Over the last decade my tape recorder has been unfailing in catching the weirdness of a moment: Bruce Springsteen doing Ed Norton imitations at 3:00 a.m. The whir of bat wings over Eddy Grant’s Bajan plantation. Sting howling at the moon. But even my hypersensitive Sony was not up to capturing the steady flick of a snake tongue a few inches from my ear during that first long session with Michael Jackson. That whole trip was quietly strange; not menacing, just out there.
The reptile in question was Michael’s eight-foot boa constrictor, Muscles. For more than an hour, Muscles lay perfectly balanced on a banister beside me, head erect, beady eyes fixed on the small veins doubtless throbbing in my throat. Michael set him there when I declined to have Muscles lounge around my torso. It seemed a fair compromise.
Young Mike wasn’t being naughty. He explained it as an exercise in trust, and he was most convincing. If I was scared of snakes, he had a mortal dread of reporters – and maybe we should both get over it. Michael hadn’t done an interview in years without one of his sisters screening questions. And in the nearly ten years since our remarkable sessions in late ’82 (conducted as he was finishing Thriller), he has never again done an interview of this depth. Not that things went badly. It just was . . . hard.
Michael shocked everyone – his family, his management and his record company – by deciding to go it alone. He opened the front door of his rented Encino condo looking like a street whack. His corduroys were dirty and rumpled; the scuffed dress oxfords were untied. No socks. No makeup. His hospitality was touchingly inept; having run out of the proffered lemonade, he filled the other half of my glass with warm Hawaiian Punch. There was no food in the refrigerator, just juice. He explained that he was camping out there while his manse on Hayvenhurst was being rebuilt. But as she breezed through to her bedroom upstairs, sister Janet announced that he lived like a beggar, all the time; never ate except for some old lettuce leaves; wore raggedy-ass clothes. A disgrace . . .
“Right,” big brother shot back as she climbed the stairs. “At least I don’t have a booty like YOURS.”
Ten minutes into it, I could see his point. As he explained the tea party of garden statuary around his coffee table – including a Narcissus figure named Michael – I could hear how it would read. It nearly made me bawl. He was trying so damned hard.
We did agree to leave one part of our conversation out of the story, for his protection at the time. It came up as we sat in the condo dining room, and I noticed the school portrait of a young black woman tucked into the frame of an etching. The photo was one of the few personal touches in the place. The face looked like any .
“That’s the real Billie Jean,” Michael said. Quincy Jones had just played that cut for me in the studio; I knew the song was about a woman accusing the singer of fathering her child – which was what this woman’s letters insisted. Michael explained that he put the photo she’d sent in a central spot so he could memorize the face; it seemed she wanted him dead in a big way. He said she’d just sent him a gun in the mail with detailed instructions on killing himself. In a barely audible voice, Michael explained that the police had told him the gun was rigged to fire backward into the person doing the shooting. Later his mother would tell me that the woman was in an institution, under psychiatric care. When I saw the “Billie Jean” video a few months later – all disappearing tigers and pinpoint choreography – I kept seeing some girl in a green hospital gown.
“You deal with it,” Michael had told me. “You just deal.”
Over the next couple of days, Michael continued to deal with me, gamely, politely and with increasing humor. Janet shook her head in warning as he offered to drive us over for a tour of his house.
“Ray Charles drives better,” she cracked.
Strapped into his gold Camaro, I found myself longing for the relative safety of Muscle’s fond embrace. The motor skills were there, but Michael admitted that concentration was a problem. Horns were still honking at us as we pulled into the drive of the magic kingdom he was building for himself.
“You want go out tonight?”
Another surprise. Michael was going to a slam-jam Queen concert at the I.A. Forum. He wouldn’t mind the company. He felt he had to go. Freddie (the late Mr. Mercury, who died of AIDS in November 1991) had been calling him all week. He really should. . . .
Dusk was falling as we left for the show, Michael and his bodyguard Bill Bray walking point through the condo shrubbery toward a waiting limo. I thought they were being a bit silly – this was months before he hit monster status with Thriller. But they sensed the girls before I heard or saw them, made a dash to the car as a spiky red tangle of Lee press-on nails drummed against the windows.
“Lock it down!” Michael yelled to me, pointing to a panel at my knees. Limo savvy as I am, I hit the skylight button. Before it was half-open, arms reached in, clawing blindly.
Eeeeeeeeeeeeee. The keening drew blue-haired condo dwellers peering from behind their Levelers. Bray was twisting back from the front seat, prying fingers with surprising gentleness. Michael was helpless with giggles. I was flat scared, looking for Billie Jean in those contorted faces stuck against the windows.
