Before You Judge Me Page 15

  Meanwhile, Michael feels frozen. Even seated in front of a roaring fireplace, he complains that the cold in his bones will not abate. At one point, a member of his staff calls Cherilyn Lee, the registered nurse Michael found so sympathetic, in spite of her unwillingness to administer propofol. He instructs his staff member to tell her that one side of his body is ice-cold and the other side burning hot. “I knew that somebody had given him something that hit that central nervous system,” Lee would later say. She urges the staff member to bring Michael to a hospital, but Michael ignores the advice.

  By the end of the weekend, the key players are convinced that this series of fifty super-extravagant shows is on the brink of disintegration. Without a vital, coherent, and committed Michael, the colossal enterprise is about to crash and burn. Hope is fading fast.

  Hope seems even dimmer when, against all protestations, Michael goes back for more treatment and Demerol at the office of Dr. Arnold Klein on Monday, June 22, the first day that rehearsals switch from the Forum, in Inglewood, to the Staples Center, in downtown Los Angeles. For those close to Michael, his insistence on visiting Klein is another indication that he’ll continue to blow off the rehearsals.

  The surrounding pessimism is profound. If Michael doesn’t show up tonight, what’s the use? The mood of the musicians, backup singers, and dancers is dark. The enormous crew is on edge. The missing Michael has been the source of pervasive anxiety.

  And then, unexpectedly, there’s breaking news: Michael reemerges. His presence is nothing short of magical, his impassioned participation in the rehearsals incandescent. He is energized; he is inspired. Michael’s sudden and urgent recommitment renews everyone’s spirits, turning the mood from morose to jubilant.

  His life force is infectious as he runs through full-dress rehearsals with studied deliberation. His singing is subtle, lyrical, finely tuned to the subjects at hand. His dancing has returned to form—fluid, easy, relaxed—as he effortlessly glides above and below the rhythms of his sensuous songs. Body and soul are intact. His confidence is back. His grace is back. The singular elegance has never been more evident in this supremely self-assured performer.

  As he works with his musicians—especially keyboardist Michael Bearden, drummer Jonathan “Sugarfoot” Moffett, guitarists Tommy Organ and Orianthi Panagaris, percussionist Bashiri Johnson, and bassist Alex Al—his nuanced critiques are especially illuminating. On “The Way You Make Me Feel,” for instance, he elongates an already intoxicating groove. “You gotta let it simmer,” he tells his band. “Let it just bathe in the moonlight.”

  After the first night of what everyone considers a brilliant rehearsal, Michael is understandably excited. He’s even jovial. His creative juices are flowing. He renews work on a song about the environment that he calls “Breathe.” He phones his dear friend Deepak Chopra for help with the lyrics, saying in a voice message that “I’ve got some really good news to share with you.” In a cruel twist of irony, “Breathe” will be the last song Michael will ever write.

  As usual, all this stimulation impedes his sleep. Michael looks for his usual IV drip of propofol. But according to Dr. Conrad Murray, who wants to free his patient of a chronic dependency on the drug, he administers a smaller dose of propofol augmented by two benzodiazepines—lorazepam and Versed—to calm Michael’s mind and eventually bring on sleep.

  The artists, crew members, and executives gathered at the Staples Center the following night, on Tuesday, June 23, wonder whether Michael will show up or revert to another disappearing act.

  When he shows, the joy is palpable. Once again, he’s ready to work, ready to run through the sequence of songs, each of which incorporates complex choreography that no one who has missed as many rehearsals as Michael could possibly perform. Defying reason, Michael negotiates each routine with consummate mastery. As he rehearses the duet “I Just Can’t Stop Loving You” with singer Judith Hill, his voice is radiant, his gesticulations a study in grace.

  Tohme Tohme, who has come to the Staples Center to watch the rehearsals, is given an all-access pass by AEG’s Randy Phillips and referred to as “Michael’s manager”—this in spite of the fact that he has not really seen Michael in over a month. When Tohme Tohme does see Michael during a break, the men embrace warmly. And because Michael, like his mentor, Berry Gordy, delights in sparking competition among his staff, he says to Frank Dileo, who is standing close by, “Come here and give your boss a hug.” Dileo ignores the request. Once again, the question is back on the table: who’s managing Michael?

  But the question hardly seems to matter in the face of Michael’s fresh devotion to the This Is It shows. Even when, to prudently preserve his strength, he is not singing at full voice, his elocution and phrasing are vintage Michael. Even when, for the same reason, his dance steps are suggestive rather than fully realized, he nonetheless moves with sublime poise and self-assurance.

  Tuesday night is another successful rehearsal. Whether his main man is Tohme Tohme or Frank Dileo or Mickey Mouse, no one seems to care. Michael has shown up for a second consecutive night. Michael is back. Michael is in rare form. Michael is committed to more than a good show in London: he’s fiercely determined to put on a great show—a record-breaking, mind-boggling, jaw-dropping show.

  Michael the miraculous performer has found new life, new energy, new motivation, that is felt by everyone in the cavernous Staples Center. The frightening condition that made his body feel hot and cold at the same time has, at least for now, subsided. He understands the sudden change in his physical and emotional condition as a lifelong reaction—a spectacularly positive reaction—to the challenge of performing. Ever since he was a kid, he has been conditioned to meet that challenge. That is the lesson he absorbed during his formative years, taught first by his father and then by Berry Gordy—two harsh taskmasters, two men who demanded perfection while insisting that, no matter the circumstances, an artist must rise to the occasion, step onstage, and slay the audience.

  Michael is grateful to be back in that mind-set. The closer to showtime, the more energy he generates.

  Now it’s time to go home and rest up so he can hit the stage again tomorrow night. That’s possible as long as the artist can get a good night’s sleep.

