual preconceptions just dissolved. It was a great thing
to watch. As we sketched out our new songs for him, we told him that we
liked the vocal tracks that Philly International always put a premium on,
but when the mix came out, we always seemed to be fighting someone else's
wall of sound, all those strings and cymbals. We wanted to sound cleaner and
more funky, with a flintier bass and sharper horn parts. With his beautiful
rhythm arrangements, Greg put into musical form what we were sketching for
him and then some. We felt he was reading our minds.

A Bobby Colomby recruit who came to work with us then was Paulinho de Costa,
whom we worried about because it seemed to us that Randy was being told he
couldn't handle all the percussion by himself. But Paulinho brought with him
the Brazilian samba tradition of adapting and improvising on primitive and
often homemade instruments. When de Costa's sound joined forces with Randy's
more conventional approach, we seemed to have the whole world covered.

Artistically speaking we were caught between a rock and a hard place. We had
worked with the smartest, hippest people in the world at Motown and Philly
International, and we would have been fools to discount the things we'd
absorbed from them, yet we couldn't be imitators. Fortunately we got a
running start with a song that Bobby Colomby brought us called "Blame It on
the Boogie." It was an up-tempo, finger-poppin'-time song that was a good
vehicle for the band approach we wanted to cultivate. I had fun slurring the
chorus: "Blame It on the Boogie" could be sung in one breath without putting
my lips together. We had a little fun with the credits on the inner sleeve
of the record; "Blame It on the Boogie" was written by three guys from
England, including one named Michael Jackson. It was a startling
coincidence. As it turned out, writing disco songs was a natural for me
because I was used to having dance breaks incorporated into all the major
songs I was asked to sing.

There was a lot of uncertainty and excitement about our future. We were
going through a lot of creative and personal changes - our music, the family
of dynamics, our desires and goals. All of this made me think more seriously
about how I was spending my life, especially in relation to other people my
age. I had always shouldered a lot of responsibility, but it suddenly seemed
that everyone wanted a piece of me. There wasn't that much to go around, and
I needed to be responsible to myself. I had to take stock of my life and
figure out what people wanted from me and to whom I was going to give
wholly. It was a hard thing for me to do, but I had to learn to be wary of
some of the people around me. God was at the top of my list of priorities,
and my mother and father and brothers and sisters followed. I was reminded
of that old song by Clarence Carter called "Patches," where the oldest son
is asked to take care of the farm after his father dies and his mother tells
him she's depending on him. Well, we weren't sharecroppers and I wasn't the
oldest, but those were slim shoulders on which to place such burdens. For
some reason I always found it very difficult to say no to my family and the
other people I loved. I would be asked to do something or take care of
something and I would agree, even if I worried that it might be more than I
could handle.

I felt under a great deal of stress and I was often emotional. Stress can be
a terrible thing; you can't keep your emotions bottled up for long. There
were a lot of people at this time who wondered just how committed I was to
music after learning of my newfound interest in movies after being in one.
It was hinted that my decision to audition had come at a bad time for the
new band setup. It seemed, to outsiders, to come just as we were about to
get started. But of course it worked out just fine.

"That's What You Get for Being Polite" was my way of letting on that I knew
I wasn't living in an ivory tower and that I had insecurities and doubts
just as all older teenagers do. I was worried that the world and all it had
to offer could be passing me by even as I tried to get on top of my field.

There was a Gamble and Huff song called "Dreamer" on the first Epic album
which had this theme, and as I was learning it, I felt they could have
written it with me in mind. I have always been a dreamer. I set goals for
myself. I look at things and try to imagine what is possible and then hope
to surpass those boundaries.

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In 1979 I turned twenty-one years old and began to take full control of my
career. My father's personal management contract with me ran out around this
time, and although it was a hard decision, the contract was not renewed.

Trying to fire your dad is not easy.

But I just didn't like the way certain things were being handled. Mixing
family and business can be a delicate situation. It can be great or it can
be awful; it depends on the relationships. Even at the best of times it's a
hard thing to do.