When at last we pulled away, I turned to look at Michael. He had “dressed” for this public evening in jeans and a turquoise terry blazer, black loafers and just a tinge of blusher. This precept Michael looked great – healthy, handsome and robustly African American.
We stopped to pick up Michael’s one true friend – a blond teenage skier who was then his partner in Jehovah’s Witness fieldwork – and just as much of a Lost Boy. When Bray piloted us into Mercury’s dressing room, the boys shrank back until fib Freddie bounded over like a dizzy Rottweiler and damn near crushed tiny Mike in a hug. They fell against a big trunk that opened, releasing a terrifying avalanche of Freddie’s industrial-strength jockstraps. Michael’s jaw dropped.
“Ooooooooh, Freddie. What are those?”
A gold football helmet fell out and came to rest on the mountain of cups.
“Rock & roll’s a man’s job, little brother,” Freddie thundered. Michael smiled and wanted to know if his host had really spent his last birthday hanging naked from a chandelier. The skier blushed. We all had a swell time until Freddie’s trainer called him over for a little preperformance spine cracking.
As it turned out, we didn’t see much of the concert. Things got too spooky again once Michael was recognized in the beery dark. Hands, notes, eyes, surrounded us. When an unidentifiable liquid began raining on our heads, Bray stood up. “That’s it. We’re gone.”
We spent more time together, in the studio with Quincy Jones, rambling through Michael’s unfinished pleasure dome and visiting his menagerie. Toward the end, while we were bottle feeding his twin fawns, he turned suddenly and looked me in the eyes. Finally.
“You know something? You’re no better than I am. I mean, you’re just as sneaky.”
“How do you figure that?” I asked.
“You tap-dance in public. Sure you do, all over the page in ROLLING STONE. You need to perform, too. But when you’re done, you can run away and hide. Nobody’s after you.”
Michael had me there, dead to rights. He laughed and put a hand on my shoulder.
“Believe me when I tell you – don’t know how lucky you are.”
__________________
The reptile in question was Michael’s eight-foot boa constrictor, Muscles. For more than an hour, Muscles lay perfectly balanced on a banister beside me, head erect, beady eyes fixed on the small veins doubtless throbbing in my throat. Michael set him there when I declined to have Muscles lounge around my torso. It seemed a fair compromise.
Young Mike wasn’t being naughty. He explained it as an exercise in trust, and he was most convincing. If I was scared of snakes, he had a mortal dread of reporters – and maybe we should both get over it. Michael hadn’t done an interview in years without one of his sisters screening questions. And in the nearly ten years since our remarkable sessions in late ’82 (conducted as he was finishing Thriller), he has never again done an interview of this depth. Not that things went badly. It just was . . . hard.
Michael shocked everyone – his family, his management and his record company – by deciding to go it alone. He opened the front door of his rented Encino condo looking like a street whack. His corduroys were dirty and rumpled; the scuffed dress oxfords were untied. No socks. No makeup. His hospitality was touchingly inept; having run out of the proffered lemonade, he filled the other half of my glass with warm Hawaiian Punch. There was no food in the refrigerator, just juice. He explained that he was camping out there while his manse on Hayvenhurst was being rebuilt. But as she breezed through to her bedroom upstairs, sister Janet announced that he lived like a beggar, all the time; never ate except for some old lettuce leaves; wore raggedy-ass clothes. A disgrace . . .
“Right,” big brother shot back as she climbed the stairs. “At least I don’t have a booty like YOURS.”
Ten minutes into it, I could see his point. As he explained the tea party of garden statuary around his coffee table – including a Narcissus figure named Michael – I could hear how it would read. It nearly made me bawl. He was trying so damned hard.
We did agree to leave one part of our conversation out of the story, for his protection at the time. It came up as we sat in the condo dining room, and I noticed the school portrait of a young black woman tucked into the frame of an etching. The photo was one of the few personal touches in the place. The face looked like any .
“That’s the real Billie Jean,” Michael said. Quincy Jones had just played that cut for me in the studio; I knew the song was about a woman accusing the singer of fathering her child – which was what this woman’s letters insisted. Michael explained that he put the photo she’d sent in a central spot so he could memorize the face; it seemed she wanted him dead in a big way. He said she’d just sent him a gun in the mail with detailed instructions on killing himself. In a barely audible voice, Michael explained that the police had told him the gun was rigged to fire backward into the person doing the shooting. Later his mother would tell me that the woman was in an institution, under psychiatric care. When I saw the “Billie Jean” video a few months later – all disappearing tigers and pinpoint choreography – I kept seeing some girl in a green hospital gown.
