great.....now give us your username & password!

you don't need one....
I 'm not a member and I could read it fine.

funkyfine said:

cause your probably already a member..

but membership is free...on my way to read now..

Cool! Very interesting reading! I'll put it here 4 those that maybe can't access the link...

Cover Story: The many faces of Jacko.
Walter Yetnikoff, the wild man of music who guided Michael Jackson to stardom, reveals the singer as a whining, obsessive man-child

Michael Jackson looked different. It had been only a month since my last meeting with him, but his face had been altered, his skin lighter, his nose smaller. Compared to the handsome young man he had been, he was starting to look downright weird.

“What are you doing to yourself?”

“I never liked the way I looked,” he said. “Now I do.”

“Fine, but enough’s enough.”

“When I was a kid, my brothers teased me to death. They taunted me about my bad skin and my big nose.”

“So now you have good skin and a little nose. Leave yourself alone, Michael.”

“Surgeons these days can do wonderful things. They can perform miracles. They're like sculptors.”

“Except you're not made of clay. You’re a nice-looking guy. You don’t want to look like a piece of sculpture.”

We were driving through LA in a limo, on our way to see Michael Eisner, the big mouse at Disney.

Eisner had spent $20m on Captain EO, a 17-minute movie produced by George Lucas and directed by Francis Ford Coppola, in which Michael single-handedly brings peace to the world. It was to be shown at the Disney theme parks and Eisner was frantic to have Michael promote it by making appearances with Disney characters. Even though he was in some ways a Disney character himself, Michael didn’t like the idea.

“I don’t want to be seen holding hands with Pluto.”

“So what’s wrong with Pluto?” “It’s wrong for my image. You’re the one who always says I'm supposed to have an adult image.”

“So what do you want me to tell Eisner?”

“I have too many other commitments to promote it.”

A few minutes later at Disney headquarters Eisner was waxing wildly enthusiastic about the prospects of Captain EO. He saw it as the greatest thing since God created earth. Michael agreed, I agreed, it was all lovey-dovey until I lowered the boom. “Michael,” I said, “can’t go to the parks to promote it.”

Eisner heard me, but he saw that I was merely Michael’s mouthpiece. So he focused his attention on Michael, whom he flattered unashamedly.

The only other time I’d seen such excessive and calculating flattery was when my own lieutenants extolled my genius. So who was I to begrudge Michael — whose talent, unlike my own, was real — the joy of adulation? Eisner didn’t prevail completely but a compromise was reached. Michael would do some promotion.

I flew back to New York and thought about Michael, his changing face, his prodigious talent, his need for adoration, his self-absorption, his not-so-innocent innocence.

MICHAEL’S story was intertwined with my own as president of CBS Records.

In my first year in the job, 1975, two brilliant promo men, Ron Alexenburg and Steve Popovich, were excited about the Jackson 5, who, after years of hits, were ready to leave Motown. The boys’ manager and dad, Joe Jackson, wanted big money.

“Come out and see their show,” said Alexenburg.

It was less than spectacular. Their baby sister Janet, who did a Mae West impression, looked silly. Their dance steps looked tired. The bright spot was 16-year-old Michael, who was lit from within. His dancing was spectacular. But then he sang Ben, the theme song for a film about a boy and a rat. Wouldn’t I be a schmuck to authorise a multi-million-dollar deal to a guy pouring his heart out to a dead rat? “Ben was a smash,” Popovich insisted. “We’ll make money on this group, believe me.”

I’m not sure I believed but I okayed the deal anyway. The Jackson 5 were my first signing.

A couple of years or so later, Michael came to see me. He’d grown a few inches. I saw a tall, good-looking 19-year-old with an easy smile and ingratiating manner. He spoke so quietly that I had to lean in to listen. He was shy but determined, a young man on a mission.

“I want to do a solo album,” he said, “but my family feels we should do another Jackson record first. I want to honour my family’s wishes. But I want to write and produce the record myself.”

Michael was convincing. I decided to take a chance.

“You won’t be sorry,” he said.

I wasn’t. In 1979, an otherwise dismal sales year, the Jacksons’ Shake Your Body (Down to the Ground) sold more than 2m copies. Some consider it the most sensuous dance song in that supersensuous era known as disco.

Then Michael told me: “I want to do a solo record.”

“Fine,” I said.

Off the Wall was a perfect piece of pop soul, exceeding all sales predictions. The success excited Michael’s ambition. My respect for his talent was growing along with my puzzlement about his personality.