Did it change the relationship between me and my father? I don't know if it
did in his heart, but it certainly didn't in mine. It was a move I knew I
had to make because at the time I was beginning to feel that I was working
for him rather than that he was working for me . And on the creative side we
are of two completely different minds. He would come up with ideas that I
would totally disagree with because they weren't right for me. All I wanted
was control over my life. And I took it. I had to do it. Everyone comes to
that point, sooner or later, and I had been in the business for a long time.
I was pretty experienced for twenty-one - a fifteen-year veteran. We were
eager to take the Destiny band and concept on the road, but I got hoarse
from too many shows, too much singing. When we had to cancel some
performances, no one held it against me, but I felt as if I was holding my
brothers back after the great job they had done while we worked together to
get us all back on track. We made some makeshift adjustments in order to
ease the strain on my throat. Marlon took over for me in some passages that
required holding long notes. "Shake You Body (Down to the Ground)," our set
piece on the album, turned out to be a lifesaver for us onstage because we
already had a good jam in the studio to build on. It was frustrating to have
finally realised our dream of having our own music as the showpiece, rather
than the novelty song, and not being able to give it our very best shot. It
wasn't long, however, before our time would come.

In looking back, I realise I was more patient than perhaps my brothers
wanted me to be. As we were remixing Destiny , it occurred to me that we had
"left out" some things that I hadn't talked to my brothers about because I
wasn't sure they'd be as interested in them as I was. Epic had arranged in
the contract that they would handle any solo album I might decide to do.
Perhaps they were hedging their bets; if the Jacksons couldn't make their
new sound work, they could try to turn me into something they could mould
for the rest of my life. That might seem like a suspicious way of thinking,
but I knew from experience that money people always want to know what is
going on and what can happen and how to recoup their investment. It seemed
logical for them to think that way. In the light of what's happened since, I
wonder about those thoughts I had, but they were real at the time.

Destiny was our biggest success as an album, and we knew we had really
reached the point where people bought your record because they knew you were
good and knew you'd give them your very best on every song and every album.
I wanted my first solo album to be the best it could be.

I didn't want Off the Wall to sound like outtakes from Destiny . That's why
I wanted to hire an outside producer who wouldn't come to this project with
any preconceived notions about how it should sound. I also needed someone
with a good ear to help me choose material because I didn't have enough time
to write two sides of songs I'd be proud of. I knew the public expected more
than two good singles on an album, especially in the discos with their
extended cuts, and I wanted the fans to feel satisfied.

These are all reasons why Quincy proved to be the best producer I could have
asked for. Quincy Jones's friends called him "Q" for short because of a love
he has for barbecue. Later, after we'd finished Off the Wall , he invited me
to a concert of his orchestral music at the Hollywood Bowl, but I was so shy
at the time that I stood in the wings to watch the show as I had as a child.
He said he expected more from me than that, and we've been trying to live up
to each other's standards ever since.

That day I called to ask his advice about a producer, he started talking
about people in the business - who I could work with and who I'd have
trouble with. He knew track records, who was booked, who'd be too lax, who'd
put the "pedal to the metal." He knew Los Angeles better than Mayor Bradley,
and that's how he kept up with what was going on. As a jazz arranger,
orchestrator, and film composer, someone people thought was on the outside
looking in as far as pop music was concerned, he was an invaluable guide. I
was so glad that my outside source was a good friend who also happened to be
the perfect choice for a producer. He had a world of talent to choose from
among his contacts, and he was a good listener, as well as a brilliant man.

The Off the Wall album was originally going to be called Girlfriend . Paul
and Linda McCartney wrote a song of that title with me in mind before they
ever met me.

Paul McCartney always tells people this story about me calling him and
saying we should write some hit songs together.

But that's not exactly how we first met.

I saw Paul for the first time at a party on the Queen Mary , which is docked
in Long Beach. His daughter Heather got my number from someone and gave me a
call to invite me to this big party. She liked our music and we got to
talking. Much later, when his Wings over America tour was completed, Paul
and his family were in Los Angeles. They invited me to a party at the Harold
Lloyd estate. Paul McCartney and I first met at that party. We shook hands
amid a huge crowd of people, and he said, "You know, I've written a song for
you." I was very surprised and thanked him. And he started singing
"Girlfriend" to me at this party.