“You deal with it,” Michael had told me. “You just deal.”
Over the next couple of days, Michael continued to deal with me, gamely, politely and with increasing humor. Janet shook her head in warning as he offered to drive us over for a tour of his house.
“Ray Charles drives better,” she cracked.
Strapped into his gold Camaro, I found myself longing for the relative safety of Muscle’s fond embrace. The motor skills were there, but Michael admitted that concentration was a problem. Horns were still honking at us as we pulled into the drive of the magic kingdom he was building for himself.
“You want go out tonight?”
Another surprise. Michael was going to a slam-jam Queen concert at the I.A. Forum. He wouldn’t mind the company. He felt he had to go. Freddie (the late Mr. Mercury, who died of AIDS in November 1991) had been calling him all week. He really should. . . .
Dusk was falling as we left for the show, Michael and his bodyguard Bill Bray walking point through the condo shrubbery toward a waiting limo. I thought they were being a bit silly – this was months before he hit monster status with Thriller. But they sensed the girls before I heard or saw them, made a dash to the car as a spiky red tangle of Lee press-on nails drummed against the windows.
“Lock it down!” Michael yelled to me, pointing to a panel at my knees. Limo savvy as I am, I hit the skylight button. Before it was half-open, arms reached in, clawing blindly.
Eeeeeeeeeeeeee. The keening drew blue-haired condo dwellers peering from behind their Levelers. Bray was twisting back from the front seat, prying fingers with surprising gentleness. Michael was helpless with giggles. I was flat scared, looking for Billie Jean in those contorted faces stuck against the windows.
When at last we pulled away, I turned to look at Michael. He had “dressed” for this public evening in jeans and a turquoise terry blazer, black loafers and just a tinge of blusher. This precept Michael looked great – healthy, handsome and robustly African American.
We stopped to pick up Michael’s one true friend – a blond teenage skier who was then his partner in Jehovah’s Witness fieldwork – and just as much of a Lost Boy. When Bray piloted us into Mercury’s dressing room, the boys shrank back until fib Freddie bounded over like a dizzy Rottweiler and damn near crushed tiny Mike in a hug. They fell against a big trunk that opened, releasing a terrifying avalanche of Freddie’s industrial-strength jockstraps. Michael’s jaw dropped.
“Ooooooooh, Freddie. What are those?”
A gold football helmet fell out and came to rest on the mountain of cups.
“Rock & roll’s a man’s job, little brother,” Freddie thundered. Michael smiled and wanted to know if his host had really spent his last birthday hanging naked from a chandelier. The skier blushed. We all had a swell time until Freddie’s trainer called him over for a little preperformance spine cracking.
As it turned out, we didn’t see much of the concert. Things got too spooky again once Michael was recognized in the beery dark. Hands, notes, eyes, surrounded us. When an unidentifiable liquid began raining on our heads, Bray stood up. “That’s it. We’re gone.”
We spent more time together, in the studio with Quincy Jones, rambling through Michael’s unfinished pleasure dome and visiting his menagerie. Toward the end, while we were bottle feeding his twin fawns, he turned suddenly and looked me in the eyes. Finally.
“You know something? You’re no better than I am. I mean, you’re just as sneaky.”
“How do you figure that?” I asked.
“You tap-dance in public. Sure you do, all over the page in ROLLING STONE. You need to perform, too. But when you’re done, you can run away and hide. Nobody’s after you.”
Michael had me there, dead to rights. He laughed and put a hand on my shoulder.
“Believe me when I tell you – don’t know how lucky you are.”
__________________
Michael's spirit asked for Lisa's forgiveness
Michael Jackson's spirit reportedly asked for forgiveness from ex-wife Lisa Marie Presley at a recent seance.
Lisa Marie,43, is said to have used with her make-up artist Karen Faye,53, to contact the late king of pop
Faye said to UK newspaper The Sun ''he seemed to be on a mission to reach out to people in his life and be forgiven Michael spent his time explaining his faults and wanting us to forgive him. He seemed unsetttled. He seemed more jovial with Lisa.''
The psychic turned to me (Lisa) and said Michael is telling me''You took such good care of me and i am so sorry I hurt you so much.'' he said he should have listened to me more. It hit Lisa straight in the heart
Michael Jackson's spirit reportedly asked for forgiveness from ex-wife Lisa Marie Presley at a recent seance.
Lisa Marie,43, is said to have used with her make-up artist Karen Faye,53, to contact the late king of pop
Faye said to UK newspaper The Sun ''he seemed to be on a mission to reach out to people in his life and be forgiven Michael spent his time explaining his faults and wanting us to forgive him. He seemed unsetttled. He seemed more jovial with Lisa.''
