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 pertanyaan was Michael’s eight-foot ular boa, boa constrictor, Muscles. For lebih 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 – oleh deciding to go it alone. He opened the front door of his rented Encino condo looking like a jalan, 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 selada 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 menit into it, I could see his point. As he explained the teh party of garden statuary around his coffee meja – including a narsisis, 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 foto 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 foto she’d sent in a central spot so he could memorize the face; it seemed she wanted him dead in a big way. He berkata 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 api 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 harimau 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 selanjutnya 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 emas 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 konser 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 atau 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 bagasi, batang that opened, releasing a terrifying avalanche of Freddie’s industrial-strength jockstraps. Michael’s jaw dropped.
“Ooooooooh, Freddie. What are those?”
A emas football ketopong, helm 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 lebih 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 anda figure that?” I asked.
“You tap-dance in public. Sure anda do, all over the page in ROLLING STONE. anda need to perform, too. But when you’re done, anda 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 anda – don’t know how lucky anda are.”
__________________
The reptile in pertanyaan was Michael’s eight-foot ular boa, boa constrictor, Muscles. For lebih 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 – oleh deciding to go it alone. He opened the front door of his rented Encino condo looking like a jalan, 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 selada 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 menit into it, I could see his point. As he explained the teh party of garden statuary around his coffee meja – including a narsisis, 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 foto 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 foto she’d sent in a central spot so he could memorize the face; it seemed she wanted him dead in a big way. He berkata 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 api 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 harimau 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 selanjutnya 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 emas 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 konser 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 atau 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 bagasi, batang that opened, releasing a terrifying avalanche of Freddie’s industrial-strength jockstraps. Michael’s jaw dropped.
“Ooooooooh, Freddie. What are those?”
A emas football ketopong, helm 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 lebih 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 anda figure that?” I asked.
“You tap-dance in public. Sure anda do, all over the page in ROLLING STONE. anda need to perform, too. But when you’re done, anda 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 anda – don’t know how lucky anda are.”
__________________
i came across this fan picks' pertanyaan and i know most of the people have and 'who do anda think could be the best rapper featured in mj's song'?
and 2pac was voted.....but for this is for those who don't know what 2pac berkata about Michael...
link
copy paste this link and watch 2pac give the hints that Michael Jackson never gave anything to charities and that he thinks he's a white man!!!
I seriously don't think 2pac should be voted and not even eminem and MC hammer!!
I just don't wanna hurt any 2pac fan here....i do know that 2pac was the best rapper. it's just that 2pac shouldn't have berkata anything of that sort.
please let me know what anda all think....L.O.V.E
P.S. 2pac fan don't get hurt........
Michael Jackson had some unexpected company drop oleh this weekend -- a surprise visit from his close friend Stevie Wonder.
TMZ has confirmed that the singer and three of his children stopped oleh Michael's tomb at the Forest Lawn Cemetery in Glendale, CA this weekend to pay their respects.
According to Stevie's rep, Wonder and his kids had gone to the cemetery to visit Stevie's dearly departed mother -- but Stevie's children insisted they visit MJ too.
Wonder and MJ were famously close -- and at MJ's memorial last year, Stevie told the crowd he often let Michael know how much he loved him ... and was "at peace with that."
See also
TMZ has confirmed that the singer and three of his children stopped oleh Michael's tomb at the Forest Lawn Cemetery in Glendale, CA this weekend to pay their respects.
According to Stevie's rep, Wonder and his kids had gone to the cemetery to visit Stevie's dearly departed mother -- but Stevie's children insisted they visit MJ too.
Wonder and MJ were famously close -- and at MJ's memorial last year, Stevie told the crowd he often let Michael know how much he loved him ... and was "at peace with that."
See also
Originally diposting May 29th 2010 1:00 AM PDT oleh TMZ Staff
TMZ has learned Dr. Conrad Murray will visit Michael Jackson on atau around the first anniversary of the singer's death.
Sources connected with the doctor tell us Murray is torn up oleh Jackson's death and the anniversary is an important milestone.
And we've learned Dr. Murray has visited the Forest Lawn mausoleum where Jackson is entombed a number of times. "He goes there a lot," we're told. Murray avoids attention oleh going either early in the morning atau during off-hours.
