Man in the Music

by Joseph Vogel

  THE RISE OF HIP-HOP

  Part of the backlash to Jackson’s new image also stemmed from a sense that he was simply too removed from the streets to understand real-world issues. While the Martin Scorsese–directed short film Bad was shot in (pregentrified) Brooklyn and based loosely on the real-life story of a young African American student (Edmund Perry) tragically shot by a white undercover cop, some claimed Jackson was too insulated and privileged to actually grasp that reality. “Michael’s concept of what really is bad—as in ‘tough’ and ‘streetwise’—seemed wildly distorted and exaggerated,” wrote biographer J. Randy Taraborrelli. “[He] shouted; he stamped his feet; he flicked his fingers and shook his groin. He tugged at his crotch repeatedly. Is this what Michael Jackson sees from the tinted window of his limousine?”

  Defenders of Jackson argued that the video actually addresses this very tension. Jackson’s character (Daryl) plays an out-of-place prep-schooler returning home to the skepticism of his former friends. Moreover, the video, like most musicals, had to be compressed and dramatized. Still, there was no question that, in the years since Thriller, the stories, emotions, and energy of the inner city were mostly being told outside mainstream pop. The individuals in those cities—particularly young people—found their voice and platform in the emerging subculture of hip-hop.

  Hip-hop was not just a musical genre; it was a movement. It was break dancing and graffiti; it was a style and sensibility. And it spoke to and from a place that didn’t exist in Reagan’s “Morning in America.” In this way, in its early days, rap was like counterprogramming—as Chuck D famously put it: “CNN for black people.” In Grandmaster Flash’s landmark 1982 track, “The Message,” Melle Mel spoke of broken glass, roaches, junkies, and poverty. “Sometimes I wonder how I keep from going under,” he rapped.

  At the time, the song seemed more of a novelty to most than the beginning of a sea change in popular music. Emerging out of the Bronx, hip-hop was an organic, DIY genre that didn’t require expensive instruments, studio technology, or musical training. It began as DJs simply emceeing over records, and evolved into a distinct combination of drum machines (most prominently, the Linn LM-1 and the Roland 808), beatboxing, scratching, sampling, and, of course, rapping. From the beginning, it prompted legions of critics and doubters, many of whom didn’t consider it real music, due to its lack of melody and traditional instruments.

  But by the mid-1980s, it was a force to be reckoned with, as acts like Public Enemy, Erik B. and Rakim, LL Cool J, the Beastie Boys, and Run-DMC arrived on the scene in what is often now characterized as the golden era of hip-hop. Run-DMC, in particular, a brash trio formed in Hollis, Queens, helped propel the genre into the mainstream. In 1985, they became the first rap group to have an album certified platinum (King of Rock). By 1986, they were on the cover of Rolling Stone and their videos were in regular rotation on MTV, including the revolutionary rock-rap hybrid with Aerosmith, “Walk This Way.” The track became the first rap song to reach the Top 5 on the Billboard Hot 100. “We are the Michael Jackson of now,” boasted Darryl McDaniels to Rolling Stone that year. “Prince was it when Purple Rain came out. But we are what’s going on right now. We are the music. We are what’s hot.”

  Michael Jackson was intrigued enough to meet with the group that year. The artist had written and recorded a demo called “Crack Kills” that he thought might work well with Run-DMC. Why not get together and give it a shot?

  Quincy Jones extended the invitation. Before meeting Jackson in person, Run-DMC claimed to be skeptical about working with the pop star. After meeting him in the studio, however, those concerns quickly dissipated. Jackson knew all about their work and even complimented them on their concert performances. He told them they should have won awards in every category in 1986 because of the way they had transformed the culture.

  “He’s the best man in the world,” Rev Run gushed after the meeting. “He’s an incredible human being. We ate soul food at Michael’s studio last night, and it seemed like he was in touch with God. He’s so calm, so content, and I’m going to go into the studio to do a tape with him. It’ll be an anti-crack song. The guy who did Mean Streets and Taxi Driver [director Martin Scorsese] is going to make the video. The whole thing was just great. Michael kept asking me about rap. I asked him about record sales. And when the fried chicken came, I knew he was cool.”

