COLUMN ONE

Michael Jackson:

the wounds, the broken heart

By Robert Hilburn

June 27, 2009

I'll always regret that my last conversation with Michael Jackson endedwith him angrily hanging up the phone -- at least I've long thought ofMichael's mood that day more than a decade ago as angry. I realize nowthat a more accurate description would be "wounded."

Michael was among the sweetest and most talented people I met during 35 years covering pop music for the Los Angeles Times.

I was fortunate to be present at many of his proudest moments. I was inthe audience the night in 1983 that he unveiled the electrifyingMoonwalk on the Motown TV special and in the studio in 1985 for theall-star "We Are the World" recording session. I was with him at theJackson family home in Encino soon after he purchased the Beatles songcatalog in 1985.

Michael struck me as one of the most fragile and lonely people I'veever met. His heart may have finally stopped beating Thursdayafternoon, but it had been broken long ago.

During weekends I spent with him on the road during the Jacksons'"Victory" tour in 1984, I learned that he was so traumatized by eventsduring his late teens -- notably the rejection by fans who missed the"little" Michael of the Jackson 5 days -- that he relied desperately onfame to protect him from further pain. In the end, that overriding needfor celebrity was at the root of his tragedy.

I first met Michael in the early days of the Jackson 5 at the familyhome in Los Angeles, and the memory that stands out is that Michael, ascute and wide-eyed as an 11-year-old could be, was eager to get throughthe interview so he could watch cartoons before having to go to bed.

When I caught up with him a decade later, his personality had changedradically. That happy-go-lucky kid was nowhere to be found.

Michael's sales had fallen off dramatically in the mid-1970s, and bythe time he reemerged with the hit "Off the Wall" album in 1979, he wasscarred emotionally. There's often a gap between a performer's publicand private sides, but rarely was it as noticeable as with Michael.

Sitting at the rear of the tour bus after a triumphant concert in St.Louis in 1981, Michael was anxious, frequently bowing his head as hewhispered answers to my questions. In contrast to the charismatic,strutting figure on stage, he wrestled with a Bambi-like shyness.Despite the resurgence in his popularity, he complained of feelingalone -- almost abandoned. He was 23.

When I asked why he didn't live on his own like his brothers,rather than at his parents' house, he said, "Oh, no, I think I'd die onmy own. I'd be so lonely. Even at home, I'm lonely. I sit in my roomand sometimes cry. It is so hard to make friends, and there are somethings you can't talk to your parents or family about. I sometimes walkaround the neighborhood at night, just hoping to find someone to talkto. But I just end up coming home."

That's as far as Michael could go that night to explain his deep-rootedanguish. It would be four more years before he was willing to tell memore.

Michael had signed a book deal with Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, aneditor at Doubleday, before the "Victory" tour, and he wanted me tohelp him write it. I spent several weekends on the road with him duringthe tour. I soon discovered that Michael -- who guarded his privacy atall costs -- wanted to put together a picture book, while Onassiswanted a full-scale biography.

After a showdown between the two, Michael's longtime attorney andfriend John Branca called to thank me for my efforts and said Doubledaywas going in a different direction. My involvement ended.

During our time together, my conversations with Michael sometimes led-- once the tape recorder was off -- to darker moments from his past.One night when we were going through a stack of old photos, a pictureof him in his late teens triggered a sudden openness.

"Ohh, that's horrible," he said, recoiling from the picture.

Michael explained that his face was so covered with acne and his noseso large at that time that visitors to the family home in Encinosometimes wouldn't recognize him. "They would come up, look me straightin the eye and ask if I knew where that 'cute little Michael' was." Itwas as if the "whole world was saying, 'How dare you grow up on us.' "

마이클은 (십대의) 그의 얼굴이 여드름으로 가득했고 코는 너무 커서 그의 엔치노 집으로 찾아오던 사람들은 그를 알아보지 못했다고 설명했다. "그들은 내게 다가와서는 내 눈을 똑바로 바라보고 내게 묻곤했어요. 그 작고 귀여운 마이클은 어디 갔냐고. 그건 마치 온 세상이 나에게 어떻게 니가 그렇게 자라 버릴 수 있냐고 말하는 것 같았어요."

Michael said he started looking down at the floor when peopleapproached or would stay in his room when visitors came to the house.

마이클은 사람들이 다가오거나 그의 집에 손님이 올때는 바닥만 쳐다보기 시작했다고 말했다

Michael vowed to do whatever it took to make people "love me again."The rejection fueled his ambition to be the biggest pop star in theworld and to try to make his face beautiful. Unfortunately, Michael'sneed was so great that no amount of love seemed to be enough.