Off the Wall retooled his childlike image. Now he was pictured as a dark-skinned handsome young man in a bow tie, tux and fashionably coiffed Afro. He was ready to rock, and his love songs, especially Don’t Stop Til You Get Enough, suggested adult sexuality. When you spoke to Michael, though, the adult was not present.

“I never had a childhood,” he kept telling me. His education had been truncated. All he knew was singing and performing. “Understand,” he told me, “that I was a star when I was six.”

Sometimes I felt that he was still six. He had no social skills. He was a child who sought the company of other children. He sought my company only because I was the man who controlled the hype machine. And if Michael understood anything outside the value of music, it was the value of hype.

Michael liked to call me his Good Father. That’s when I was okaying big promotional plans for his record. At other times, he dropped the affection and reverted to normal artist behaviour — whining. Michael was a world-class whiner.

After Off the Wall won only a single Grammy, he called me to complain.

“You’re complaining to the wrong guy,” I told him. “I have nothing to do with who wins.”

Michael’s high, almost inaudible voice changes tone when he's unhappy. He becomes an angry little boy who won’t be happy until he gets all the candy in the candy jar. “Mine was the first solo album to have four Top Ten singles. That means I should get at least four Grammys.”

“Be happy with one.”

“I know the labels have influence over the Grammys. Can’t you use your influence?” “Beyond talking you up and taking out ads, there’s nothing to do.”

“I want more Grammys.”

“Make more records and you’ll get more Grammys.”

“My next record will win every Grammy there is.”

“From your mouth to God’s ear.” Turned out God was listening. No single record changed the business — and my life — as powerfully as Michael’s Thriller. At one point the damn thing was selling 1m copies a week. I’d never seen such figures. Thanks to Quincy Jones’s stunning production and Michael’s brilliant artistry, Thriller was wall-to-wall hits. Michael soared into the stratosphere, creating a buying frenzy that consolidated my power base at CBS. Michael had once again reinvented himself, only this time as the third prong of pop’s Holy Trinity: now it was Elvis, the Beatles and Michael Jackson.

“I told you I’d do it,” he said. “I told you I’d outdo Off The Wall.”

“You delivered,” I said. “You delivered like a motherf*****.”

“Please don’t use that word, Walter.”

“You delivered like an angel. Archangel Michael.”

“That’s better. Now will you promote it?” “Like a motherf*****.”

Michael giggled the famous Michael giggle.

He moonwalked his way into a new stratosphere. Michaelmania spread around the world. Michael worked tirelessly, developing videos, short films, auxiliary products, anything to sell Thriller.

He also became obsessed with how he looked. He resculpted his image, chose young children and chimps as companions, slept in oxygen chambers and consciously cultivated the crasser mass media to focus on his fame. I didn’t object. Why should I? At 24, Michael was the supersalesman of his own mystique.

Michael’s passion for world conquest was singular. I knew all about burning ambition — my own and those of other executives and artists. But Michael’s drive bordered on the psychopathic. He lived, breathed, slept, dreamt and spoke of nothing but number-one successes. He was possessed. He called me night and day for the latest figures.

“They’re tremendous,” I’d say.

“They need to be more tremendous,” he’d reply.

Thriller stayed number one for months. When it occasionally fell to second place for a week or two, Michael panicked. Hysterical, he’d berate me for failing to pump up the promotion. “I’m pumping, Michael,” I’d say. “I promise you I’m pumping.”

I screamed bloody murder when MTV refused to air his videos. They argued that their format, white rock, excluded Michael’s music. I argued they were racist assholes — and I’d trumpet it to the world if they didn’t relent. With added pressure from Quincy Jones, they caved in, and in doing so the MTV colour line came crashing down. The stunning creativity of Michael’s videos opened the door for black artists, including hip-hoppers and rappers, to the MTV crossover markets.

I also had a Michael Jackson problem with Jann Wenner, publisher of Rolling Stone. I saw Wenner as a self-styled autocrat who took his role as tastemaker far too seriously. He probably saw me the same way. In the past, our conflicts had been so nasty I banned him from the building. He infuriated me when he ran a favourable review of a Dylan bootleg — hardly appropriate for a legitimate music magazine. In the early days of Thriller, though, I realised I needed Wenner. I needed Michael on the cover of Rolling Stone.

“I rarely put R&B artists on the cover,” Wenner said.

“He’s not R&B, he’s pop. And besides, you had him on the cover when he was a kid.”

“That was then. This is now.”

“This is going to be the biggest record in the history of records.”

“Black artists don’t sell magazines.”