  According to Run-DMC, Jackson knew exactly what he wanted on the track and explained it to them in detail. They even returned for a second visit to Westlake Studio. Unfortunately, the collaboration was never completed for the album. By all accounts, Run-DMC was eager to participate. Quincy Jones later claimed it didn’t happen because Jackson wasn’t sold on rap, but, according to Run-DMC, the artist showed great interest and respect for rap—it was simply a matter of scheduling. The track wasn’t developed to Jackson’s satisfaction before the group had to leave Los Angeles to tour (the artist would, however, later sample Run-DMC in the intro to “2 Bad” on his 1995 album, HIStory).

  WE ARE THE WORLD

  As the Reagan era neared its end, the sense of optimism and patriotic fervor that culminated with the 1984 Summer Olympics in Los Angeles and Reagan’s landslide reelection that fall had been dealt a serious dose of reality. Over the ensuing years, a series of crises gripped the nation: the arrival of AIDS (which went largely ignored by the Reagan administration until Reagan’s close friend and fellow actor Rock Hudson died of the disease in 1985), the crack epidemic, and the continued deterioration of inner cities. Even the stock market, which had been humming for most of the decade, suddenly collapsed on October 19, 1987 (less than two months after the release of Bad), in what came to be known as Black Friday.

  In this context, popular music, which had mostly been fun and escapist in the early ’80s, gradually became more socially conscious. The mid- to late ’80s was the era of Band Aid, Live Aid, and Farm Aid. It was the era of songs like “Down and Out in Paradise” (John Mellencamp), “Living on a Prayer” (Bon Jovi), and “Sign O’ the Times” (Prince). It was also the era of USA for Africa and “We Are the World.”

  Michael Jackson was first introduced to the USA for Africa project by Quincy Jones in late 1984. It didn’t take much convincing for him to get on board. From the beginning of his solo career, Jackson believed his overarching purpose as an artist was to bring people together, to give back, and to make an impact on the world. This was reflected not only in his music and short films, but in his actions as well.

  In 1981, at Michael’s behest, the Jacksons had held a special concert in Atlanta to raise money for the Atlanta Children’s Foundation, following a flurry of gruesome kidnappings and murders of children. In 1984, when he learned about the difficulty fans were having getting tickets to the Jacksons’ high-demand Victory Tour because of the high cost and lottery-like process, he arranged to have thousands of tickets given away to the disadvantaged and disabled, and donated his entire cut for touring (more than $5 million) to charity. That same year, when the artist suffered second-degree burns on his scalp after his hair caught fire on the set of a Pepsi commercial, he used his entire settlement (more than $1.5 million) to establish the Michael Jackson Burn Center at Brotman Medical Center in Culver City.

  These were just a handful of examples of his early philanthropy. When he learned about USA for Africa, then, there was no hesitation: he was in. In fact, initially asked to simply sing on a vehicle song, similar to Band Aid’s “Do They Know It’s Christmas?,” Jackson instead offered to help write it with Lionel Richie.

  The driving force behind USA for Africa was actor and activist Harry Belafonte. After becoming aware of the dire situation in Sudan and Ethiopia—where drought and famine had reached crisis levels—he was inspired to organize an American response to raise money and awareness. The key to that response was a song—a song that was simple and memorable and, just as important, could generate a lot of attention for the cau
se. Who better to do that in the mid-’80s than Michael Jackson?

  Jackson went to work on the song with Lionel Richie in December 1984. After coming up with just a few lines in their sessions together, they received some gentle prodding from Quincy Jones—“My dear brothers, we have forty-six stars coming in less than three weeks and we need a damn song.” Jackson responded to the pressure by taking a couple of the melodies he and Richie had come up with and locking himself in his house until he had fleshed out a demo. “I love working quickly,” he said. “I went ahead without even Lionel knowing, I couldn’t wait. I went in and came out the same night with the song completed—drums, piano, strings, and words to the chorus.”