마이믈은 사람들이 "나를 다시 사랑하게 만들기 위해서는" 무엇이든 하겠다고 맹세했다. 그 거부감은 세계 최고의 팝스타가 되어야 겠다는 야망을 불태웠고 그의 얼굴을 아름답게 만들도록 노력하게 만들었다. 불행히도 마이클의 필요는 너무 컸기에 어떤 큰 사랑도 채울 수 없을것 같아 보였다




The stage was his sanctuary. There, he was larger than life and no onecould threaten him. Every time he left the stage, he said, he feltvulnerable again.

In the 1981 interview, he told me, "My real goal is to fulfillGod's purpose. I didn't choose to sing or dance. But that's my role,and I want to do it better than anybody else. I still remember thefirst time I sang in kindergarten class. I sang 'Climb Every Mountain,'and everyone got so excited.

1981년 인터뷰에서 그는 나에게,

"내 진짜 목표는 하나님이 주신 목적을 이루는 것이에요.

내가 춤추거나 노래하겠다고 선택하진 않았어요.

하지만 그것이 내 역할이고 나는 그 누구보다도 그것들을 잘 하고 싶어요."



"It's beautiful at the shows when people join together. It's ourown little world. For that hour and a half, we try to show there ishope and goodness. It's only when you step back outside the buildingthat you see all the craziness."

Michael's hunger for fame and success struck me as increasingly obsessive and unhealthy.

Even though 1982's "Thriller" was the biggest-selling album of alltime, Michael told me one night that his next album would sell twice asmany copies. I thought he was joking, but he had never been moreserious.

As years went by, I watched with sadness as his music went from thewonderful self-affirmation and endearing spirit of "Thriller" tosomething increasingly calculated and soulless. His impact in themarketplace waned accordingly. It appeared that his desperate need forultra stardom -- the "King of Pop" proclamation -- and his escalatingeccentricities made it difficult for audiences to identify with him.

Even some of his "Thriller" fans were ultimately turned off. In thepublic mind, he went from the "King of Pop" to the "King of Hype."

When I surveyed leading record industry executives in 1995 to determine pop's hottest properties, Michael wasn't in the top 20.

One executive said flatly: "The thing he doesn't understand isthat he'd be better off in the long run if he made a great record thatonly went to No. 20 than if he hyped another mediocre record to No. 1.The thing he needs is credibility."

Another executive said simply that Michael was "over."

Michael was furious when he called me the day after the story ran in The Times.

How could I betray him by writing such lies?

Couldn't I see the record executives were just jealous?

I tried gently to tell him that I thought there was some truth in whatthe executives were saying and that he had lost touch with thequalities that once made him so endearing.

"That hurts me, Robert," he said, his voice quivering.

I felt bad.

I started to say that he could be as big as ever if he would only . . . , but I couldn't complete the sentence.

Michael hung up.

After that, I followed his life from a distance -- the childmolestation charges, the battle with painkillers, the marriage to LisaMarie Presley, the increasingly bizarre lifestyle.

Although he would periodically announce recording projects or touringplans, I couldn't imagine, after all the humiliation anddisappointment, that Michael could find the strength to step in frontof the public again. I thought the fear of failure was too great. Itwas easier to stay in a fantasy land.

So I was surprised when he announced that he was returning to the stagein a few weeks and was even more surprised when he sold out 50 nightsat the O2 Arena in London.

Maybe Michael was stronger than I thought. It took enormous courage tobe willing to go back on stage for what could be a make-or-break moment-- and the ticket demand must have given him hope. Despite all that hadhappened, he saw that he was still loved by millions of fans.

In the best scenario, Michael, 50, would have triumphed in London, notonly erasing his mountain of debt but also restoring to himself thesense of invincibility that fame represented. Failure in those shows,however, could have left him even more wounded and vulnerable.

As the July dates neared, I imagined Michael's anxiety mounting day byday, even hour by hour. There must have been days when he felt he coulddo it, could reclaim his crown with a series of breathtakingperformances and stand forever alongside Elvis Presley and the Beatlesin pop music lore.

But what if he was wrong?

What if he wasn't strong enough, physically and emotionally? What if he couldn't live up to expectations?

What if no amount of adulation could make him feel safe again?

The stress must have been immense -- and maybe in the end it was too much for his broken heart.


Robert Hilburn was The Times' pop music critic from 1970 to 2005. Partsof this article are excerpted from his memoir, "Corn Flakes With JohnLennon, and Other Tales From a Rock 'n' Roll Life," which will bepublished in October.