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So we exchanged phone numbers and promised to get together soon, but
different projects and life just got in the way for both of us and we didn't
talk again for a couple of years. He ended up putting the song on his own
album London Town .

The strangest thing happened when we were making Off the Wall ; Quincy
walked up to me one day and said, "Michael, I've got a song that's perfect
for you." He played "Girlfriend" for me, not realising, of course, that Paul
had written it for me originally. When I told him, he was astonished and
pleased. We recorded it soon after and put it on the album. It was an
incredible coincidence.

Quincy and I talked about Off the Wall and carefully planned the kind of
sound we wanted. When he asked me what I most wanted to have happen in the
studio, I told him, we've got to make it sound different from the Jacksons.
Hard words to spit out, considering how hard we'd worked to become the
Jacksons, but Quincy knew what I meant, and together we created an album
that reflected our goal. "Rock with You," the big hit single, was the sort
of thing I was aiming for. It was perfect for me to sing, and move to. Rod
Temperton, whom Quincy had known because of his work with the group Heatwave
on "Boogie Nights," had written the song with a more relentless, get-down
arrangement in mind, but Quincy softened the attack and slipped in a
synthesiser that sounded like a conch shell's insides on a beach. Q and I
were both very fond of Rod's work, and we eventually asked him to work on
stylising three of his songs for me, including the title cut. Rod was a
kindred spirit in many ways. Like me, he felt more at home singing and
writing about the night life than actually going out and living it. It
always surprises me when people assume that something an artist has created
is based on a true experience or reflects his or her own lifestyle. Often
nothing could be farther from the truth. I know I draw on my own experiences
at times, but I also hear and read things that trigger an idea for a song.
An artist's imagination is his greatest tool. It can create a mood or
feeling that people want to have, as well as transport you to a different
place altogether.

In the studio Quincy allowed the arrangers and musicians quite a bit of
freedom to express themselves, perhaps with the exception of the orchestral
arrangements, which are his forte. I brought Greg Phillinganes, a member of
the Destiny team, over to "run the floor" on numbers that he and I had
worked on together in Encino, while the studio people were being lined up
for the date. In addition to Greg, Paulinho da Costa was back on percussion
and Randy made a cameo appearance on "Don't Stop Till You Get Enough."

Quincy is amazing and doesn't just pick yes-men to do his bidding. I have
been around professionals all my life, and I can tell who is trying to keep
up, who can create, and who is capable of crossing swords once in a while in
a constructive way without losing sight of the shared goal. We had Louis
"Thunder Thumbs" Johnson, who had worked with Quincy on the Brothers Johnson
albums. We also had an all-star team of Wah Wah Watson, Marlo Henderson,
David Williams, and Larry Carlton from the Crusaders playing guitar on the
album. George Duke, Phil Upchurch, and Richard Heath were picked from the
cream of the jazz/funk crop, and yet they never let on that maybe this music
was a little different from what they were used to. Quincy and I had a good
working relationship, so we shared responsibilities and consulted with one
another constantly.

The Brothers Johnson notwithstanding, Quincy hadn't done much dance music
before Off the Wall , so on "Don't Stop Till You Get Enough," "Working Day
and Night," and "Get on the Floor" Greg and I worked together to build a
thicker wall of sound in Quincy's studio. "Get on the Floor," though it
wasn't a single, was particularly satisfying because Louis Johnson gave me a
smooth-enough bottom to ride in the verses and let me come back stronger and
stronger with each chorus. Bruce Swedien, Quincy's engineer, put the final
touches on that mix, and I still get pleasure out of hearing it.

"Working Day and Night" was Paulinho's showcase, with my background vocals
hurrying to keep up with his grab bag of toys. Greg set up a prepared
electric piano with the timbre of a perfect acoustic tone, to knock out any
lingering echo. The lyrical theme was similar to "The Things I Do For You"
from Destiny , but since this was a refinement of something I'd said
earlier, I wanted to keep it simple and let the music put the song over the
top.

