You Are Not Alone: Michael, Through a Brother’s Eyes

In 2001, Michael gave a speech to students at Oxford University about parents and children. The words he used then still stand today: ‘I have begun to see how my father’s harshness was a kind of love, an imperfect one, but love nonetheless. With time, I now feel a blessing. In the place of anger, I have found absolution … reconciliation … and forgiveness. Almost a decade ago, I founded a charity called Heal the World. To heal the world, we first need to heal ourselves. And to heal the kids, we first have to heal the child within each and every one of us. That is why I want to forgive my father and stop judging him. I want to be free to step into a new relationship with my father for the rest of my life, unhindered by the goblins of the past …’

HOWEVER MUCH MICHAEL SPOKE ABOUT HIS fear of Joseph, he liked taking it to the edge. Between the ages of six and 10, his love of candy propelled him into a mission that, for him, was akin to crawling into the big bad bear’s cave as it slept. Each morning before school, and with Joseph in bed after working a swing shift, we’d send Michael to grab change from inside the pockets of the pants left lying on the bedroom floor.

Jackie, Tito, Marlon and I stood against the wall, shushing one another and trying not to giggle as Michael slithered slowly on the floor and through the partially open door into darkness. I stood as lookout – checking for movement from the big bundle under the sheets. Next thing we knew, Michael was backing out with some change and we’d run out of the house, yelping with delight that we had pulled off another successful mission. Sometimes our candy-heist yielded a disappointing haul of cents and nickels, but sometimes we struck gold with dimes and quarters.

Throughout our childhood, we thought we were the bravest kids until Mother told us in later years that she and Joseph would lie there in bed, eyes open, looking at one another, raising their eye-brows and smiling as they heard Michael shuffling in.

MICHAEL’S SWEET TOOTH WAS BEHIND THE one moment in his life when he said time stood still. It was winter and thick snow was on the ground. He hadn’t wanted to venture out into the cold so he’d begged Marlon to go and buy him some bubble gum.

Some time later, we were all playing inside and Mother was in the kitchen when a kid pounded on the door, shouting, ‘Marlon’s dead!’ He had been hit by a car.

Mother ran outside, yelling, ‘WHERE? WHERE?’

I stood on the pathway, watching her hurry through the snow up the street. Behind me, Michael was rooted by guilt to the doorstep. ‘Oh, Lord, what have I done? I sent him for some gum … Erms, it’s all my fault.’

Marlon had suffered a head injury after a car slid in the snow and slewed into him. Mother found him knocked out under the front bumper, being tended by people in the street. He was taken to hospital, where he stayed for a few days. When Mother came home and said he was going to be okay, Michael burst into tears of relief. He had convinced himself that his brother was dead all because of him and that his punishment would be exclusion from God’s paradise.

That was because, in our home, the lessons of the Kingdom Hall held equal weight to the lessons in entertainment. The irony was lost on us. We never questioned things as kids: I don’t think we ever learned how to question things. We just followed instructions and did as we were told. Michael believed it when the elders preached that only 144,000 people would be saved by Jehovah and transported to a new paradise when Armageddon happened. Why only 144,000 out of the four million practising Witnesses across America? We never did ask. Jehovah’s influence was one aspect of life at 2300 Jackson Street that people perhaps haven’t properly weighed: those doctrines conditioned Michael and pinned us to the straight and narrow, just as much as Joseph’s discipline.

GOD WAS ALWAYS RESIDENT IN OUR house, but Jehovah moved in before Mother fell pregnant with Randy, when Michael was two. She had been raised a Christian with devoted family links to the Baptist Church, but two things happened in 1960: a local pastor she respected at Gary’s Lutheran church turned out to be having an affair and therefore broke his covenant with God; and a practising Jehovah’s Witness, a friend named Beverly Brown, knocked on our door at the exact time of Mother’s spiritual disillusionment. That was when Christmas and birthdays moved out of our home. Mother says that I ‘must’ remember having a Christmas tree and presents until I was six, but I honestly can’t.

After her conversion the only ‘special occasion’ was the obligatory visit with Mother to the local Kingdom Hall. It was her responsibility to show us the love of God: Joseph rarely joined us as we dressed up in our second-hand smart pants, jacket and tie to sit in the chairs and get shushed for fidgeting, moaning or rocking our feet. Only the hymns brought things to life.

