Man in the Music

by Joseph Vogel

  “Dirty Diana” was intended to play the role “Beat It” played on Thriller—a crossover rock song that bent the genre in a distinctly Michael Jackson way. But Jackson wanted the track to be harder and edgier than “Beat It,” more a reflection of metal, which had exploded in popularity over the previous few years.

  Jackson enlisted glam rock guitarist Steve Stevens, best known at the time for playing alongside Billy Idol. Like Eddie Van Halen, Stevens was surprised to get the invitation and wasn’t sure how their styles would mesh. Hearing the song, however, was a revelation. “My initial thing was I loved how dark the track was,” he recalled, “because I thought, ‘Oh, yeah, this is different for Michael.’ It’s kind of got a very kind of foreboding vibe about it.”

  When Stevens came to record his part in the studio, Jackson was there and the two sat down and talked for a while. “We were just kind of getting to know each other and him getting to know my guitar thing,” noted Stevens, “and of course, I do some of those crazy ray gun noises [with the guitar], and he flipped for that. He’s like, ‘Yeah, that’s great, I love that stuff.’ And once we established there was a melody, like a counter-melody, he sang it to me. He said, ‘The one thing I want to make sure we get is this counter-melody that happens in the choruses…’ So once we got that stuff out of the way, they kind of let me have the track, and said, ‘Okay, do what you want. That’s why you flew across the country.’ ”

  Jackson and Quincy Jones also decided to add crowd noise to give the track a more natural, live feel, while John Barnes’s excellent string arrangement provided atmosphere. It all set the stage perfectly for Jackson’s tense narrative.

  “Dirty Diana” returned Jackson to the thematic territory of “Billie Jean” and “This Place Hotel.” The lyrics are about guilt, fame, and seduction. Quincy Jones described it as an updated version of “Killing Me Softly” (which Jones had produced)—a song that explores the fraught dynamic between artist and fan. Unlike in “Billie Jean,” the protagonist in “Dirty Diana” no longer denies interest or culpability. Rather, in vivid detail, he paints a picture of a groupie “who waits at backstage doors” and a man who, though married, cannot resist her allure.

  The song is structured as a dramatic dialogue of seduction and rationalization. He knows he shouldn’t give in, but does anyway. Jackson executes the internal conflict of temptation to perfection, capturing the sexual tension, frustration, guilt, excitement, anger, and pain of an affair. The song’s subject matter was perhaps his most risqué to date. Some critics argued that it was misogynistic because it depicted the woman as predatory and labeled her “Dirty Diana.” Others speculated about whether “Diana” was based on a real woman and a real experience. Fan theories claimed it was about a secret love affair the artist had with Diana Ross and Jackson simply tweaked the lyrics to make it seem like it was about a groupie (Jackson never revealed any specific biographical details relating to the song).

  The artist was so concerned about playing “Dirty Diana” in front of Princess Diana of Wales at Wembley Stadium in London that he planned to take it out of the lineup. When Jackson explained this to Princess Diana in a meet-and-greet before the show, however, she revealed that it was her favorite song on the album and insisted that he keep it in.

  The final minute of “Dirty Diana” unleashes a torrent of emotions. We hear Jackson’s mournful cries and contrasting yells (“Come on!”), and Steve Stevens’s blistering guitar solo, surrounded by ray gun lasers and screaming fans. It was a bold new sound and song for an artist most critics didn’t think was capable of being edgy.

  “Dirty Diana” hit #1 on the Billboard Hot 100 in the late summer of 1988, becoming the fifth consecutive single from the album to reach the top of the chart.

  10. “SMOOTH CRIMINAL”

  Written and composed by Michael Jackson

  Produced by Quincy Jones; Coproduced by Michael Jackson

  The album’s final cinematic dream capsule is the noir classic “Smooth Criminal.” Like much of Jackson’s music, it is hard to separate the song from the iconic visuals: the underground nightclub, the cream pinstripe suit and fedora, the jaw-dropping lean. But even without the brilliant short film, “Smooth Criminal” is one of Jackson’s most distinctive and compelling songs.

