Victory22
Proud Member
This is another well written article about the genius of our Michael. His human side with frailties and defects are shown well. MJ was a very complicated, multi-level person and that's why we love him. Enjoy. :sc_imbad:
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(thank you for sharing Kathy Guzman Juliano & Betty Byrnes on FB)
Interesting excerpt from this June 1987 issue of SPIN magazine:
"He's afraid to finish the record," says an associate of Jackson's. "The closer he gets to completing it, the more terrified he becomes of that confrontation with the public. Quincy Jones could only keep him protected from it for so long, then he leaves the studio and it's there. He's reminded that everyone is waiting for this record and he goes into a shell. He is frightened."
The first thing that people who know him tell you is that there is Michael and there is the corporate entity called "Michael Jackson." "He has a split personality," says a member of his staff. "He is very bright and self-destructively brilliant. He has an extremely high I.Q. and certain quirks and personality disorders. He might have six or twenty sides to him, and they're all competing against each other."
Over the past year, Quincy Jones has devoted himself to saving Michael from Michael Jackson. Since last fall, however, Jones has been losing the battle. Michael Jackson makes more and more deals — movies, commercials, soft drinks, clothing, toys, perfumes. All of this distracts him from making the album; at the same time, all of it depends on the record's completion. Finding a way through this impasse to make an album that could possibly follow Thriller is the most difficult challenge that Michael has ever faced.
It's a clear, sunny day in West Hollywood. To the north, the Hollywood hills rise majestically over the splashy billboards, palm trees, car washes, burger stands, and mini-markets that dominate this seedy district. At night the area turns into a pick-up strip for male hookers and transvestites; otherwise no one goes there. It's the perfect spot for someone who craves anonymity.
Westlake Studio is a well-kept secret, a nondescript, two-story red brick building with beige trim and draped, tinted windows. No signs announce its location; it blends perfectly with the neighborhood's bland architecture. But in the tight alley behind Westlake sit Mercedes, Rolls-Royces, Ferraris, and stretch limousines with judiciously darkened windows.
Inside the studio, Michael Jackson is pacing the floor as jazz organist Jimmy Smith lays down tracks for a song called "Bad." It's a leaping, driving, swaggering song about what a young man can do in bed, seemingly made to order for Smith's hard-swinging style. He has knocked out one remarkable take after another, improvising solos with a wide, toothy smile.
But Michael wants something more. After the playback, he hears Lola Smith ask if everyone picked up on Jimmy's grunts while he was playing. Now Michael wants those grunts on tape, says he has to have them. Smith goes back into the booth to deliver again, this time complete with funky grunts. During these takes, Michael comes out of his shell, rocking and stamping his feet. He doesn't ever talk much, except to Jones and Frank DiLeo, his short, squat manager who has just come into the studio wrapped in a billowing cloud of cigar smoke.
As Michael nibbles on a pomegranate and whispers in DiLeo's ear, Smith begins another solo, this one even more astonishing than the others. He finishes the take and returns to the booth, sweating and staggering like a man who has been drinking and screwing all night. Michael embraces him warmly.
This is the Michael who is a pleasure to work with, a gifted songwriter and prankster. Quincy Jones watches him with obvious satisfaction. The troubles of last year seem behind them. The many Michaels have been distilled into one and he's in the studio working well.
Things aren't always this easy. Taciturn himself, Michael demands constant stimulation. He is childish but domineering, shrewd yet abstracted. He is rich and powerful, but also an insecure child. He can be angelically sweet or cuttingly cold. His every whim is satisfied. He gets what he wants, but only as long as he remains inside the cocoon of his self-created isolation.
~~~~~~
(thank you for sharing Kathy Guzman Juliano & Betty Byrnes on FB)
Interesting excerpt from this June 1987 issue of SPIN magazine:
"He's afraid to finish the record," says an associate of Jackson's. "The closer he gets to completing it, the more terrified he becomes of that confrontation with the public. Quincy Jones could only keep him protected from it for so long, then he leaves the studio and it's there. He's reminded that everyone is waiting for this record and he goes into a shell. He is frightened."
The first thing that people who know him tell you is that there is Michael and there is the corporate entity called "Michael Jackson." "He has a split personality," says a member of his staff. "He is very bright and self-destructively brilliant. He has an extremely high I.Q. and certain quirks and personality disorders. He might have six or twenty sides to him, and they're all competing against each other."
Over the past year, Quincy Jones has devoted himself to saving Michael from Michael Jackson. Since last fall, however, Jones has been losing the battle. Michael Jackson makes more and more deals — movies, commercials, soft drinks, clothing, toys, perfumes. All of this distracts him from making the album; at the same time, all of it depends on the record's completion. Finding a way through this impasse to make an album that could possibly follow Thriller is the most difficult challenge that Michael has ever faced.
It's a clear, sunny day in West Hollywood. To the north, the Hollywood hills rise majestically over the splashy billboards, palm trees, car washes, burger stands, and mini-markets that dominate this seedy district. At night the area turns into a pick-up strip for male hookers and transvestites; otherwise no one goes there. It's the perfect spot for someone who craves anonymity.
Westlake Studio is a well-kept secret, a nondescript, two-story red brick building with beige trim and draped, tinted windows. No signs announce its location; it blends perfectly with the neighborhood's bland architecture. But in the tight alley behind Westlake sit Mercedes, Rolls-Royces, Ferraris, and stretch limousines with judiciously darkened windows.
Inside the studio, Michael Jackson is pacing the floor as jazz organist Jimmy Smith lays down tracks for a song called "Bad." It's a leaping, driving, swaggering song about what a young man can do in bed, seemingly made to order for Smith's hard-swinging style. He has knocked out one remarkable take after another, improvising solos with a wide, toothy smile.
But Michael wants something more. After the playback, he hears Lola Smith ask if everyone picked up on Jimmy's grunts while he was playing. Now Michael wants those grunts on tape, says he has to have them. Smith goes back into the booth to deliver again, this time complete with funky grunts. During these takes, Michael comes out of his shell, rocking and stamping his feet. He doesn't ever talk much, except to Jones and Frank DiLeo, his short, squat manager who has just come into the studio wrapped in a billowing cloud of cigar smoke.
As Michael nibbles on a pomegranate and whispers in DiLeo's ear, Smith begins another solo, this one even more astonishing than the others. He finishes the take and returns to the booth, sweating and staggering like a man who has been drinking and screwing all night. Michael embraces him warmly.
This is the Michael who is a pleasure to work with, a gifted songwriter and prankster. Quincy Jones watches him with obvious satisfaction. The troubles of last year seem behind them. The many Michaels have been distilled into one and he's in the studio working well.
Things aren't always this easy. Taciturn himself, Michael demands constant stimulation. He is childish but domineering, shrewd yet abstracted. He is rich and powerful, but also an insecure child. He can be angelically sweet or cuttingly cold. His every whim is satisfied. He gets what he wants, but only as long as he remains inside the cocoon of his self-created isolation.
