Michael Jackson Was ‘Bad’ - And That Was Good: A Remembrance

On one of the recent news reports covering Michael Jackson’s death, mentalist Uri Geller speculated that no one knew Michael, and indeed, the self-proclaimed King of Pop was an enigma that, along with his music, will be his most lasting and original creation. But in October 1987, I was with Michael and he provided clear insight into his psyche, and it wasn’t pretty.

“Have mercy, for I’ve been bleeding a long time now,” he wrote in an strange and haunting epistle that has even more resonance in light of his tragic passing yesterday at the still youthful age of 50.

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We were in Tokyo, where Michael was launching his Bad tour, perhaps the last truly shining moment in his long and celebrated career. I was reporting about him for People magazine, and I had unusual and highly personal access thanks to trust I had earned from Michael and his manager, Frank Dileo, who had enjoyed my previous stories.

I got to Tokyo and heard Michael was feeling good about the show and in top form. I met Sheryl Crow, then a backup singer, who said the show was excellent.

And it was. Opening night was a triumph of great songs, staging and Michael’s incredible talent. And I mean incredible. He could really sing and dance. You could sweeten the vocals ( I have no idea if he did), but from his first turn and slide across the stage, his dancing was a stunningly beautiful thing, years of MTV videos uncorked live. He enjoyed himself.

Clearly, Michael was in his element, singing in the spotlight, absorbing unconditional love and adoration. Off stage, he played with his chimp, Bubbles, who had his own suite.

One night, about 3 am, I saw Frank Dileo walking down the hall covered in pink silly string. I asked what happened. With a shrug, he said, “I was with the kid.” Michael was kid-like, as everyone knows, troubled, tortured and who knows what else, and those stories will be told over the next days, weeks and years.

But when I met Michael a few nights later in his dressing room, he was a shy man drinking tea and telling me that he thought the early shows had gone well. We shook hands; his grip was not that impressive; but we shared a few genuine moments.

Michael gamely ventured into the Ginza area for a photo shoot that was ruined when fans overran us; it was insane, dangerous, exciting – just the kind of thing that brought a smile to Michael’s face; then he disappeared into the night, leaving the photographer and me wrestling with the crowd for our lives. But he was right, it was wild, memorable fun.

Michael denied my requests for a sit-down interview, but he agreed to answer questions if I submitted them in writing.

A few hours later, I gave Frank a list of queries. Most were throwaways about the toy stores he’d visited in Tokyo, the fans he’d encountered, the crazy affection the Japanese had shown Bubbles, who was making his own personal appearances. But I included one zinger: “Do you think the public misunderstands you – and if so, why?”

That’s the one he chose to answer.

“Like the old Indian proverb says, don’t judge a man until you’ve walked two moons in his moccasins,” he wrote. “Most people don’t know me. That is why they write such things in which most are not true. I cry very very often because it hurts…But still I must achieve. I must seek truth in all things. I must endure for the power I was sent forth, for the world, for the children. But have mercy, for I’ve been bleeding a long time now.”

Yesterday, sadly, the bleeding stopped. It’s easy to focus on the whacko part of the Jacko legacy.

But as I looked at these photos, I chose to remember the genius and joy. Thanks, Michael, for all you gave. Rest in peace.

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