“I’m not sure he’s black. He’s not sure he’s black. But that’s beside the point. You think he’s black, and your refusal to put a hugely popular black on the cover is nothing but blind prejudice. Keep him off the cover and I’ll report your prejudice to every media outlet around the world.”

Wenner put Michael on the cover.

The Guinness Book of Records announced that Thriller, with 25m copies sold, was the bestselling album ever. When I threw a black-tie party for Michael at the Museum of Natural History in New York, there were more security guards than guests. I introduced him as the “greatest artist ever”. Only my Jewish roots kept me from comparing him to Jesus. The president and Mrs Reagan sent a telegram. At the high point, at the very moment I was about to introduce Michael to the glittering crowd, he whispered in my ear, “I have to tinkle. Can you take me to the potty?”

Then came the Grammys — again. In February 1984, a week prior to the big event in LA, I was in San Francisco, getting laid, when the phone rang. Michael was on the line. God forbid he should ask whether he’s interrupting.

“I think I’m going to win a lot of Grammys.”

“I think you’re right.”

“But everyone says Quincy is going to win some, too. And I don’t want him to. Quincy didn’t really produce the record, I did. Quincy has enough Grammys. He doesn’t need any more. Tell them not to give him any Grammys for Thriller.”

“I can’t tell them anything, Michael. The Grammys are run by NARAS. I have no influence over the National Academy of Recording Arts and Sciences.”

“You have influence over everyone.”

“Except God, NARAS and Michael Jackson.”

“You can call Quincy and tell him to withdraw.”

“No one withdraws.”

“If he doesn’t, I won’t let him produce my next record.”

“That’d be foolish.”

“People will think he’s the one who did it, not me.”

“Quincy doesn’t sing or dance. Quincy isn’t in any of the videos. Quincy sits behind the board and produces.”

“I was the producer.”

“Michael, I was in the studio myself. I saw Quincy producing.”

“All he did was help out.”

“Fine. If you want to complain to NARAS, complain to NARAS.”

“That won’t look good. You have to complain.”

“Go to the goddamn Grammys, Michael, and act like you’re happy.”

He did. Between Michael and Quincy, Thriller won a dozen Grammys. Michael acted like he loved Quincy more than life itself. Seated in the first row in spangled mock-military garb, he had Brooke Shields on one side and the child star Emmanuel Lewis on the other, a menage à trois to make the Marquis de Sade blush.

Money was pouring in. Michael was making so much he went on a buying spree. He was especially intrigued by song copyrights. When he learnt the Beatles catalogue was up for grabs, he wanted in on the action. Paul McCartney and Yoko Ono had stopped bidding because the price was too steep. Michael asked my opinion.

“At $45m or so,” I said, “I think it is too high. I’d be careful.” Michael wasn’t careful. He bought the catalogue. He was right to disregard my advice. The value of those songs has increased dramatically. Though he was impetuous at times, Michael’s business acumen was sharp. He suffered some fallout with McCartney, who protested that his friend Michael had somehow undone him. But the truth is that Paul had the resources to buy back his songs. He simply chose not to. I was on my way to California again when Michael called.

“I’m not happy,” he said.

“How can you not be happy? You own the world.”

“My brothers want me to tour with them, and I don’t want to.”

“Then don’t.”

“But my mother says I should.”

“Do you always listen to your mother?”

“I try to.”

“Then tour.”

“My brothers are broke. That’s the only reason they want to tour with me.”

“That’s a pretty good reason.”

“When I was a kid, they never stopped teasing me.”

“So you’re angry.”

“Very.”

“I don’t blame you.”

“But I don’t want my mother angry at me.”

“You’ve got a problem, Michael. Ever think about therapy?”

“I could never tell these things to a stranger.”

“Then flip a coin. Heads you tour, tails you don’t.”

“You flip.” “All right . . . I just did. It came out heads.”

The Victory Tour, starring Michael and his brothers, hit the road. It was billed as a grand reunion of the Jacksons, including Jermaine, who had left the group when the brothers moved to CBS. But they bickered endlessly. Michael called me from practically every venue, whining how his family was riding his coat tails.

At his mother’s urging, he participated in a new Jacksons album, Victory, which included a duet with Jermaine. They also sang another duet on Jermaine’s Arista album. This evidence of brotherly love, though, was misleading.

“I don’t want to release any of those duets as a single,” Michael told me.

“Fine. Tell Jermaine.”

“I can’t. I already told him that I would allow Arista to release a single. But I want him to think that (you) won’t allow it . . .I’m telling everyone you think it’ll hurt my career.”