"Don't Stop Till You Get Enough" had a spoken intro over bass, partly to
build up tension and surprise people with the swirling strings and
percussion. It was also unusual because of my vocal arrangement. On that cut
I sing in overdubs as a kind of group. I wrote myself a high part, one that
my solo voice couldn't carry on it's own, to fit in with the music I was
hearing in my head, so I let the arrangement take over from the singing. Q's
fade at the end was amazing, with guitars chopping like kalimbas, the
African thumb pianos. That song means a lot to me because it was the first
song I wrote as a whole. "Don't Stop Till You Get Enough" was my first big
chance, and it went straight to number one. It was the song that won me my
first Grammy. Quincy had the confidence in me to encourage me to go into the
studio by myself, which put icing on the cake.

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The ballads were what made Off the Wall a Michael Jackson album. I'd done
ballads with the brothers, but they had never been to enthusiastic about
them and did them more as a concession to me than anything else. Off the
Wall had, in addition to "Girlfriend," a slippery, engaging melody called "I
Can't Help It" which was memorable and great fun to sing but a little
quirkier than a gentle song like, say, "Rock with You."

Two of the biggest hits were "Off the Wall" and "Rock with You." You know,
so much up-tempo dance music is threatening, but I liked the coaxing, the
gentleness, taking a shy girl and letting her shed her fears rather than
forcing them out of her. On Off the Wall I went back to a high-pitched
voice, but "Rock with You" called for a more natural sound. I felt that if
you were having a party, those two songs would get people in the door, and
the harder boogie songs would send everyone home in a good mood. And then
there was "She's Out of My Life." Maybe that was too personal for a party.

It was for me. Sometimes it's hard for me to look my dates in the eye even
if I know them well. My dating and relationships with girls have not had the
happy ending I've been looking for. Something always seems to get in the
way. The things I share with millions of people aren't the sort of things
you share with one. Many girls want to know what makes me tick - why I live
the way I live or do the things I do - trying to get inside my head. They
want to rescue me from loneliness, but they do it in such a way that they
give me the impression they want to share my loneliness, which I wouldn't
wish on anybody, because I believe I'm one of the loneliest people in the
world.

"She's Out of My Life" is about knowing that the barriers that have
separated me from others are temptingly low and seemingly easy to jump over
and yet they remain standing while what I really desire disappears from my
sight. Tom Bahler composed a beautiful bridge, which seemed right out of an
old Broadway musical. In reality, such problems are not so easily resolved
and the song presents this fact, that the problem is not overcome. We
couldn't put this cut at the beginning or the end of the record, because it
would have been such a downer. That's why when Stevie's song comes on
afterward, so gently and tentatively, as if it was opening a door that had
been bolted shut, I still go, "Whew." By the time Rod's "Burn This Disco
Out" closes the record, the trance is broken.

But I got too wrapped up in "She's Out of My Life." In this case, the
story's true - I cried at the end of a take, because the words suddenly had
such a strong effect on me. I had been letting so much build up inside me. I
was twenty-one years old, and I was so rich in some experiences while being
poor in moments of true joy. Sometimes I imagine that my life experience is
like an image in one of those trick mirrors in the circus, fat in one part
and thin to the point of disappearing in another. I was worried that would
show up on "She's Out of My Life," but if it touched people's heartstrings,
knowing that would make me feel less lonely.

When I got emotional after that take, the only people with me were Q and
Bruce Swedien. I remember burying my face in my hands and hearing only the
hum of the machinery as my sobs echoed in the room. Later I apologised, but
they said there was no need.

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Making Off the Wall was one of the most difficult periods of my life,
despite the eventual success it enjoyed. I had very few close friends at the
time and felt very isolated. I was so lonely that I used to walk through my
neighbourhood hoping I'd run into somebody I could talk to and perhaps
become friends with. I wanted to meet people who didn't know who I was. I
wanted to run into somebody who would be my friend because they liked me and
needed a friend too, not because I was who I am. I wanted to meet anybody in
the neighbourhood - the neighbourhood kids, anybody.

Success definitely brings on loneliness. It's true. People think you're
lucky, that you have everything. They think you can go anywhere and do
anything, but that's not the point. One hungers for the basic stuff.