The psychic turned to me (Lisa) and said Michael is telling me''You took such good care of me and i am so sorry I hurt you so much.'' he said he should have listened to me more. It hit Lisa straight in the heart
Michael Jackson's estate is asking a judge to do what Katherine Jackson can't -- kick Alejandra Jackson and her kids out of the Hayvenhurst estate for good.
TMZ has obtained legal docs in which the estate is asking the judge to remove Alejandra, Jaafar, Jermajesty, Genevieve, Donte and Randy Jr. from the estate ... on grounds they're not beneficiaries of Michael Jackson's will and have no claim to the property.
As TMZ first reported in November, Katherine Jackson told Alejandra and the kids -- fathered by both Jermaine and Randy -- not to return to the residence. Alejandra is refusing to move herself, her kids, and her stuff out ... so the estate has gone to court.
As TMZ also previously reported, the house is scheduled to be renovated -- but sources tell us Alejandra is holding the remodel hostage by refusing to leave.
TMZ has obtained legal docs in which the estate is asking the judge to remove Alejandra, Jaafar, Jermajesty, Genevieve, Donte and Randy Jr. from the estate ... on grounds they're not beneficiaries of Michael Jackson's will and have no claim to the property.
As TMZ first reported in November, Katherine Jackson told Alejandra and the kids -- fathered by both Jermaine and Randy -- not to return to the residence. Alejandra is refusing to move herself, her kids, and her stuff out ... so the estate has gone to court.
As TMZ also previously reported, the house is scheduled to be renovated -- but sources tell us Alejandra is holding the remodel hostage by refusing to leave.
The co-executors of Michael Jackson's estate think Discovery Channel did the right thing when they yanked a documentary from their UK schedule that was to feature a reenactment of MJ's autopsy.
A rep for John Branca and John McClain tells TMZ, "The co-executors of the Estate of Michael Jackson are pleased that Discovery Channel made the correct decision in choosing to cancel this exploitative program."
The co-executors went on to say they feel Michael's fans played a large role in Discovery's decision, saying, "While Discovery cited legal proceedings and our request as the reasons for its decision, none of this would have happened had it not been for the incredible passion displayed by countless Michael Jackson fans worldwide who knew they stood as one and that their voices could not be ignored."
As for any future plans to air the show, Branca and McClain said, "We are hopeful that this show will never run in any market in the future."
A rep for John Branca and John McClain tells TMZ, "The co-executors of the Estate of Michael Jackson are pleased that Discovery Channel made the correct decision in choosing to cancel this exploitative program."
The co-executors went on to say they feel Michael's fans played a large role in Discovery's decision, saying, "While Discovery cited legal proceedings and our request as the reasons for its decision, none of this would have happened had it not been for the incredible passion displayed by countless Michael Jackson fans worldwide who knew they stood as one and that their voices could not be ignored."
As for any future plans to air the show, Branca and McClain said, "We are hopeful that this show will never run in any market in the future."
ok so i got the new mj album next to the experience.
the album is amazing and hopfully some of the songs will be heard on the radio and the following now series. the album has 10 songs.
1. Hold My Hand (Duet With Akon)
2. Hollywood Tonight
3. Keep Your Head Up
4. (I Like) The Way You Love Me
5. Monster (Featuring 50 Cent)
6. Best Of Joy
7. Breaking News
8. (I Can't Make It) Another Day (Featuring Lenny Kravitz)
9. Behind The Mask
10. Much Too Soon
well when i looked on the back of the CD it said 9 of the tracks were origonaly recorded and made by michael himself they were all finished by using parts of the songs and extending them or looping them.
this is a great album but im not so sure about number 10 it sounds just like him or maby it was all looped to finish
the album is amazing and hopfully some of the songs will be heard on the radio and the following now series. the album has 10 songs.
1. Hold My Hand (Duet With Akon)
2. Hollywood Tonight
3. Keep Your Head Up
4. (I Like) The Way You Love Me
5. Monster (Featuring 50 Cent)
6. Best Of Joy
7. Breaking News
8. (I Can't Make It) Another Day (Featuring Lenny Kravitz)
9. Behind The Mask
10. Much Too Soon
well when i looked on the back of the CD it said 9 of the tracks were origonaly recorded and made by michael himself they were all finished by using parts of the songs and extending them or looping them.
this is a great album but im not so sure about number 10 it sounds just like him or maby it was all looped to finish
Now let's Go into MJ Omg is it just me isnt he the best,amazing,sexy,hotty, celeb to walk this earth! Omg i wish he was here, i miss him soo much but everytime i come on here i think "WOW he is the one, the one that brought us together, He did it he reached his message.L.O.V.E".. Please everyone carry on MJ's message n Contunie to Listen to REAL POP music and that's MJ Music!!{{Not saying every other pop artist is bad some of the pop music today is great, but MJ's was better}}
Love you All-
Jacinda a.k.a JanetJfan
The next day.. she was at work.. she works as a doctor.. The door knocked..
