You Are Not Alone_Michael, Through a Brother’s Eyes (19 page)

OUR EDUCATION TRAVELLED WITH US ON
tour in the form of a private tutor, Rose Fine, who would also teach Janet. On first impression, you would have thought she was the strictest, most unforgiving principal, all stiff-backed, prim, proper and enunciating her words with clipped perfection, yet she was the warmest, most loving of ladies and we adored her. Rose was our educational shadow wherever we went, and it was always a strange sight seeing her endure the insanity of Jackson-mania, trotting behind us, trying to keep up.

One of
her
missions was to ensure we didn’t forget our Ps and Qs as she continually attempted to improve our eloquence. ‘You
sing beautifully and you can learn to speak beautifully, too,’ she said. She was determined that five boys in the spotlight should speak ‘proper English’. Every time one of us said something like ‘We ain’t gonna do that!’ she corrected us. ‘You are speaking incorrectly. What you say is “We are not going to do it.” Repeat after me. We – are – not – going – to – do – it.’

‘But that’s not how we talk, Rose!’ Michael said. ‘We gotta be us.’

‘No, Michael – you say, “We have got to be ourselves.”’

Bless her, she kept fighting Mission Impossible.

In our hotel room at night, Michael and I talked about how ‘nobody black and hip is prim and proper’.

‘Rose don’t understand cooool,’ Michael laughed.

As much as we played with Rose, and probably exaggerated our dialect in front of her, we used to say she was the most powerful person around, even beyond Mr Gordy. Power invested by the Board of Education. If one of us so much as yawned onstage, or looked like he needed rest, or if media interviews ate into our four hours of daily education, she could shut us down faster than a fire marshal. It was a discretion she never used but it meant that she earned instant respect from everyone, especially Motown.

We respected her role in our lives and her positive influence on Michael cannot be overestimated. Whenever we dropped her off at home in Studio City, she invited us in and her husband Sid took the opportunity to play a song. It was usually old-fashioned 1940s fare – something from the Ink Spots or the Mills Brothers – but we clapped along politely. But it was when we first laid eyes on her library that Michael started to become the voracious reader that he was. Rose handled each book like a precious artefact, and she was always on at us to read, read, read – and Michael heeded this advice. Few people know that my brother was a bookish nerd, always swotting up on some random subject to better his vocabulary, knowledge or understanding of life. ‘I love reading. There is a wonderful world to be discovered in books,’ he said. Michael’s
early reading material concerned Fred Astaire or Elvis, or child stars Shirley Temple or Sammy Davis Junior. In later years, his reading extended from Steven Spielberg to Alfred Hitchcock, President Reagan to President Roosevelt, Malcolm X to Dr Martin Luther King, and Mussolini to Hitler. I doubt many people would have given him credit for the general knowledge he amassed. Except Rose. She always taught us that we can learn from the best by following history’s lessons; that it has left the footprints for us to follow. That is why Michael’s autobiography,
Moonwalk
, starts with a quote from Thomas Edison:

That quote still stands as the truest reflection of Michael’s approach to his own mastery, and they were the words he actually posted in gold letters to the cloth, coffee-brown walls of his sound studio at Hayvenhurst. Rose Fine opened the doors to his mind. ‘I wouldn’t be the same person if it wasn’t for her,’ he later acknowledged. Without her, I doubt his final grades would have been so good, either.

By the end of 1972 the Walton School had closed, so Michael spent ninth grade at Montclair School in Van Nuys where, that June, he received a school report he was so proud of that it became the only one he pinned up at the house. In History, English Grammar, Math and Study Methods, he received A grades. In French, he received a B minus and in English 9, he earned a B plus with the comment from the teacher: ‘Greater effort I have never seen.’ Teachers also marked ‘work habits’ and ‘co-operation’ and
gave him E-marks pretty much across the board. An ‘E’ = ‘does assigned work, responds to instruction well’. All this is not bad for a pupil who, biographers claimed, ‘was a terrible student’ and ‘didn’t have a clue what was going on’.