I've learned to cope better with these things now and I don't get nearly as
depressed as I used to. I didn't really have any girlfriends when I was in
school. There were girls I thought were cute, but I found it so difficult to
approach them. I was too embarrassed - I don't know why - it was just crazy.
There was one girl who was a good friend to me. I liked her, but I was too
embarrassed to tell her.

My first real date was with Tatum O'Neal. We met at a club on Sunset Strip
called On the Rox. We exchanged phone numbers and called each other often. I
talked to her for hours: from the road, from the studio, from home. On our
first date we went to a party at Hugh Hefner's Playboy Mansion and had a
great time. She had held my hand for the first time that night at On the
Rox. When we met, I was sitting at this table and all of a sudden I felt
this soft hand reach over and grab mine. It was Tatum. This probably
wouldn't mean a lot to other people, but it was serious stuff to me. She
touched me . That's how I felt about it. In the past, girls had always
touched me on tour; grabbing at me and screaming, behind a wall of security
guards. But this was different, this was one-on-one, and that's always the
best.

Our developed into a real close relationship. I fell in love with her (and
she with me) and we were very close for a long time. Eventually the
relationship transcended into a good friendship. We still talk now and then,
and I guess you'd have to say she was my first love - after Diana. When I
heard Diana Ross was getting married, I was happy for her because I knew it
would make her very joyous. Still, it was hard for me, because I had to walk
around pretending to be overwhelmed that Diana was getting married to this
man I'd never met. I wanted her to be happy, but I have to admit that I was
a bit hurt and a little jealous because I've always loved Diana and always
will.

Another love was Brooke Shields. We were romantically serious for a while.
There have been a lot of wonderful women in my life, women whose names
wouldn't mean anything to the readers of this book, and it would be unfair
to discuss them because they are not celebrities and are unaccustomed to
having their names in print. I value my privacy and therefore I respect
theirs as well.

Liza Minelli is a person whose friendship I'll always cherish. She's like my
show business sister. We get together and talk about the business; it comes
out of our pores. We both eat, sleep, and drink various moves and songs and
dance. We have the best time together. I love her.

Right after we finished Off the Wall , I plunged into making the Triumph
album with my brothers. We wanted to combine the best of both albums for our
tour. "Can You Feel It?" was the first cut on the album, and it had the
closest thing to a rock feel that the Jacksons had ever done. It wasn't
really dance music either. We had it in mind for the video that opened our
tour, kind of like our own Also Sprach Zarathrustra , the 2001 theme. Jackie
and I had thought of combining the band sound with a gospel/children's choir
feel. That was a nod a Gamble and Huff, in a way, because the song was a
celebration of love taking over, cleansing the sins of the world. Randy's
singing is so good, even if his range is not all he'd like it to be. His
breathing and phrasing kept me pumped up on my toes when we sang it. There
was a bright foghorn-type keyboard that I worked on for hours, going over it
and over it again, until I got it the way I wanted it. We had six minutes,
and I don't think it was one second too long.

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"Lovely One" was an extension of "Shake Your Body Down to the Ground," with
that lighter Off the Wall sound injected. I tried out a newer, more ethereal
voice on Jackie's "Your Ways," with the keyboards adding a faraway quality.
Paulinho brought out all the artillery: triangles, skulls, gongs. This
song's about a strange girl who is the way she is and there's nothing I can
do about it, other than enjoy it when I can.

"Everybody" is more playful than the Off the Wall dance tunes, with Mike
McKinney propelling it like a plane turning and bearing down. The background
vocals suggest "Get on the Floor's" influence, but Quincy's sound is deeper,
like you're in the eye of the storm - our sound was more like going up the
glass elevator to the top floor while looking down, rising effortlessly.

"Time Waits for No One" was written by Jackie and Randy with my voice and
style in mind. They knew they were trying to keep up with the Off the Wall
songwriters and they did a very good job. "Give It Up" gave everyone a
chance to sing. Marlon in particular. We strayed from the band sound on
those tracks, perhaps sinking back into that Philly trap of letting the
arrangement overwhelm us. "Walk Right Now" and "Wondering Who" were closer
to the Destiny sound, but for the most part they were suffering from too
many cooks and not enough broth.