Mother ensured we made time for Bible study. The Old and New Testaments and the faith’s main publications, the Watchtower and Paradise Lost magazines, were always on the living-room table. A fellow Witness joined Mother to read over the scriptures as Jackie, Tito, Marlon, Michael and I sat squashed up on the sofa, with the girls at our feet, Bibles in our laps and pencils in hand to underline certain passages to be discussed at the next sermon. Rebbie couldn’t wait to join Mother on ‘field service’ – going from door to door to spread Jehovah’s message. The times we trailed after Mother, up and down people’s pathways, were a lesson in determination if nothing else.

I watched curtains twitching and used to count how many seconds it would be before the door was slammed in Mother’s face. Rejection didn’t faze her – she was serving Jehovah. Bless her, she’s still blazing a trail in His name in California to this day. The one lesson imprinted on our minds from our own Bible study was that we’d take a fast trip to Hell if we didn’t serve Jehovah and attend the Kingdom Hall. Our Judgement Day was Armageddon, when all evil life would be destroyed and a new world created for the chosen 144,000. Salvation hinged on our devotion to Jehovah.

Just in case our young minds were not imaginative enough, the Watchtower illustrated what Armageddon would look like. I remember reading it with Michael, scanning vivid illustrations of buildings imploding and people falling into cavernous cracks in the earth, arms reaching out to be saved. The anxiety spread as we pondered the questions that would decide our fate. Do we honour Jehovah enough? Are we good enough for eternal life? Will we survive Armageddon? If we get into trouble with Joseph, does that mean we’re in trouble with Jehovah, too?

‘I want to go to Paradise!’ I said, more out of fear than enthusiasm.

‘Mother, are we going to be saved?’ asked Michael.

The most important thing in life, she said, was to be good and be good to others: salvation is granted to those who keep the faith, do field service and live according to the scriptures. As an adult, Michael would later accept the Watchtower illustrations as ‘symbolism’, but as boys, it was still scary to wonder how Jehovah noticed the difference between us being good and, say, the mailman. What about the times Michael gave kids in the neighbourhood candy and I didn’t? Mother’s stock answer was the same: Don’t worry, He sees everything.

And then there was the proximity of Armageddon. When was it going to happen? Next week? How long have we got? An inquisitive mind like Michael’s never could stop thinking about it. I can see him now looking up to an elder to ask some earnest question, only to be patted on the head and humoured. But witnesses seemed forever braced for the end of the world. The first Armageddon was estimated to be 1914. When that didn’t happen, it was changed to 1915 … And they’re still waiting.

I distinctly remember when the Jackson family was convinced it was coming: 1963. The Russians seemed sure to bomb the US, JFK was assassinated, and then the suspected gunman, Lee Harvey Oswald, was shot – an event we watched on our black-and-white TV. Our household was sure all this was a prelude to the end of the world – and we brothers had never been so keen to get to the Kingdom Hall to honour Jehovah.

Michael always said he was raised biblically. In fact, he was the only one of the Jackson 5 to be baptised. Michael prayed, I did not. Michael learned the Bible, I did not. I didn’t appreciate that Jehovah was the ultimate Father because we were made to believe that He can disown you if you don’t behave. The threat of abandonment – of being ‘de-fellowshipped’ – was ever-present. Michael would learn all about Jehovah’s threat of banishment in later life but in his childhood, the threat of it was a whip in itself.

When the Jackson 5 took off, I would say his faith became his bedrock; something solid to hang on to, a place to which he could retreat and be regarded not as famous but as equal and normal. Witnesses never made a fuss of Michael because they were only allowed to make a fuss of Jehovah. The Kingdom Hall brought him a sense of normality that, in the outside world, dwindled year upon year. Michael was dedicated to walking the higher path. I know that he confided in God and felt He was a presence you could never fool or hide anything from. In later life, he once told me he still felt a twinge of guilt for celebrating Christmas and birthdays.

Collectively speaking, the ever-watchful Jehovah, combined with our parents’ determination to ring-fence us from the threat of gang violence, ensured that we didn’t learn how to integrate socially except with each other. Even then, there was no real sense of coming together because of the lack of family occasions such as Christmas, birthdays and Thanksgiving. In our childhood we walked the line between Joseph’s strict expectations and Jehovah’s salvation. The stage was the only place where there were no rules; it became our one area of freedom.