TMZ has learned Dr. Conrad Murray will visit Michael Jackson on atau around the first anniversary of the singer's death.
Sources connected with the doctor tell us Murray is torn up oleh Jackson's death and the anniversary is an important milestone.
And we've learned Dr. Murray has visited the Forest Lawn mausoleum where Jackson is entombed a number of times. "He goes there a lot," we're told. Murray avoids attention oleh going either early in the morning atau during off-hours.
Originally diposting May 16th 2010 12:45 AM PDT oleh TMZ Staff
Law enforcement sources tell TMZ they were called out to the medical office of Michael Jackson's good friend and personal physician, Arnold Klein, to investigate new alleged death threats.
As TMZ first reported, Klein -- along with Jason Pfeiffer, the man claiming to be Jackson's boyfriend -- have gone to the FBI to laporan the threats. We're told the FBI kicked the case over to the Beverly Hills Police Department, who has now opened up an investigation.
On Thursday, cops were called to Klein's Beverly Hills office after the number of threatening calls intensified. We're told cops took a report.
Read more: link
Law enforcement sources tell TMZ they were called out to the medical office of Michael Jackson's good friend and personal physician, Arnold Klein, to investigate new alleged death threats.
As TMZ first reported, Klein -- along with Jason Pfeiffer, the man claiming to be Jackson's boyfriend -- have gone to the FBI to laporan the threats. We're told the FBI kicked the case over to the Beverly Hills Police Department, who has now opened up an investigation.
On Thursday, cops were called to Klein's Beverly Hills office after the number of threatening calls intensified. We're told cops took a report.
Read more: link
like your charm, your face,
just everything.
But the thing I think of the most
is that smile of yours.
Everytime I see it,
my jantung skips a beat
and my thoughts get lost in it.
Your smile gives me butterflys in my stomach.
Your smile makes malaikat sing, a song that fills the streets.
Without that smile,
there is no joy in this world.
No one can replace it.
There is no mistake that when anda smile,
that wonderful, beautiful smile,
the world turns into a better place.
To: My LOVE, Michael Joseph Jackson
By: Gracie
The Michael Jackson estate just laid the memukul down on a bunch of Michael Jackson wannabes -- all over access to Neverland.
The wannabes are actually in a Michael Jackson tribute band named "Neverland" -- a name the MJ estate feels is a violation of its trademark.
Long story short -- the MJ estate wrote a scary legal letter demanding the band change its name ... and it did ... to Foreverland.
Here's the catch -- "Foreverland" still owns the rights to the domain name neverlandsf.com -- and its willing to give it back to Camp Jackson ... for a cool $30,000.
In short, the Jackson estate told the band to "beat it" -- and gave them until February 2011 to begin forwarding all web traffic to the new foreverlandsf.com ... atau else.
The band tells us they're currently going over their options.
"Lawyers from the Jackson estate have forced us to change our name."
The wannabes are actually in a Michael Jackson tribute band named "Neverland" -- a name the MJ estate feels is a violation of its trademark.
Long story short -- the MJ estate wrote a scary legal letter demanding the band change its name ... and it did ... to Foreverland.
Here's the catch -- "Foreverland" still owns the rights to the domain name neverlandsf.com -- and its willing to give it back to Camp Jackson ... for a cool $30,000.
In short, the Jackson estate told the band to "beat it" -- and gave them until February 2011 to begin forwarding all web traffic to the new foreverlandsf.com ... atau else.
The band tells us they're currently going over their options.
"Lawyers from the Jackson estate have forced us to change our name."
Then Happy came one day, chased my blues away
My life began when Happy smiled
Sweet, like permen to a child
Stay here and cinta me just a while
Let sadness see what Happy does
Let Happy be where Sadness was
Happy, that's you
anda made my life brand new
lost as a little lam was I, till anda came in
My life began when Happy smiled
Sweet, like permen to a child
Stay here and cinta me just a while
Let sadness see what Happy does
Let Happy be where Sadness was
(Till now)
Where have I been?
What lifetime was I in?
Suspended between time and space
Lonely until Happy came smiling up at me
Sadness had no choice but to flee
I berkata a prayer so silently
Let Sadness see what Happy does
Let Happy be where Sadness was
Till now
Happy, yeah yeah
Happy, oehoe happy
happy oh yeah Happy
[fade out]
link