My connection to Michael is both personal and passionate.
It began in 1969, the year I turned five. Reared in a Pentecostal household where pop music entertainment was prohibited, I was an obedient child. But when I heard the Jackson 5’s initial run of hits, I flipped. And when I learned that, like me, the boys hailed from Indiana, I did a double flip. I crossed the line and became a lifetime fan of a sound that, although secular, struck me with sacred intensity. Michael Jackson was singing the truth.
I completely identified with Michael. His irrepressible energy brought joy to my childhood. Later, I learned that, also like me, he faced the confusion and pain of being raised in a household where religious orthodoxy was accompanied by corporal punishment. We had suffered in similar ways.
Yet Michael’s voice was all about happiness and hope. That happiness and hope were illuminated—and wonderfully illustrated—when, in 1971, the Jackson 5 was turned into a Saturday morning cartoon show. I couldn’t stop myself from sneaking to watch the program in our family room. I got caught a few times by my parents and paid the price. Despite the punishment, I continued to view Michael’s whimsical adventures, in which he always managed to sidestep trouble and emerge victorious, as signposts for freedom. It would be a lifetime later when I could articulate what I was absorbing: an aspirational energy that captured my heart and had me believing in a big wide world outside the confines of the trailer park in which I was raised.
Because I was initially uncomfortable with the strange name Tavis, I secretly renamed myself Michael. I wanted to connect to the same muse that connected Michael to a fountainhead of endless creativity. Michael was almost fourteen when he released his solo album Ben, featuring a love song to a rodent. I was nine when I heard it, becoming convinced that, in the anthropomorphically idealized universe of Michael Jackson, even rats are benign creatures worthy of love. Michael comforted me.
Michael excited me as I closely followed his career through the dazzling days of his Gamble and Huff–produced records to his astounding postdisco Off the Wall work with Quincy Jones and, of course, the sublimely brilliant Thriller. As his mythos broadened, so did my interest in who he was and what he represented. No matter the bizarre nature of his physical transformations or the accusations of his misbehavior, I never stopped admiring his astounding artistry. I never stopped seeking to understand him. I never stopped loving him, as both a brother and a man desperately seeking peace of mind in a show business world ruled by hysteria and hype.
On March 5, 2009, when I heard Michael announce his plan for a series of concerts at London’s O2 Arena, I immediately called Miss Katherine, his mother. She has been a devoted fan of my television shows for many years and a person with whom I’ve always enjoyed a warm rapport.
“I’ve never asked for a favor before,” I said, “and wouldn’t be doing it now if the matter wasn’t so urgent. I just have to see Michael perform in London this coming summer. I’m happy to pay, but, given the inevitable rush for seats, I just want to make sure I can get in.”
“Of course you can, Tavis. I’ll make certain that you get a good seat.”
With that assurance, I bought my plane ticket, made hotel reservations, and looked forward to July in London.
Then came June 25.
In preparing this text, I had to try to understand the essential character of Michael Jackson—who he was, what he became, and who he wanted to be. I had to paint an authentic portrait of not only his genius as an artist but his colossal contradictions as a man. I had to get inside Michael’s head.
I faced the same challenge two years ago, when I wrote Death of a King, a novelistic narrative of the last year in the life of Martin Luther King Jr. I stress the word “novelistic.” In telling King’s story, I wanted to imbue the text with all the excitement and fast-paced rhythm of a novel. I also wanted to be deeply informed. To achieve this with Michael, I scrutinized a massive amount of material: the transcripts of both the People versus Conrad Murray and Jackson versus AEG, plus scores of biographies, autobiographies, interviews, and essays.
My conjecture about the inner workings of Michael’s mind is neither whimsical nor arbitrary. It is a studied reading based on a great many sources. In the final analysis, though, it is an interpretation born out of my own understanding. I view my definition of Jackson’s character not as the truth, but rather a truth, which is to say my truth.
The truth about Michael Jackson is elusive and perplexing. He is an artist of enduring complexity. His character assumes mythic proportions—dazzling and often confusing myths perpetuated by both the media and Michael himself. Because he was one of the most documented musicians of the modern age, there is a wealth of material to scrutinize. To help me mold that material into a manageable story, I was, for the fourth time, delighted to be working with David Ritz. On our three previous projects—my own autobiography, What I Know for Sure; Death of a King; and My Journey with Maya—David was an invaluable partner. But on this Michael Jackson project, his role became even more critical. David has made a lifetime study of African American music. For the past forty years, he has worked hand in hand with Ray Charles, Marvin Gaye, Aretha Franklin, B.B. King, Buddy Guy, Etta James, Smokey Robinson, the Neville Brothers, Rick James, Grandmaster Flash, R. Kelly, Bettye LaVette, and Janet Jackson on their life stories. It is David’s conversations with, among others, Janet Jackson, Bobby Taylor, Walter Yetnikoff, Bob Jones, and Marvin Gaye that help give this story such weight. David knows this territory as well as anyone. Beyond relying on his knowledge of and sensitivity to the music, I leaned heavily on his storytelling skills to forge a novel-like narrative fueled by the questions that have haunted me since that sad summer day in 2009.
I too am the beneficiary of a series of long conversations about Michael, in my case with Berry Gordy, Quincy Jones, and Katherine Jackson. I cherish the memory of honoring Mrs. Jackson’s request to escort her and her grandchildren Prince, Paris, and Blanket on a private tour of “America I Am: The African American Imprint,” a historical and cultural exhibition I curated in October of 2009, just months after Michael’s passing. Michael was prominently featured in three separate galleries. All three times that Mrs. Jackson faced her son’s image, she broke down in tears. In those moments I realized that, no matter how deeply we love Michael, there will always be a distance between us and him. Not so for Mrs. Jackson. He was, and will always remain, her baby.
It is my hope that this text will shed light on Michael’s creative life. I view my study of his artistic genius as a way to enhance my own work and witness.
Michael Jackson is forever. Family, fans, friends, and writers will forever seek to reconnect with him. If nothing else, I offer this book as a way to not only reconnect but make sense of those tremendously powerful forces that both inspired his soaring art and contributed to his tragic demise.