  Jackson continued to develop the song with musician and synth programmer John Barnes over the ensuing days. He was proud of what he had come up with: a simple melody he hoped the whole world could sing along to. When he sent it to Quincy Jones, the producer loved what he heard. Now he just needed to find a way to get a few dozen of the biggest artists in the industry in one room and—perhaps just as difficult—find each of them a part in the song.

  The night for recording “We Are the World” arrived on January 22, 1985, at A&M Studios, following the American Music Awards. Quincy Jones famously put a sign above the entrance that read: “Check your egos at the door.” Before long, the stars began shuffling in: Bob Dylan, Ray Charles, Diana Ross, Bruce Springsteen, Billy Joel, Tina Turner, Paul Simon, Cyndi Lauper, Steve Perry, Kenny Loggins, Willie Nelson, Lionel Richie, and Stevie Wonder, among others.

  Jackson, meanwhile, had skipped the American Music Awards to arrive early at the studio and begin preparing. When the other artists arrived, he, Richie, Wonder, and Quincy Jones helped them learn the song, including their individual parts. The atmosphere was both electric and symbiotic. “I have never before or since experienced the joy I felt that night working with this rich, complex human tapestry of love, talent, and grace,” Quincy Jones later wrote.

  By the early hours of the morning, the song was complete. “We Are the World” was a simple but powerful anthem. Jones’s deft arrangement allowed each voice to shine, often by pairing contrasting vocal styles (for example, Bruce Springsteen and Stevie Wonder), and one had to be cold-blooded not to appreciate the majestic, gospel-infused finale. In a 1985 review, even The New York Times praised it as “more than an unprecedented communal collaboration among pop music’s elite for a good cause—it is an artistic triumph that transcends its ‘official’ nature.”

  “We Are the World” hit stores and airwaves on March 7, 1985, and quickly became the fastest-selling single in history. The initial shipment of eight hundred thousand copies sold out within three days. It would eventually become the bestselling single of all time, selling an estimated twenty million copies (a record it held for nearly a decade before being replaced by Elton John’s 1997 tribute to Princess Diana, “Candle in the Wind”). It went on to win three Grammy Awards, an American Music Award, and a People’s Choice Award.

  More important, it helped raise more than $60 million for the relief effort in Africa. Those funds were used to send more than one hundred twenty tons of supplies, including water, high-protein biscuits, clothing, medicine, and tents, overseas. Funds were also used for larger recovery and development projects. These efforts, of course, didn’t address every intricate political issue or solve every problem in Ethiopia and Sudan, which some critics were quick to point out. But Jackson and Jones were proud of what the song accomplished. “Anybody who wants to throw stones at something like this can get off his or her butt and get busy,” said Jones. “Lord knows there’s plenty more to be done.”

  MAN IN THE MIRROR

  For twenty-seven-year-old Jackson, making “We Are the World” was an eye-opening experience. This is what he wanted to do more of going forward—use his art as a vehicle for social change and healing. His social consciousness and philanthropy, accordingly, continued to grow in the ensuing years, from donating to charities like the United Negro College Fund (which gave young underprivileged African Americans the opportunity to receive an education) to visiting hospitals. “He’s not afraid to look into the worst suffering and find the smallest part that’s positive and beautiful,” said then-manager Frank DiLeo.

  At nearly every stop on his Bad World Tour, Jackson visited hospitals and orphanages, donating huge sums of money. He also donated tickets, merchandise, and gifts to underprivileged and sick children, with whom he would meet before and after his shows. “Every night the kids would come in on stretchers, so sick they could hardly hold their heads up,” recalled Jackson’s voice coach Seth Riggs, who often traveled with the singer on tour. “Michael would kneel down at the stretchers and put his face right down beside theirs so that he could have his picture taken with them, and then give them a copy to remember the moment. I’m a sixty-year-old man, and I couldn’t take it. I’d be in the bathroom crying. But Michael could take it, and right before going onstage no less. The kids would perk right up in his presence. If it gave them a couple days’ more energy, to Michael that was worth it.”