WE DIDN’T THINK STAGES GOT ANY bigger than the one that talk-show host David Frost offered us. One of his producers had been in the audience that night at the Apollo and he called Richard Aarons, saying he wanted us to perform on The David Frost Show from New York, to be broadcast to the whole of America. For nights afterwards, we climbed into our bunk-beds, unable to sleep through excitement. We told everyone at school that we were going to be on the TV and teachers made announcements in class.

David Frost was the Englishman with a talk-show in America: he was part of ‘the British invasion’. There were the Beatles, the Rolling Stones and David Frost – and we were on his radar.

What we didn’t know was that Joseph had been simultaneously thrown into a dilemma. We had performed again at the Regal on 17 July 1968, where we shared a bill with Bobby Taylor and the Vancouvers. Bobby was so impressed that he got on the phone to a lady who had recently moved into the Detroit apartment block where he lived. Suzanne de Passe was a 19-year-old who had just started work in town as creative assistant to Berry Gordy at Motown and we ended up auditioning for her in Bobby’s living room. As Suzanne remembers it, she rang Mr Gordy about ‘these amazing kids’, but he wasn’t impressed.

‘Kids? I don’t want more kids! I’ve got enough on with Stevie Wonder!’ To him, of course, kids were a headache, with tutors and all. Apparently, he had been the same with Diana Ross and the Supremes at first, dismissing them as ‘too young’.

Mr Gordy clearly needed persuading, and Suzanne persuaded him. This was where Joseph had his dilemma: our invitation to audition at Motown clashed with the David Frost booking. It was dream national-television exposure versus one golden opportunity. Michael and Marlon were initially devastated when Joseph chose to audition. Instead of performing to an audience of millions from New York, we found ourselves at Motown’s headquarters – Hitsville USA – performing to a handful of people, including Mr Gordy. Joseph was smart in not grasping at the instant celebrity of television: David Frost wouldn’t bring us closer to a record deal – but the audition did.

On 23 July 1968, that audition took place before a selected group of people. We couldn’t see them because they were gathered in the dark on the other side of the glass in the sound studio; we only saw a camera on a tripod, capturing our ‘screen test’, as was standard. We sang the aptly titled ‘Ain’t Too Proud To Beg’ and ‘I Wish It Would Rain’ by the Temptations, before ending with ‘Who’s Lovin’ You?’ by Smokey Robinson. The weirdest thing was the pregnant pause that greeted our final note: no one said a word.

Michael couldn’t stand it. ‘So? How was that?’ he chirped.

‘Michael!’ I said in a loud whisper, embarrassed by his rudeness.

‘That was great … very good,’ said some voice. But that was all we got. We had to wait a few years before we learned the truth of the reaction when Mr Gordy wrote about it in his Foreword to Michael’s reissued autobiography, Moonwalk, in 2009: ‘Michael sang “Who’s Lovin’ You” with the sadness and passion of a man who had been living with the blues and heartbreak his whole life … As great as Smokey sang it, Michael sang it better. I told Smokey, “Hey, man, I think he gotcha on that one!”’

Two days later, we got the call back: Motown wanted to sign us.

CHAPTER SIX

Motown University

‘THE BOSTON HOUSE’ WAS ANOTHER WORLD, with a size and opulence beyond our comprehension. We’d thought only kings and queens lived so grandly, but Mr Gordy’s mock-Tudor mansion in Detroit was something else. It was also our venue for the night, to perform at one of his annual parties. One thing was certain: there would be no midnight strip-teases or fruit thrown on stage. This was no Mr Lucky’s or amateur night at the Apollo. It wasn’t a home, either. It was a residence – and one that music had provided. Michael wandered around, ever-curious, looking up at the great ceilings, shimmering chandeliers, the grand oil portraits of Mr Gordy himself.

Outside, there was an ornamental fountain and marble Greek statues. Inside, there were butlers and white people working as household staff. Everything was so ornate, immaculate and clean. We arrived as newly-signed Motown artists, even if our signed contracts had got snagged due to some legal issues we didn’t ask about, but it was ‘nothing to worry about’ and our host didn’t seem too concerned. It was his first time showcasing us so the night was a big deal. It was the winter of 1968 and we had no idea what to expect.

The bearded, effusive Mr Gordy greeted us, his sole performers for the night, at the door with a golf club in his hand. (He had a putting green out back.) Our ‘dressing room’ was the pool house just outside the indoor swimming pool and the ‘stage’ was an area set aside at the far end of the pool, with just enough room for Johnny’s drums and Ronny’s keyboard. Guests would face us from the opposite end and down the flanks, between the Greek columns.