Michael created one of his most telling pieces of school work during an art class at Walton. He had regularly asked Rose about the Vietnam War. Newspaper photos of wounded and screaming children always distressed him. His interpretation of what he saw became the subject of a drawing. I had forgotten it existed until it showed up on-line from the school’s yearbook. He drew a soldier standing in the foreground of a battle, beneath skies filled with fighter planes; he was unguarded, arms outstretched, machine-gun surrendered. The caption read, ‘STOP THE WAR’. With the charity he pioneered, Heal the World, and then his smash hit ‘Earth Song’ – its video and stage performance had him blocking the path of a military tank with his arms outstretched – you see the humanitarian spirit that had long existed within the sensitive boy.

Michael ended his school years at Cal Prep, where, in art classes he sketched version after version of Charlie Chaplin. One of his classmates was a girl called Lori Shapiro: she quietly observed my brother immersed in his drawings, then scrunching them up and throwing them away. ‘Michael,’ she said one day, ‘that drawing of Charlie Chaplin? Before you ball it up, can I have it?’

‘Sure,’ he said, signing his name in black felt tip and handing it over.

But Michael knew that a favour deserves its return. He hated algebra and he knew Lori was ‘the brains’. So, sitting near her desk, he swapped math books with her when the teacher wasn’t looking and she worked out his x + y = z. I reckon Lori was the chief reason he got an A grade in math!

Come graduation year, Cal Prep published its own roll of honour, where its pupils nominated the winners in a ‘Who’s Who’ roll call. Michael emerged with his first clutch of awards: ‘Best Dressed’, ‘Shyest’, ‘Most Creative’, ‘Most Artistic’ and ‘Most
Likely to Succeed’. So, who won ‘Biggest Smile’? That honour went to Marlon.

MICHAEL TALKED A LOT ABOUT GOD
with Rose. He was the only brother still attending the local Kingdom Hall and doing field service with Mother, La Toya and Janet, tour dates permitting. But different faiths and others’ relationship with God fascinated him, and Rose was Jewish. Michael learned – and loved – that the Jewish Sabbath was all about family, and that everything came to a halt on that day ‘so that humanity may make the ordinary extraordinary and the natural miraculous,’ as he wrote in 2000, in an essay on a website called ‘beliefnet’. Michael was intrigued that there was one guaranteed day each week to celebrate life and each other. But it also became much more than that to him. As he wrote: ‘In my world, the Sabbath was the day I was able to step away from my unique life and glimpse the everyday.’

Increasingly, Michael stayed true to the only sanctuary he knew, the Kingdom Hall, and the only inner balance he could find by ‘staying in happy fellowship with the Lord,’ as he put it.

THE COMMODORES, A SIX-MAN GROUP FROM
Alabama, joined the Motown family in 1972 and came with us on the road as an opening act. Back then, Lionel Richie was mainly the saxophonist and Clyde Orange was lead vocals, and we enjoyed the best of times with them. Our camaraderie was special – must have been the southern thing. One time, at the Hollywood Bowl, they actually received more screams than we did … because their wardrobe didn’t show up and they had to play in their undershorts! Their legs stole the show.

By now, Joseph had decided Randy was worthy of a run-out with the group, playing the bongos. He was more of a suck-it-and-see-how-it-works addition than a permanent fixture – for now – but he would grow into a capable performer and an incredible songwriter. If only he had played tennis and not the bongos: offstage, the Commodores kicked our butts on the courts. They
called out our competitiveness and it was no contest – we later discovered they had each had tennis scholarships. I swear Lionel Richie was Arthur Ashe in disguise. He was
that
good.

In the hotels, we spent time in their rooms, jamming and writing songs. They brought out the keyboards and worked on ideas, which fascinated us: we were a group who had material written for us. I can still see Michael lying back on the bed, having his hair braided by Lionel’s girlfriend (and future wife) Brenda, as we watched Lionel inspire the songwriting process. The Commodores were still six years away from releasing their smash, ‘Three Times A Lady’, but seeing how they built a song, from city to city, was inspiring.