  It begins with a heartbeat—to be more precise, Michael Jackson’s heartbeat. Jackson had Dr. Eric Chevlen fly in from the Bay Area to record his heart, which was then digitally transferred into the Synclavier in stereo. Synclavier programmer Chris Currell controlled the speed, gradually increasing the intensity as the intro builds the suspense.

  The original title for the song was “Al Capone.” Jackson worked on that demo extensively in the Hayvenhurst Bad sessions through 1985 and 1986, during which time it evolved dramatically. “There have been many cases where Michael has done that,” said Matt Forger, “where he would dwell on a song and refine concepts, or lyrics or melodies. The bass line in ‘Al Capone’—you can see how it evolved into ‘Smooth Criminal.’ And the whole gangster theme carried over—though as it evolved it became less about a particular historical figure and more about a situation and a story. You can also hear Michael experimenting with this staccato-type of vocal, this rapid wordplay that he would later use.”

  Jackson believed he was onto something new and exciting with “Smooth Criminal.” It didn’t sound like anything else on the record—or anything else in pop music, for that matter. More than any song on Bad, Jackson and Jones disagreed about its merits. Jones didn’t like the song and didn’t think it should be included on the album. Jackson not only liked it; he thought it was some of his best work.

  The story in the song describes the gruesome murder of a girl named Annie. Perhaps in part because of Jackson’s rapid, throaty narration, listeners often miss the dark details—a man sneaking in the window, a woman running to her bedroom, the bloodstains on the carpet, the lifeless body. (Incidentally, the famous “Annie, are you okay?” line, repeated about one hundred times throughout the song, was inspired by CPR lessons Jackson received. The practice mannequin was called “Rescue Annie” and the person resuscitating her was trained to ask if she was okay.)

  Like “Billie Jean,” “Smooth Criminal” proved that Jackson could translate dark subject matter into a successful pop song. The song’s most memorable feature is its taut, staccato bass line, which Jackson’s vocal mirrors in perfect synchronicity in the verses. Note also the way the percussion hits (the sound of firework poppers Jackson had John Barnes load into the Synclavier!) right at the end of each hook—the snap that makes Jackson’s shoulders move or feet freeze in the short film.

  At about the 2:45 mark, in the bridge, a voice enters, saying, “Okay, I’d like everybody to clear the area right now!” That line was performed by none other than recording engineer Bruce Swedien. Jackson punctuates the line with a signature yelp (aowww!), before the song explodes into a remarkable multilayered sonic canvas: the falsetto vocal harmonies, the syncopated hook, the rhythm guitar, the horns, the strings. Music critic Owen Gleiberman describes the song as “gorgeously, ominously intoxicating” and the sequel to “Billie Jean.” “It’s a song that remains, after more than twenty years, Michael’s single most under-celebrated masterpiece.”

  11. “LEAVE ME ALONE”

  Written and composed by Michael Jackson

  Produced by Quincy Jones; Coproduced by Michael Jackson

  Because of space constraints, “Leave Me Alone” appeared only as a bonus track on the CD version of Bad, not on cassette tapes or record formats. Featuring a punchy, mechanical hook (similar to “The Way You Make Me Feel” and “Streetwalker”), the song was accented by a sledgehammer-like beat and driven by a relentless keyboard groove.

  Like most of the songs on the album, “Leave Me Alone” was composed and arranged entirely by Jackson. “I worked hard on the song,” he wrote in Moonwalk, “sta
cking vocals on top of each other like layers of clouds.” Note the way the harmonies converge in the chorus—first in his regular tenor, then a key higher, then in falsetto. Rolling Stone describes the song as “vintage Michael” with “a batch of thick chords for Jackson to vamp over” creating a “darker inversion of ‘The Way You Make Me Feel.’ ” While often an afterthought, given its status as a “bonus track,” music critic Stephen Thomas Erlewine called it the album’s best song.

