BAD

“I HATE the cover,” said Frank Dileo, Michael Jackson’s manager. “It makes him look like a fag.”

“Did you tell him that?”

“How could I tell him that? You tell him.”

“If you couldn’t tell him, how can I?”

“He respects you.”

“Look, Frank, I’m not telling him he looks like a fag. I’ll just tell him he’s wearing too much eye makeup.”

“He loves eye makeup. He thinks it’s cool.”

“He also looks whiter than me.”

“He likes that too. He likes the new look.”

“Doesn’t he know it’s creepy?”

“Creepy is bad,” said Frank. “And bad is good.”

Bad, of course, was the name of Michael’s follow-up to Thriller. He and Quincy had been working on the thing for years. More than simply a new creative product, it was a corporate event. Stockholders were waiting. Tisch was waiting. Even Paley called to see when it was coming out. The press was crazy with anticipation. And Michael himself, always obsessed, was now obsessed by the fact that everyone else was obsessed with the release. The burning question, of course, was could Bad outsell Thriller?

“It’s the wrong question,” I told Michael, who’d called from California. “If it does half of Thriller”—which, in fact, is what it did—“Bad will be a huge success.”

“Thriller sold forty million,” said Michael. “Bad will sell a hundred million. I’ve written that on the mirror in my bathroom—a hundred million. Anything less than that is wrong, and anything over that is great.”

“From your mouth to God’s ear.”

“Walter, you have to make it happen. It has to eclipse anything that’s ever happened in the history of show business.”

“That’s what we all want, Michael. And that’s why I think you should reconsider the cover.”

“You don’t like the leather jacket? The leather jacket is cool.”

“The jacket is fine. But all that makeup, Michael . . .”

“I’m hardly wearing any makeup.”

“It looks like a lot.”

“Everyone in Hollywood wears makeup, and everyone in Hollywood has plastic surgery. Compared to everyone else, I have very little. Why is everyone always picking on me?”

“Just a suggestion, Michael,” I said, knowing it was time to back off.

“I don’t want to talk about makeup. Let’s talk about promotion.”

“I want to bring out a group of CBS promotion people and key retailers to California. I want you to meet with them personally.”

“I don’t like this idea.”

“The cover photo is one thing, Michael. That’s your business. But now we’re talking about selling your record. That’s my business. If you want Bad to go through the roof, you’ll listen to me. If you want it to stiff, you won’t.”

He listened. My idea was to have a dinner party for fifty or sixty salespeople who could make a difference. I wanted them wined and dined at the Jackson family home in Encino, the compound where he was still living with his mom and dad.

“I’m too shy,” Michael said. “I couldn’t give a speech or anything.”

“You just have to show up. I’ll give the speech.”

         

The speech was a rousing success. It happened in July, just before the record’s release. The guests were thrilled to be inside Michael’s home. Michael was grateful I did all the talking—this is the greatest artist, this is the greatest album, this is the greatest moment in world history.

“How could you possibly think of all those things to say?” he asked.

“You’re a genius, Michael. You sing, you dance, you write. That’s called talent. What I do is called bullshit.”

“Your bullshit is your talent.”

“You better stop talking to me and start mixing with the salesmen,” I urged. But like a little child, he clung to me. The only other object of his attention was Bubbles the chimp, whose ass was covered with diapers. I finally dragged Michael from table to table to pose for pictures. It was hard for him to say a word to anyone; he wouldn’t even look in anyone’s eyes. Bubbles was holding Michael’s left hand and I was holding his right.

         

The next time I saw Michael was in Tokyo. Bad was selling strong and Michael was off on his world tour. The Martin Scorsese “Bad” video, shot in a Brooklyn subway station, was playing on every television set in Japan. I came over to see the show and prod Sony about buying CBS Records. Sony hardly needed prodding. When I walked into the office of Akio Morita it was nearly midnight, and he was just winding up a call to Paley. When he hung up, I saw him turn off a tape recorder attached to the phone.

“Mr. Morita,” I said with all due deference, “it’s illegal to tape a call without the other party knowing.”

“In your country, yes. In my country, no. In my country taping is good. But don’t tell anyone anyhow.”

“Did you get Paley to agree?”

“The price,” Morita replied, “it keeps rising. I will not go higher than two billion.”

“Two billion! It’s gone from one point twenty-five to two?”

“Our final offer.”

“Tisch is personally worth two billion. Now he’s being offered another two and he’s still hesitating?”

“Is it Mr. Tisch,” asked Morita, “or Mr. Paley?”

“Mr. Tisch,” I said, “is the two-billion-dollar egg.”

That night Ohga and I went to see Michael’s concert. Backstage, I saw that Michael’s entourage included a cute young boy, not older than thirteen. I asked him what he was doing on the tour. “I’m Michael’s friend,” he said. Given Michael’s discomfort with adults, I wasn’t surprised. It was strange, but, then again, everything about Michael was strange. The Japanese loved his strangeness and called his visit “Typhoon Michael.”

“Do you have the recent sales figures?” Michael asked me after his spectacular show.

“Don’t worry. Bad is doing good. It’s selling.”

“When will we reach a hundred million?”

“Keep touring and it’ll keep selling.”