At this time, Michael already had ideas of his own fermenting. ‘I feel there are so many songs in my head,’ he used to say. In fact, prior to the tour with the Commodores, he had started finding his creative voice at Motown, deciding to speak up for himself. That artistic watershed moment came with the recording of a song called ‘Lookin’ Through The Windows’. Michael had suggested his own take on a certain delivery, but when the idea faced resistance from the Corporation, he got upset and phoned Mr Gordy direct. Five minutes later, he returned with the boss’s approval. That day, he began to develop the confidence to trust in his own creative instincts. Everyone sat back and allowed him free rein. He pretty much improvised, feeling his way through the song, but they must have liked it because his interpretation was kept on the final cut. So, when Michael, at 13, witnessed the Commodores’ songwriting autonomy, it strengthened his creative resolve.

In later life, he looked back on our constant touring and said it denied us the chance to form lasting friendships with anyone. Schedules and living out of suitcases meant we couldn’t nurture true friendships on the road. Yet those touring days with the Commodores created a bond between him and Lionel Richie that lasted throughout his life. It was the genesis of their collaboration on the USA for Africa charity, ‘We Are The World’ – it won
Grammys in 1986 for Song of the Year and Record of the Year – and showcased Michael’s true humanitarian heart on a global scale.

‘WHAT DID THE CAPTAIN JUST SAY?’
I asked, as we flew over the Atlantic, bound for our first European tour of France, Germany, Italy, Holland, Spain and our first destination: London.

‘He said there are 10,000 fans waiting at Heathrow airport,’ said Joseph.

On our arrival in London we all wondered how big this thing was getting. We seemed to be locked into something that was forever mutating: from the Chitlin’ Circuit to Motown, from Motown to Hollywood, from a record deal to four back-to-back No. 1s, and from conquering America to selling records on different continents. We had to pinch ourselves to believe that our records had reached as far as the flight was taking us.

London represented the ultimate disbelief: we were there to appear at the Royal Variety Show at the London Palladium in a performance for Queen Elizabeth II. This huge honour was appreciated by everyone but drummer Johnny, it seemed. He’d always had a sharp wit, but that could sometimes come across as cockiness and, we soon learned, no one should try to be funny with a British Customs officer. As we showed our passports, Suzanne de Passe politely explained that we were arriving to do a Royal Command Performance ‘as guests of the Queen.’ One by one, we were asked how long we intended to stay in the country. We all stepped up, answered politely and expected Johnny to do the same. ‘And how long are you intending to stay in the country, young man?’ asked the stern-looking Customs man. The moment I saw Johnny smirk, I knew we were in trouble.

‘Just long enough to f*** your Queen,’ he said.

I swear the world stopped spinning at that precise moment. It wasn’t only his temerity that shocked: it was the fact that a member of the Jackson 5 had uttered a swear word. It was akin to hearing a pastor swear on a Sunday. Well, that was it. All officialdom hell broke loose and the indignant Customs officer was sending Johnny
back to America on the first plane. As the adults scrambled around the passport desk, we stared at Johnny and said things that mirrored his remark about the Queen. Somehow, the combined desperate diplomacy of Suzanne and Joseph managed to persuade the Customs guy to relent, but Johnny got a real rocket afterwards. ‘That stupidity nearly cost us the entire performance!’ said Suzanne.

We opened the Royal show with a 10-minute spot, including our new release ‘Rockin’ Robin’, sharing a bill that included Elton John, Liberace, Carol Channing and some names we didn’t know: Rod Hull and Emu (a comedian with a blue-feathered emu puppet), Arthur Askey, Danny La Rue and Ken Dodd with his ‘Diddymen’. Elton John wished us luck backstage. We had last known him as Major Lance’s keyboardist, but he’d since changed his name. But it was his flamboyant style that made the most noise that night: all outrageous shaded spectacles and colourful zany costumes, with big buttons and shiny pieces. In fact, when we saw a crew wheeling by his wardrobe and the even more substantial one of Liberace, ours felt minuscule and dull by comparison – and that was saying something.

After our three-part harmony dedicated to the Queen – our fan song ‘We Thank You For The Joy You Have Given Us’ – we were presented to Her Majesty backstage. Michael said for many years afterwards that it was ‘one of the greatest nights of my life’ – and it probably was until it was eclipsed when he met Princess Diana much further down the road. But shaking the gloved hand of the Queen wasn’t our only treat in 1972.