  It was certainly the artist’s boldest response to date to his growing legions of critics. By the late ’80s, the tabloid press’s “Wacko Jacko” caricature was firmly entrenched. “Leave Me Alone” is Jackson’s first expression of anger and exasperation at this treatment. “There’s a time when you’re right, and you know you must fight,” he sings. Now, as the award-winning short film for the song highlighted, he was ready to stand up, not be passively victimized by a money-driven, exploitative system.

  Jackson bites into the lyrics with a vengeance (“Just stop doggin’ me around,” he demands). It was a side of the artist that hadn’t been seen before—an acknowledgment that the fame and insatiable fascination of the public at large were indeed taking their toll. In this way, it was an appropriate end to the album, presaging the more personal, provocative material to come.

  4

  DANGEROUS

  (1991)

  I wanted to do an album like Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker Suite. So that in a thousand years from now, people would still be listening to it. Something that would live forever. I would like to see children and teenagers and parents and all races all over the world, hundreds and hundreds of years from now, still pulling out songs from that album and dissecting it. I want it to live.

  —MICHAEL JACKSON, Interview with Ebony, 1992

  Dangerous was a new kind of album for Michael Jackson. After a remarkable run with Quincy Jones that resulted in three of the most successful and influential albums in modern music history, Jackson refused to simply repeat proven formulas. He was ready for a new challenge, a new sound, and a new vision.

  Acting for the first time as executive producer, Jackson boldly sought out fresh talent, including talented young producer Bill Bottrell and New Jack Swing mastermind Teddy Riley. However, this wasn’t simply a New Jack Swing album, as it has often been characterized. Dangerous sampled Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony; it featured talents as diverse as the Andraé Crouch Choir, Slash, and Heavy D; it explored race, sex, alienation, death, and God. It was an audacious, maximalist collection. Having already achieved the pinnacle of commercial success, Jackson wanted to create something that would resonate on a deeper level—something for the ages.

  At seventy-seven minutes, Dangerous fulfilled Jackson’s lofty vision. It not only became the singer’s most socially conscious album to date, but also his most personally revealing. Even the cover art—an intricate, circus-like mask from which piercing eyes gaze out at the world—signifies a new self-awareness and depth. Dangerous is Michael Jackson’s Songs in the Key of Life: the work of an artist engaging with the world around him—and inside him—as never before.

  CONFUSIONS, CONTRADICTIONS

  The 1980s seemed to conclude on a triumphant note when the Berlin Wall came down in the fall of ’89. For decades, the wall had served as the uncompromising symbol of division during the Cold War: between East and West, between capitalism and communism, between oppression and freedom. It also literally separated families and friends from one another on the two sides of Berlin.

  In 1987, President Ronald Reagan delivered his famous speech at the Brandenburg Gate, challenging Soviet leader Mikhail Gorbachev to “tear down this wall.” Change, however, was already beginning to foment organically, on the ground. Two years after Reagan’s speech, in early November 1989, after the East German government loosened travel restrictions, crowds began gathering on both sides of the wall. Rather than fire at them, guards allowed them to stay and chant; as their numbers grew, they began pouring across the border unimpeded. East German authorities relented.

  Within days, young Germans were taking pickaxes, chisels, and sledgehammers to the wall. Media outlets from around the world broadcast from the scene live. The mood was jubilant. People danced on top of the wall. They took pieces of it home as souvenirs. They embraced and cried and shouted in elation. That Christmas, legendary composer Leonard Bernstein held a concert in Berlin, celebrating the fall of the wall with Beethoven’s exultant Ninth Symphony. The concert was broadcast by satellite and watched by millions around the world.

  A new era was dawning. In 1989, Ronald Reagan’s second term as president ended. The torch was passed to his vice president, George H. W. Bush. While that year witnessed the thrill and hope represented by the demolition of the Berlin Wall, it also saw the tragedy of the Tiananmen Square massacre in China, in which student-led protestors were fired upon by their own military, and the infamous Exxon Valdez oil spill in Alaska, in which thousands of gallons of crude oil were spilled into the ocean, polluting the water and killing millions of animals.

  Time magazine, in place of its Person of the Year, dedicated the 1989 issue to the “Endangered Earth.” Concerns about the environment spiked in the late ’80s—not only in response to the Exxon Valdez oil spill, but also to deforestation (particularly in the Amazon rain forest), pollution, and greenhouse gas effects.