  For his new anthem, “Man in the Mirror,” meanwhile, Jackson donated all proceeds to Camp Ronald McDonald for Good Times, which assisted children suffering from cancer. The concluding line of that song—“Make that change”—seemed to be his new mantra, as well as his rallying call to his now-enormous global audience.

  In this way, “We Are the World” began a new era of outward-looking social activism for Jackson. Yet, ironically, it also began a new era of isolation.

  HOWARD HUGHES AND P. T. BARNUM

  Early 1985 represented perhaps the peak of Jackson’s popularity. That year, however, he seemed to disappear.

  In 1984, he had been everywhere: on MTV and in Pepsi commercials, at the Grammy Awards and the White House, on the cover of Rolling Stone and Time magazines, and all across the United States on the Victory Tour. And then he was gone. “The year 1985,” wrote Gerri Hirshey for Rolling Stone, “has been a black hole for Michael watchers, who witnessed the most spectacular disappearing act since Halley’s comet headed for the far side of the solar system in 1910.” Before long, Jackson was referred to as a “recluse”—a Howard Hughes–like figure living in his own secluded utopia.

  Where had he gone? Why was he hiding? Part of it was undoubtedly post-Thriller fatigue. Jackson’s level of fame had reached an obscene level. Everywhere he went, he was mobbed by fans and paparazzi. Every single aspect of his life was held under a microscope. Celebrity obsession was at an all-time peak. And stories about Jackson, in particular, made good copy. They sold magazines, boosted ratings.

  In Jackson’s absence came a flood of speculative stories. Had he undergone a sex change? Had he taken hormones to keep his voice high? Had he built a shrine to Elizabeth Taylor? Was he sleeping in a hyperbaric chamber? Had he tried to buy the Elephant Man’s bones? Was his pet chimpanzee, Bubbles, being tormented by Prince via ESP?

  Many of these stories were harmless enough (and occasionally funny). In some cases, Jackson helped feed them. “It’s a great paradox about Michael,” observed biographer J. Randy Taraborrelli, “that he is as much a public show-off as he is a recluse.” While part of his seclusion was necessitated by his fame, part of it was strategic. “It’s rhythm and timing,” he once explained, as if speaking of a literal performance. “You have to know what you’re doing….It’s like a fever, they’re waiting, they’re waiting. It’s important to wait…to conserve and preserve….If you remain mysterious people will be more interested.”

  In many ways, his plan worked. The press and the public couldn’t get enough. As the ’80s progressed, he carefully cultivated a persona that kept people guessing (and talking). He liked the idea of being mysterious and elusive. He was fascinated with masks, costumes, and shape-shifting. Around this time, he even began, in certain ways, to embrace and perpetuate the public perception of his strangeness.

 
In 1986, Jackson declared to his managers, John Branca and Frank DiLeo, that he wanted his “whole career to be the greatest show on earth.” He gave them copies of P. T. Barnum’s autobiography (which he had read numerous times) and began devising plans to win the world’s attention. “This is going to be my bible and I want it to be yours,” he said. Barnum was the consummate American showman and promoter, the self-titled “prince of humbugs,” which, in today’s parlance, essentially means publicity stunts.

  The showman’s ideas about “arrest[ing] public attention, and attract[ing] the public eye and ear” thrilled Jackson. He was already the master of stage performances; but now it could be extended outside the “show.” His entire life would be performance art. It was a way to turn the tables on an intrusive media and public that felt they owned him. He would be in control of the show; they were subject to his directions and imagination.

  Perhaps the most famous of these publicity stunts was the hyperbaric chamber story, orchestrated by Jackson and manager Frank DiLeo. The photograph and story, which initially ran in the National Enquirer, captured people’s imaginations and made headlines around the globe. Even credible news organizations covered the story, ruminating about whether such a contraption actually existed and if Michael Jackson could really live to be one hundred fifty years old by sleeping in it. Like a child who had just executed the perfect prank, Jackson was ecstatic about the response. “It’s like I can tell the press anything about me and they’ll buy it,” he said. “We can actually control the press.”