“But I don’t think that. I think you should do whatever you want.”

“I want to keep the family happy.”

“And lying to your brother will do that?”

“I’m not lying. I really do believe it’ll hurt my career. And I believe you believe that too.”

“Doesn’t matter what I believe. What matters is that you want me to be the bad guy.”

“That’s a great idea for the title of my next solo album.”

“What is?”

“Bad.”

In every sense of the word, Michael was bad. As I watched him change over the next five or six years, I was alternately impressed and alarmed. His artistic brilliance stood in contrast to his personal behaviour. He grew more isolated, evolving from strange to weird to outrageously (and perhaps calculatingly) bizarre.

But if, as his Thriller video projected, he turned into something of a monster, so did I. His sense of self-entitlement corresponded with my own. On some level, we enabled each other. I put the full force of a giant international record company behind his products. His unprecedented success strengthened my own notoriety.

If he was intoxicated with the heady autonomy that accompanies celebrity, so was I. Being the corporate confidant of the biggest star in the world blew up my ego to outlandish proportions. I did his bidding, he praised my skills. His fame fed my power. But who was crazier — Michael or me?

“I HATE the cover,” Frank Dileo, Michael’s manager, told me when the Bad album was ready. “It makes him look like a fag.”
(this is the original cover photo 4 the 'BAD' album) ~ 'nana:


“Did you tell him that?” I asked.

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

“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.”

“Doesn’t he know it’s creepy?”

“Creepy is bad,” said Frank.

“And bad is good.”

Michael and Quincy had been working on Bad for years. More than simply a new creative product, it was a corporate event. Stockholders were waiting. 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?

“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 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.”

“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 50 or 60 sales people who could make a difference. I wanted them wined and dined at the Jackson family home in Encino, 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. 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 strongly and Michael was off on his world tour. I came over to see the show and prod my friends at Sony about buying CBS Records, my longterm plan for consolidating my power.

Sony hardly needed prodding. When I walked into the office of Akio Morita, Sony’s boss, it was nearly midnight, and he was just winding up a call to Bill Paley, founder of CBS. I saw him turn off a tape 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.”

“Did you get Paley to agree?”

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

I took Morita’s deputy, Norio Ohga, to see Michael’s concert. Backstage, I found that his entourage included a cute boy, not older than 13. 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 everything about Michael was strange.

In October the stock market crashed on Black Monday, and suddenly Sony’s two billion offer looked good. CBS Records would soon be Sony’s and I’d be president and CEO.

I had know highs before — drug highs, sex highs — but nothing like this. The thrill of victory, the certainty of serious wealth, the lure of absolute control — more than ever, I was crazed with ambition.

I realised the artists had to be reassured about Sony. 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 Springsteen, Barbra Streisand, Bob Dylan and especially Michael. Michael had to be personally reassured by me.

I flew to his newly acquired spread in California’s Santa Ynez Valley, the place he named Neverland. If you like llamas, this is your place. I don’t like llamas. When he took me through a huge room filled with dozens of arcade-sized video games, I asked him why so many.

“My friends like them,” he said softly.

Business with Michael was always conducted at the lowest decibel levels. Michael is a whisperer. I’m a screamer. 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.

© Walter Yetnikoff 2004

Extracted from Howling at the Moon by Walter Yetnikoff with David Ritz to be published by Abacus on March 4 at £12.99.

bananacologne said:

Why he likes being a baby daddy? LOL! He looks straight out of Roswell on that cover.

Edit for Calhoun.
[This message was edited Fri Feb 27 11:09:23 2004 by VoicesCarry]

Wow, it's obvious he needed therapy for a verrrryyyy long time. I'm not surprised he was such a brat.

I'm not going to say this is a lie, but how long ago were all these events, 15 or 20 years. Obviously his characterisation of MJ is probably truthful but all these quotes, how could he remember all that. I'll show it to the MJ board, that should be fun.

First off, must we quote this entire long-ass article when replying?? Just a question...

Secondly, thank God they rethought the cover for Bad Not that the one that made it is so great, but the lace over the face is like a misguided Prince move

Wow,that's an interesting article.But it's also disturbing,showing Michael to be a paranoid,self-obsessed brat at times.

CalhounSq said:

that's what i was thinking...lol...it looks like one of those androgynous Prince photos that we're all embarassed by

DavidEye said:

Like we didn't know that!

Someone needs 2 slap him upside the head and tell him that sequins are SOOOOO passe now.