There was one exception: "Heartbreak Hotel." I swear that was a phrase that
came out of my head and I wasn't thinking of any other song when I wrote it.
The record company printed it on the cover as "This Place Hotel," because of
the Elvis Presley connection. As important as he was to music, black as well
as white, he just wasn't an influence on me. I guess he was too early for
me. Maybe it was timing more than anything else. By the time our song had
come out, people thought that if I kept living in seclusion the way I was, I
might die the way he did. The parallels aren't there as far as I'm concerned
and I was never much for scare tactics. Still, the way Elvis destroyed
himself interests me, because I don't ever want to walk those grounds
myself.

LaToya was asked to contribute the scream that opens the song - not the most
auspicious start to a recording career, I'll admit, but she was just getting
her feet wet in the studio. She has made some good records since and is
quite accomplished. The scream was the kind that normally shatters a bad
dream, but our intention was to have the dream only begin, to make the
listener wonder whether it was a dream or reality. That was the effect I
think we got. The three female backup singers were amused when they were
doing the scary backup effects that I wanted, until they actually heard them
in the mix.

"Heartbreak Hotel" was the most ambitious song I had composed. I think I
worked on a number of levels: You could dance to it, sing along with it, get
scared by it, and just listen. I had to tack on a slow piano and cello coda
that ended on a positive note to reassure the listener; there's no point in
trying to scare someone if there isn't something to bring the person back
safe and sound from where you've taken them. "Heartbreak Hotel" had revenge
in it and I am fascinated by the concept of revenge. It's something I can't
understand. The idea of making someone "pay" for something they've done to
you or that you imagine they've done to you is totally alien to me. The
setup showed my own fears and for the first time being helped quell them.
There were so many sharks in this business looking for blood in the water.

If this song, and later "Billie Jean," seemed to cast women in an
unfavourable light, it was not meant to be taken as a personal statement.
Needless to say, I love the interaction between the sexes; it is a natural
part of life and I love women. I just think that when sex is used as a form
of blackmail or power, it's a repugnant use of one of God's gifts.

Triumph gave us that final burst of energy we needed to put together a
perfect show, with no marginal material. We began rehearsing with our
touring band, which included bass player Mike McKinney. David Williams would
travel with us too, but he was now a permanent member of the band.

The upcoming tour was going to be a big undertaking. We had special effects
arranged for us by the great magician Doug Henning. I wanted to disappear
completely in a puff of smoke right after "Don't Stop." He had to coordinate
the special effects with the Showco people who controlled the whole setup. I
was happy to talk with him while we walked through the routine. It seemed
almost unfair for him to give me his secrets, and apart from the money I
wasn't offering him anything he could make use of in return. I felt a little
embarrassed about that, yet I really wanted our show to be great and I knew
Henning's contribution would be spectacular. We were competing with bands
like Earth, Wind, and Fire and the Commodores for the position of top band
in the country, and we knew there were people who felt that the Jackson
brothers had been around for ten years and were finished.

I had worked hard on the concept for the set for the upcoming tour. It had
the feel of Close Encounters behind it. I was trying to make the statement
that there was life and meaning beyond space and time and the peacock had
burst forth ever brighter and ever prouder. I wanted our film to reflect
this idea, too.

My pride in the rhythms, the technical advances, and the success of Off the
Wall was offset by the jolt I got when the Grammy nominations were announced
for 1979. Although Off the Wall had been one of the most popular records of
the year, it received only one nomination: Best R&B Vocal Performance. I
remember where I was when I got the news. I felt ignored by my peers and it
hurt. People told me later that it surprised the industry too.