  The following year saw the beginning of the Gulf War, after Iraqi dictator Saddam Hussein invaded and occupied neighboring Kuwait. The US-led response, dubbed Operation Desert Storm, was waged by a coalition of thirty-five nations. It was the first major war to receive live saturation coverage by cable news, giving CNN its highest ratings to date. For those watching at home, in spite of the real human costs, it almost seemed to play out like a movie or video game.

  Cable news played a large role as the ’80s transitioned to the ’90s. In 1991, amateur video footage of police officers relentlessly beating a black man (later identified as Rodney King) went public. The clip was played over and over again on CNN as Americans—and the world—looked on in horror. Months later, when the officers were acquitted by a predominantly white jury, Los Angeles erupted in violence. With sixty-three people killed, 2,383 injured, and more than $1 billion in damage, it became the most costly riot in American history. Like the Gulf War, it also received wall-to-wall coverage on CNN.

  Around the same time, the AIDS crisis reached its peak. By the early 1990s, hundreds of thousands of people had died of the disease, including high-profile figures like Ryan White in 1990 and Queen front man Freddie Mercury in 1991. That November, basketball star Magic Johnson shocked the world when he announced at a press conference that he had contracted HIV and would retire from basketball immediately.

  Meanwhile, the zeitgeist in the United States was shifting. Generation X—or the MTV generation—as they came to be identified, were the children of baby boomers. Gen-Xers tended to be more disillusioned than their parents. As the ’90s dawned, earnestness was replaced with irony and cynicism. Responding to these currents, wholesome family sitcoms like The Cosby Show gave way to more edgy programming like Roseanne, Married…with Children, and The Simpsons. Jackson famously featured characters from the latter show—Bart and Homer Simpson—in his music video for “Black or White.” He also contributed an uncredited song, “Lisa, It’s Your Birthday,” to The Simpsons and made a prominent appearance in the show’s famous 1991 episode “Stark Raving Dad.”

  Yet more broadly, it is remarkable how much Jackson absorbed the cultural shifts and events of the late ’80s and early ’90s in his work. “Will You Be There” used the same piece of music (Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony) that famously commemorated the fall of the Berlin Wall; “Gone Too Soon” was inspired by AIDS victim Ryan White, whom Jackson had befriended in the years before his tragic death (Jackson also featured Magic Johnson in the short film for “Remember the Time”); “Earth Song,” written and recorded during th
e Dangerous sessions, was inspired by the environmental crisis; “Black or White,” Jackson’s first song and music video to directly address racism, was released between the Rodney King beating and the Los Angeles riots; “Why You Wanna Trip on Me” referenced gang violence and police brutality. Jackson’s stage performances, meanwhile, drew from the iconic imagery of Tiananmen Square.

  Long criticized for living in his own isolated fantasies, Jackson was paying attention to the outside world, and increasingly grappling with its issues and shifting sensibilities in his creative work.

  SMELLS LIKE TEEN SPIRIT

  Jackson, of course, wasn’t the only artist to refract these changes. The late ’80s and early ’90s are often remembered as the moment grunge took the music industry by storm. Grunge emerged out of the Seattle music scene. While it shared the rebellious sensibility of punk, it sounded different: it had a darker, murkier feel. It was lo-fi and loud—an attempt to capture the raw authenticity of a live performance—but it also often incorporated pop-like hooks and melodies. Grunge was an alchemy of influences, but primarily defined itself against mainstream “corporate rock”: towering ’80s bands like Van Halen, Def Leppard, Bon Jovi, and Guns N’ Roses.

  What started as an underground indie enterprise quickly evolved. Bands like Soundgarden, Mudhoney, and Nirvana began to receive national, even international, press, and Seattle became ground zero not only for a new sound, but for a new aesthetic, style, and movement. The New York Times described the look as “greasy Caucasian youths in ripped jeans, untucked flannel and stomping boots.” The sensibility, meanwhile, was disaffected, antiestablishment, and angsty.