         

Back in New York, I figured I’d have to sell Tisch on accepting Sony’s two-billion-dollar offer. I figured wrong. In October, the stock market crashed on Black Monday and Tisch, always prone to panic, thought the sky was falling in. Suddenly the two billion looked good. Within a month, he’d talked himself, the board and Paley into accepting the deal. CBS Records would soon be Sony’s. And I’d be President and CEO. I’d personally realize many millions. I’d soon be handing out million-dollar bonuses like a Good Humor man handing out Popsicles. I had known highs before—drug highs, sex highs—but nothing like this. I was over the top.

         

June was dying. I went to her home to visit her. I had to. A large part of me wanted to hide from the pain she was enduring, and from the pain her pain gave me. I was racked with guilt. I was also filled with the toxins that had fueled my life for so long. I was consumed with such self-concern and self-celebration that clarity—especially emotional clarity—was impossible. I came to visit June in a fog.

Somewhere in that fog, though, I still felt the pull of a love I had long lost. It was the love for a woman who had never harmed me but whom I had gravely harmed. While my head was buzzing with thoughts of ascension to new levels of power, my heart, if I still had a heart, silently cried for this good woman who knew me better than anyone.

The cancer had left her weak. Seeing me, though, seemed to bring a light to her eyes. Or maybe I was just flattering myself.

“Don’t look so guilty,” she said. “You didn’t do this.”

“But I did other stuff.”

“I’m glad you came, Walter. I’m glad to see you. Don’t worry about the other stuff. Not now.”

She took my hand. Hers felt lifeless. I grew afraid.

“You’ll be okay, Walter. I know you’ve got a lot on your mind, but you’ll be okay.”

I’ll be okay. She was the one with cancer, and here she was comforting me.

“You make me nervous, Walter,” she said.

“I always made you nervous.”

“I love you,” she said, her eyes closing.

“I love you too, June.” But she was already asleep.

A few months later, she was gone.

         

I want to say that June’s passing forced me into a period of calm reflection. It didn’t. I was too far gone. The Sony sale had taken over every inch of my psyche. The thrill of victory, the certainty of serious wealth, the lure of absolute control—more than ever, I was crazed with ambition. The drinks and drugs only got stronger. And though I was married to a sweet young woman, I abandoned my vows on a whimsy. I took whatever I wanted.

To facilitate the Sony sale, I realized the artists had to be reassured. Part of the reason Ohga and Morita saw me as indispensable was my closeness to the big moneymaking stars. I had long-term relationships with Bruce, Barbra, Billy and especially Michael. Michael had to be personally reassured by me.

Cynthia and I flew to his newly acquired spread in California’s Santa Ynez Valley, the place he named Neverland. Before serving us lunch, Michael gave us the tour. If you like llamas, this is your place. I don’t like llamas. When he took us through a huge room filled with dozens of arcade-sized video games, I asked him why so many. “My friends like them,” he said.

Business with Michael was always conducted at the lowest decibel levels. Michael is a whisperer. I’m a screamer. At times, I couldn’t resist startling him.

“MICHAEL JACKSON!” I shouted at the top of my lungs. “HAS ANYONE EVER YELLED AT YOU? HAS ANYONE EVER ORDERED YOU TO SPEAK UP?”

He winced. I thought the power of my voice had crushed him. He looked like he was going to collapse. On the verge of tears, he pleaded, “No, no, no. Don’t ever do that again.”

I never did. That day in Neverland, I saw Michael as a hothouse flower. Inside his controlled cocoon, he thrived. Outside, he wilted. I had wilted him enough. Time for the good news.

“Sony loves you,” I said. “Sony buying CBS Records is good for you. Paley and Tisch are cheap. Ohga and Morita are spenders. They see you as their number-one asset. They’re the best thing that could happen to your career. I call them the Happy Japs. And the reason they’re happy, Michael, is because of you.”

“So I shouldn’t be worrying?”

“You should be rejoicing. We all should be rejoicing.”

         

I said the same thing to all the artists. Sony was a world-class company as opposed to Tisch’s tarnished Tiffany. Once the stars heard that Sony would boost their careers, nothing else mattered. The media, though, were skeptical. The media are always skeptical. They love scare stories. They painted a picture of the Japanese chewing off huge chunks of American business when, in truth, the phenomenon was overblown (and short-lived). CBS Records, however, was a particularly sexy purchase. It was seen as the all-American company of all-American music, from Bessie Smith to Bruce Springsteen. On its cover, The New York Times Magazine plastered a shot of Cyndi Lauper hugging Akio Morita. Morita complained that Americans, once inspired by John Wayne, were losing their edge. I waited until it was 3 A.M. Tokyo time before calling Morita on the private phone next to his bed.

“Mushi mushi,” he responded in a surprised and sleepy voice.

“This is John Wayne.”

“Who?”

“John Yetnikoff Wayne. You said Americans were losing their edge. But in the name of John Wayne, I’m calling to say there’s one American who’s alert, on guard and manning the battle station all night long. That American is me. And that American is proud to be fighting for you, Mr. Morita.”

“Walter, are you a crazy man?”

“No crazier than John Wayne. Have no doubt, Mr. Morita, the war will be won.”