I was disappointed and then I got excited thinking about the album to come.
I said to myself, "Wait until next time" - they won't be able to ignore the
next album. I watched the ceremony on television and it was nice to win my
category, but I was still upset by what I perceived as the rejection of my
peers. I just kept thinking, "Next time, next time." In many ways an artist
is his work. It's difficult to separate the two. I think I can be brutally
objective about my work as I create it, and if something doesn't work, I can
feel it, but when I turn in a finished album - or song - you can be sure
that I've given it every ounce of energy and God-given talent that I have.
Off the Wall was well received by my fans and I think that's why the Grammy
nominations hurt. That experience lit a fire in my soul. All I could think
of was the next album and what I would do with it. I wanted it to be truly

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great.

Chapter Five - The Moonwalk
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Off the Wall was released in August 1979, the same month I turned twenty-one
and took control of my own affairs, and it was definitely one of the major
landmarks of my life. It meant a great deal to me, because its eventual
success proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that a former "child star" could
mature into a recording artist with contemporary appeal. Off the Wall also
went a step beyond the dance grooves we had cooked up. When we started the
project, Quincy and I talked about how important it was to capture passion
and strong feelings in a recorded performance. I still think that's what we
achieved on the ballad "She's Out of My Life," and to a lesser extent on
"Rock with You."

Looking back, I can view the whole tapestry and see how Off the Wall
prepared me for the work we would do on the album that became Thriller.
Quincy, Rod Temperton, and many of the musicians who played on Off the Wall
would help me realise a dream that I had had for a long time. Off the Wall
had sold almost six million copies in this country, but I wanted to make an
album that would be even bigger. Ever since I was a little boy, I had
dreamed of creating the biggest-selling record of all time. I remember going
swimming as a child and making a wish before I jumped into the pool.
Remember, I grew up knowing the industry, understanding goals, and being
told what was and was not possible. I wanted to do something special. I'd
stretch my arms out, as if I were sending my thoughts right up into space.
I'd make my wish, then I'd dive into the water. I'd say to myself, "This is
my dream. This is my wish," every time before I'd dive into the water.

I believe in wishes and in a person's ability to make a wish come true. I
really do. Whenever I saw a sunset, I would quietly make my secret wish
right before the sun tucked under the western horizon and disappeared. It
would seem as if the sun had taken my wish with it. I'd make it right before
that last speck of light vanished. And a wish is more than a wish, it's a
goal. It's something your conscious and subconscious can help make reality.

I remember being in the studio once with Quincy and Rod Temperton while we
were working on Thriller . I was playing a pinball machine and one of them
asked me, "If this album doesn't do as well as Off the Wall , will you be
disappointed?"

I remember feeling upset - hurt that the question was even raised. I told
them Thriller had to do better than Off the Wall . I admitted that I wanted
this album to be the biggest-selling album of all time.

They started laughing. It was a seemingly unrealistic thing to want.

There were times during the Thriller project when I would get emotional or
upset because I couldn't get the people working with me to see what I was.
That still happens to me sometimes. Often people just don't see what I see.
They have too much doubt. You can't do your best when you're doubting
yourself. If you don't believe in yourself, who will? Just doing as well as
you did last time is not good enough. I think of it as the "Try to get what
you can" mentality. It doesn't require you to stretch, to grow. I don't
believe in that.

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I believe we are powerful, but we don't use our minds to full capacity. Your
mind is powerful enough to help you attain whatever you want. I knew what we
could do with that record. We had a great team there, a lot of talent and
good ideas, and I knew we could do anything. The success of Thriller
transformed many of my dreams into reality. It did become the
biggest-selling album of all time, and that fact appeared on the cover of
The Guinness Book of World Records.

Making the Thriller album was very hard work, but it's true that you only
get out of something what you put into it. I'm a perfectionist: I'll work
until I drop. And I worked so hard on that album. It helped that Quincy
showed great confidence in what we were doing during those sessions. I guess
I had proved myself to him during our work on Off the Wall . He listened to
what I had to say and helped me accomplish what I had hoped to on that
album, but he showed even more faith in me during the making of Thriller .
He realised I had the confidence and experience I needed to make that record
and at times he wasn't in the studio with us for that reason. I'm really
very self-confident when it comes to my work. When I take on a project, I
believe in it 100 percent. I really put my soul into it. I'd die for it.
That's how I am.