Caroline:"Come in"
It was Bernard...
Caroline:"We need to talk.."
Bernard said:"Tell me hun.."
She gave hin an angry face..
Caroline:"I went at a bar yesterday.. and u know who i saw? I saw u holding a girls' hand.. and u were laughing together!"
Bernard froze..
Caroline:"Don't u ever talk to me again.. it's over.. i don't want to see your face again.. go home and take your things back were they belong.. get out! Now.."
Bernard:"No.. wait I can explain"
Caroline:"Out! Get out you fool!"
He went out.. Caroline took a deep breath and continued working.. Then the first word that came in her mind was "Michael".. She thought of him that moment.. she smiled.. then she continued working..
Caroline:"Come in"
It was Bernard...
Caroline:"We need to talk.."
Bernard said:"Tell me hun.."
She gave hin an angry face..
Caroline:"I went at a bar yesterday.. and u know who i saw? I saw u holding a girls' hand.. and u were laughing together!"
Bernard froze..
Caroline:"Don't u ever talk to me again.. it's over.. i don't want to see your face again.. go home and take your things back were they belong.. get out! Now.."
Bernard:"No.. wait I can explain"
Caroline:"Out! Get out you fool!"
He went out.. Caroline took a deep breath and continued working.. Then the first word that came in her mind was "Michael".. She thought of him that moment.. she smiled.. then she continued working..
Good news for the fans of the king of pop – link, you can now sleep on Jackson’s bed in the Irish country mansion which was once the home of the late star and his kids, but, is now open to public. The estate owner Paddy Dunning is offering the holiday makers and the fans of Jackson to live life like the king of pop. Jackson’s fans can now stay at the Coolatore House for a weekend or so and sleep in Jackson’s bed for upwards of $1,500.
TMZ has learned the Holmby Hills mansion where Michael Jackson died is getting a serious boost in security -- so nobody messes with the super-expensive property while it's on the market.
Sources connected to the home tell us ... now that people know the home is "vacated and for sale, the property owners have increased security to keep it safe."
As we previously reported, the owners are requiring potential buyers to go through an "extensive pre-qualifying check" before they can even walk in the door ... just to keep out the riffraff.
The home is currently on the market for a cool $28 mil.
Sources connected to the home tell us ... now that people know the home is "vacated and for sale, the property owners have increased security to keep it safe."
As we previously reported, the owners are requiring potential buyers to go through an "extensive pre-qualifying check" before they can even walk in the door ... just to keep out the riffraff.
The home is currently on the market for a cool $28 mil.
An MJ fan club is on a desperate mission to clean up the recent graffiti onslaught outside the King of Pop's tomb -- claiming a few bad apples could spoil everything for MJ's non-vandal followers.
The Official Michael Jackson Fans of Southern California have extended an olive branch to Forest Lawn Cemetery -- where MJ is buried -- offering to clean up the recent wave of hidden vandalism outside the singer's tomb ... before the cemetery decides to ban MJ fans altogether.
A rep for the group -- which organizes a monthly pilgrimage to MJ's burial place -- tells TMZ, they want to "fix this mess" so FLC doesn't associate MJ's upstanding fans with a bunch of sharpie-wielding hoodlums.
As TMZ first reported, Forest Lawn is currently on red alert over the illegal doodles -- hunting down the artists responsible ... and threatening to ban any potential copycats for life.
No word if Forest Lawn will take the fan group up on their offer.
The Official Michael Jackson Fans of Southern California have extended an olive branch to Forest Lawn Cemetery -- where MJ is buried -- offering to clean up the recent wave of hidden vandalism outside the singer's tomb ... before the cemetery decides to ban MJ fans altogether.
A rep for the group -- which organizes a monthly pilgrimage to MJ's burial place -- tells TMZ, they want to "fix this mess" so FLC doesn't associate MJ's upstanding fans with a bunch of sharpie-wielding hoodlums.
As TMZ first reported, Forest Lawn is currently on red alert over the illegal doodles -- hunting down the artists responsible ... and threatening to ban any potential copycats for life.
No word if Forest Lawn will take the fan group up on their offer.