As men in suits and women wearing diamonds started to gather, Michael and Marlon kept running outside from the pool-house to take a peep through the windows to see who was out front. Jackie, Tito, Johnny, Ronny and I got changed and sat around, going over the performance in our heads. Suddenly Marlon darted in. ‘Smokey Robinson is here!’ He dashed back out.

Then Michael’s head appeared at the door. ‘Whoa! I’ve just seen some of the Temptations!’

Then Marlon: ‘Gladys Knight is here!’

Then Michael again, shrieking: ‘DIANA ROSS! I’VE JUST SEEN DIANA ROSS!’

Tito and I jumped up and raced outside to make sure it wasn’t another of his pranks. But it was true. Mr Gordy had gathered the crème de la crème of his Motown family – and who knew how many other movers and shakers from the music industry? Ever since July, we had kept pinching ourselves that we were actually Motown artists – grouped with the Temptations, the Marvelettes, Martha & the Vandellas, Smokey, Gladys, Bobby Taylor, Diana Ross, Marvin Gaye and the Four Tops. For so long, they were who we wanted to be and where we wanted to be. And we were about to perform for half of them.

Jackie grew agitated. ‘Guys, we need to concentrate. Come on. Do y’all know what you’re supposed to do?’ The occasion was clearly getting to him, and Michael and Marlon’s regular news updates weren’t helping. Funnily enough, it was the one occasion when Joseph wasn’t backstage. He was busy rubbing shoulders with the big names and maybe that was why Jackie had the jitters. ‘C’mon, y’all … we must get this right. Let’s focus,’ he said. After Joseph, Jackie was the one who most used that word.

Michael and Marlon settled down and we gathered in a huddle and told one another that we should ‘go out there and tear this place up’. That was how we spoke before a show over the years: ‘Tear ’em up’; ‘Let’s knock ’em out’; ‘Let’s kill ’em’; or ‘Let’s go out there and hurt ’em’. Michael carried forward these phrases into his work as a solo artist. Anyone who worked with him will recognise that vernacular. Fighting talk, borrowed from Joseph.

As kids, we knew the calibre of talent waiting to watch us and yet we didn’t for a second feel out of our depth or inferior. As Motown’s first child group, we couldn’t wait to do our set: ‘My Girl’, ‘Tobacco Road’ and a James Brown number. The big question in our mind was: how would they react? What were these Motown folk like in a private setting? In an audience?

If there were two absent people we wanted out there, it was Mother and Rebbie. Mother had waited in the wings for so long on our behalf, taken a back seat, sacrificed her own dreams and missed her boys most weekends. And when Motown first exploded, Rebbie was the one going to the local record store, buying the newly-released 45s and dancing the ‘sock hops’ with Jackie. She was all about what Mr Gordy had invented – ‘the sound of young America’. Or, as another Motown motto would go, ‘It’s what’s in the groove that counts’.

Once we were poolside, with mics and instruments in hand, we looked out across the lit water and kept spotting the faces of the greats who were watching. It took one wink from Michael and then we started killing it. The energy of that performance was incredible and we could tell our VIP audience was into it. They weren’t just gracious, they loved it. By the second verse of ‘My Girl’, they were clapping and dancing and cheering, even whooping when Michael turned on his moves and set fire to the place. As we took our bows, we spotted Mr Gordy front-centre of the standing crowd, clapping the loudest, smiling the widest alongside Joseph, puffing out his chest. Always a good sign.

When Smokey Robinson and Marvin Gaye came over and expressed their enthusiasm, we started to feel that we must be good. Everyone talked about ‘the little fella’ – Michael – and Diana Ross made a beeline for him. She said a few words and grabbed his cheeks like an auntie meeting her favourite nephew. I was talking to someone else at the time, but I saw how starry-eyed he was. That was actually the first time we met Diana, which puts to bed the Motown folklore that insisted it was she who discovered us. That marketing myth was invented because, we were told, it was stardom by association, so we memorised it as ‘fact’ to tell journalists.

That night, we stayed at Bobby Taylor’s apartment in Detroit and rang Mother in Gary, each one of us taking turns on the phone to tell her how brilliantly the night had gone. ‘Did they really like it? Did they really? I’m so proud of you boys.’