Quincy is brilliant at balancing out an album, creating the right mix of
up-tempo numbers and slow ones. We started out working with Rod Temperton on
songs for the Thriller album, which was originally called Starlight . I was
writing songs myself while Quincy was listening to other people's songs,
hoping to find just the right ones for the album. He's good at knowing what
I'll like and what will work for me. We both share the same philosophy about
making albums; we don't believe in B-sides or album songs. Every song should
be able to stand on its own as a single, and we always push for this.

I had finished some songs of my own, but I didn't give them to Quincy until
I saw what had come in from other writers. The first song I had was
"Startin' Something," which I had written when we were doing Off the Wall
but had never given to Quincy for that album. Sometimes I have a song I've
written that I really like and I just can't bring myself to present it.
While we were making Thriller , I even held on to "Beat It" for a long time
before I played it for Quincy. He kept telling me that we needed a great
rock song for the album. He'd say, "Come on, where is it? I know you got
it." I like my songs but initially I'm shy about playing them for people,
because I'm afraid they won't like them and that's a painful experience.

He finally convinced me to let him hear what I had. I brought out "Beat It"
and played it for him and he went crazy. I felt on top of the world.

When we were about to start work on Thriller , I called Paul McCartney in
London and this time I did say, "Let's get together and write some hits."
Our collaboration produced "Say Say Say" and "The Girl Is Mine."

Quincy and I eventually chose "The Girl Is Mine" as the obvious first single
from Thriller . We really didn't have much choice. When you have two strong
names like that together on a song, it has to come out first or it gets
played to death and overexposed. We had to get it out of the way.

When I approached Paul, I wanted to repay the favour he had done me in
contributing "Girlfriend" to Off the Wall . I wrote "The Girl Is Mine,"
which I knew would be right for his voice and mine working together, and we
also did work on "Say Say Say," which we would finish up later with George

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Martin, the great Beatles producer.

"Say Say Say" was coauthored by Paul, a man who could play all the
instruments in the studio and score every part, and a kid, me, who couldn't.
Yet we worked together as equals and enjoyed ourselves. Paul never had to
carry me in that studio. The collaboration was also a real step forward for
me in terms of confidence, because there was no Quincy Jones watching over
me to correct my mistakes. Paul and I shared the same idea of how a pop song
should work and it was a real treat to work with him. I feel that ever since
John Lennon's death he has had to live up to expectations people had no
right to hang on him; Paul McCartney has given so much to this industry and
to his fans.

Eventually, I would buy the ATV music publishing catalogue, which included
many of the great Lennon-McCartney songs. But most people don't know that it
was Paul who introduced me to the idea of getting involved in music
publishing. I was staying with Paul and Linda at their house in the country
when Paul told me about his own involvement in music publishing. He handed
me a little book with MPL printed on the cover. He smiled as I opened it,
because he knew I was going to find the contents exciting. It contained a
list of all the songs Paul owns and he'd been buying the rights to songs for
a long time. I had never given the idea of buying songs any thought before.
When the ATV music publishing catalogue, which contains many
Lennon-McCartney songs, went on sale, I decided to put in a bid.

I consider myself a musician who is incidentally a businessman, and Paul and
I had both learned the hard way about business and the importance of
publishing and royalties and the dignity of songwriting. Songwriting should
be treated as the lifeblood of popular music. The creative process doesn't
involve time clocks or quota systems, it involves inspiration and the
willingness to follow through. When I was sued my someone I had never heard
of for "The Girl Is Mine," I was quite willing to stand on my reputation. I
stated that many of my ideas come in dreams, which some people thought was a
convenient cop-out, but it's true. Our industry is so lawyer-heavy that
getting sued for something you didn't do seems to be as much a part of the
initiation process as winning amateur night used to be.

"Not My Lover" was a title we almost used for "Billie Jean" because Q had
some objections to calling the song "Billie Jean," my original title. He
felt people might immediately think of Billie Jean King, the tennis player.

A lot of people have asked me about that song, and the answer is very
simple. It's just a case of a girl who says that I'm the father of her child
and I'm pleading my innocence because "the kid is not my son."

There was never a real "Billie Jean." (Except for the ones who came after