“We tried all kinds of tricks to help with his artistic growth, like dropping keys just a minor third to give him flexibility and a more mature range, and adding more than a few tempo changes. I also tried to steer him to songs with more depth, some of them about real relationships—we weren't going to make it with ballads to rodents.”—Quincy Jones, “Remembering Michael,” Newsweek, July 13, 2009
Over two decades ago, on something unusual for me—an outing to a Manhattan nightclub—the comic that night impersonated Michael Jackson’s falsetto (and unexpectedly true) assurance to his date in the Thriller video just before transforming into something alien to human existence: “I’m not like the other boys.”
“You got that right, dude!” the comic said, in a readily transparent double-reference to the singer’s ambiguous sexuality and his already apparent eccentricities, such as fondness for chimps and snakes.
There’s another Michael Jackson, however, before he became the object of ghouls and a million one-liners—one who, having attained (at least in his physique and career choices) adulthood, promised to come closer to common experience—to become, for want of a better phrase, one of “the other boys.”
You can catch a glimpse of that road only momentarily taken in the album Off the Wall, released 30 years ago yesterday, as well as in the easy, relaxed camaraderie (so evident in the photo accompanying this post) between Jackson and his producer for that bestselling LP, Quincy Jones.
Though the fifth studio album by the King of Pop, it was, more important, his first as an adult solo artist. In selecting Jones (with whom he had worked on the film The Wiz) as his producer, the 21-year-old Jackson found a music industry veteran with experience guiding all kinds of artists—and willing to put in seven months of working closely with him at Allen Zentz Recording, Westlake Recording Studios, and Cherokee Studios in Los Angeles.
Jones supplied what Jackson was seeking—a distinctively different sound from the Jackson Five, blending funk, disco-pop, soul, soft rock, jazz, and pop ballads.
Epic Records couldn’t have been more pleased with the results: four singles in the top 10 of the Billboard Top 100, with the singer garnering his first Grammy Award since the early 1970s.
One interesting point of departure, alluded to (with tongue in cheek) by Jones above: the torch song “She’s Out of My Life.” Tommy Bahler had written it after a bruising breakup, and if you just read its lyrics of searing self-recrimination (“To think for two years she was here/And I took her for granted, I was so cavalier”), you can understand perfectly why Jones had intended originally for Frank Sinatra to record it.
(Indeed, it would have fit exceptionally well on the LP that deejay and Sinatraphile Jonathan Schwartz refers to as the last consistently great album issued by The Chairman of the Board: She Shot Me Down.)
In interviews since Jackson’s death, Jones has spoken bluntly of the wild weirdness that the singer exhibited more and more with each year. (E.g., on the changes in Jackson’s face: “It’s ridiculous, man! Chemical peels and all of it. And I don’t understand it. But he obviously didn’t want to be black.”)
The two men would collaborate two more times after this album, on Thriller and Bad, but even if the sales of both improved on the already great start they had in Off the Wall, something disturbing had crept into Jackson’s psyche. You can hear it in the paranoia that pulsates throughout “Billie Jean,” for instance.
Moreover, the deeply insecure singer was even begrudging Jones the success and acclaim that rightly came his way for Thriller. In his memoir Howling at the Moon, former record industry exec Walter Yetnikoff related how Jackson—after countless Grammy nominations coming his way for Thriller—complained about the one that Jones was up for. Wasn’t there some way that Yetnikoff could persuade the voters to give it to him instead? Jackson asked.
In life, when parental figures go missing or prove inadequate, mentors assume greater importance than ever. As Jones became sidelined from the Ripley’s-Believe-It-Or-Not that Jackson’s life became in the last 15 years, the singer lost a realistic, savvy industry veteran who genuinely cared about his welfare.
The public—the same one that embraced the adult Jackson so much in Off the Wall—then witnessed a mammoth personal disaster for the superstar, a loss of great music for the world—and a large, irreplaceable hole in the heart for his great and good friend, Mr. Jones.
Over two decades ago, on something unusual for me—an outing to a Manhattan nightclub—the comic that night impersonated Michael Jackson’s falsetto (and unexpectedly true) assurance to his date in the Thriller video just before transforming into something alien to human existence: “I’m not like the other boys.”
“You got that right, dude!” the comic said, in a readily transparent double-reference to the singer’s ambiguous sexuality and his already apparent eccentricities, such as fondness for chimps and snakes.
There’s another Michael Jackson, however, before he became the object of ghouls and a million one-liners—one who, having attained (at least in his physique and career choices) adulthood, promised to come closer to common experience—to become, for want of a better phrase, one of “the other boys.”
You can catch a glimpse of that road only momentarily taken in the album Off the Wall, released 30 years ago yesterday, as well as in the easy, relaxed camaraderie (so evident in the photo accompanying this post) between Jackson and his producer for that bestselling LP, Quincy Jones.
Though the fifth studio album by the King of Pop, it was, more important, his first as an adult solo artist. In selecting Jones (with whom he had worked on the film The Wiz) as his producer, the 21-year-old Jackson found a music industry veteran with experience guiding all kinds of artists—and willing to put in seven months of working closely with him at Allen Zentz Recording, Westlake Recording Studios, and Cherokee Studios in Los Angeles.
Jones supplied what Jackson was seeking—a distinctively different sound from the Jackson Five, blending funk, disco-pop, soul, soft rock, jazz, and pop ballads.
Epic Records couldn’t have been more pleased with the results: four singles in the top 10 of the Billboard Top 100, with the singer garnering his first Grammy Award since the early 1970s.
One interesting point of departure, alluded to (with tongue in cheek) by Jones above: the torch song “She’s Out of My Life.” Tommy Bahler had written it after a bruising breakup, and if you just read its lyrics of searing self-recrimination (“To think for two years she was here/And I took her for granted, I was so cavalier”), you can understand perfectly why Jones had intended originally for Frank Sinatra to record it.
(Indeed, it would have fit exceptionally well on the LP that deejay and Sinatraphile Jonathan Schwartz refers to as the last consistently great album issued by The Chairman of the Board: She Shot Me Down.)
In interviews since Jackson’s death, Jones has spoken bluntly of the wild weirdness that the singer exhibited more and more with each year. (E.g., on the changes in Jackson’s face: “It’s ridiculous, man! Chemical peels and all of it. And I don’t understand it. But he obviously didn’t want to be black.”)
The two men would collaborate two more times after this album, on Thriller and Bad, but even if the sales of both improved on the already great start they had in Off the Wall, something disturbing had crept into Jackson’s psyche. You can hear it in the paranoia that pulsates throughout “Billie Jean,” for instance.
Moreover, the deeply insecure singer was even begrudging Jones the success and acclaim that rightly came his way for Thriller. In his memoir Howling at the Moon, former record industry exec Walter Yetnikoff related how Jackson—after countless Grammy nominations coming his way for Thriller—complained about the one that Jones was up for. Wasn’t there some way that Yetnikoff could persuade the voters to give it to him instead? Jackson asked.
In life, when parental figures go missing or prove inadequate, mentors assume greater importance than ever. As Jones became sidelined from the Ripley’s-Believe-It-Or-Not that Jackson’s life became in the last 15 years, the singer lost a realistic, savvy industry veteran who genuinely cared about his welfare.
The public—the same one that embraced the adult Jackson so much in Off the Wall—then witnessed a mammoth personal disaster for the superstar, a loss of great music for the world—and a large, irreplaceable hole in the heart for his great and good friend, Mr. Jones.
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