  When he arrives at the Carolwood estate, Dr. Murray wants Michael to take only two medicines—lorazepam and Versed—and forgo the propofol entirely. Michael is reluctant. He has been stimulated by the successful rehearsal and is convinced that only propofol will do the job. He agrees, however, to try Murray’s plan. To his surprise, the plan works. For the first time in months, Michael is able to fall asleep without the aid of the substance he calls milk, the drug that, according to medical protocol, should be administered only by an anesthesiologist in a closely monitored hospital setting.

  Michael wakes up the next day reasonably refreshed.

  Things are looking up.

  He looks forward to tonight’s rehearsal with renewed hope.

  His children are happy, he is happy, and there is every reason to believe that he has at long last reclaimed that elusive groove—not merely the rhythmic groove, but the big groove, the cosmic groove, the groove that keeps him moving past all obstacles, the groove that makes his life livable and his art phenomenal.

  24

  “Give Me Your All—Your Endurance, Your Patience, Your Understanding”

  Wednesday, June 24, 2009

  If the two previous rehearsals were seen as great successes, this one is spectacular.

  Kenny Ortega calls Michael’s performance “bioluminescent.”

  Randy Phillips calls it “fantastic.”

  In Michael’s mind, he is merely doing what he has done his entire life: demonstrate his extraordinary professionalism. His work ethic is more than “the show must go on.” As an entertainer, he is not satisfied until he drains himself of every last bit of creative energy.

  Before this week began, many doubted whether that entertainer would ever reemerge. But on Monday night, M
ichael dispelled those doubts. On Tuesday, the doubters were believers, and now, on Wednesday, the believers—the singers, dancers, promoters, managers, lighting directors, choreographers, wardrobe staff, crew hands—have become celebrants, openly cheering Michael’s every move.

  Without being told what Michael has endured these past sixteen weeks since the announcement of the This Is It shows in London, those involved with the rehearsals have sensed his enormous struggle. They have seen him down and withdrawn; they have understood that his absence has resulted from a deep and enigmatic depression of spirit. And now that he has returned, now that the dark clouds have parted, these people bathe in the light of his victory. He has beat back the demons that have kept him from fully engaging in the work he was born to do. In Michael’s mind, that work transcends entertainment. He must reascend to the pop culture pulpit of preaching.

  A cherry picker becomes his pulpit. As he steps on the hydraulic crane that rises off the stage and moves high over the arena, he sings his “Earth Song,” the heart of This Is It’s moral message. The song is sung before a back-screen sequence of lush nature imagery, building to a crescendo in the Amazon rain forest, where a small girl stands up to the onslaught of a massive bulldozer. For several long and thrilling minutes, Michael is literally above it all. Singing of the planet’s despair, he works through his own despair. His moans, cries, and laments force us to face our own culpability. His personal witness to environmental destruction is devastating. As the crane swings from one side of the arena to another—now higher, now lower—Michael preaches with fiery conviction. His questions reverberate in every corner of the empty hall. In an anguished voice he sings out the impassioned questions: What about man’s selfish neglect? What about the unexplained indifference of God? There are no answers, only questions followed by questions: What about dying children? What about death itself? And, over and over again, what about us? What is our part in this decaying process? And can we—can he—ever change?

  If “Earth Song” is Michael’s most searing sociopolitical statement, “Billie Jean” is his most personal. His dancers, awed by the power of his performance, stand in front of the stage and wildly cheer him on as he breaks into the boldest and baddest of all his grooves. Watching him, we, like his dancers, get the feeling that he has forgotten this is a rehearsal. He is on another plateau altogether, a transcendent place once described by poet W. B. Yeats: “O body swayed to music, O brightening glance, / How can we know the dancer from the dance?” Michael becomes the living answer to that unanswerable question. He simply is. He is the song; he is the dance; he is the unsolved mystery that sits at the dark center of his story; he is, at the same time, both the story and the storyteller. His drama, his funk, his sexuality, his anger, his passion, all find form in this single song that he is performing at this very moment, in front of a handful of colleagues, most of them half his age, who look up to him like acolytes looking up to a dancing, singing saint.

  For the duration of the long rehearsal, Michael continues to lose himself—or find himself—in every song and every dance. The singing and dancing become a single organic act, a perfect marriage of motion leading voice and voice leading motion. He approaches each category of composition with the empathy of a great actor: he plays the gothic “Thriller” with terrifying intensity; he plays the hounded superstar in “Dirty Diana” with frightening vulnerability. As the “Smooth Criminal,” he slouches with Astaire-like aloofness. As the provocateur in “Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’ , ” he prances with playful swagger. As the oppressed in “They Don’t Care About Us,” he marches with lethal defiance.

  So, yes, there is reason for rejoicing. And even though, as is his customary practice, Michael is holding back to conserve his voice—he has a touch of laryngitis—for the actual performances, he still gives enough of himself to excite his colleagues and show them that they are part of something stupendous.

  In going through the show, Michael is far from perfect. He leans heavily on Kenny Ortega to refamiliarize him with the intricate staging. But there is never a hint of hesitation or self-doubt about his ability to command this mammoth operation. He is thoughtful and precise about giving directions concerning cues, lighting, and pacing. He knows exactly what is needed to maximize the drama.

  In his eyes, those around him recognize his drive and determination. They clearly see that when he hits the London stage, he will be off the wall. He will be dangerous. He will be bad. He will be making history. He will be the man in the mirror. He will be shedding his blood on the dance floor. He will be invincible. He will be every character—every emotion and every attitude—that he has ever assumed. He will become his art, and his art will be radiant.

  It’s past midnight when Michael leaves the Staples Center, but before he does, he, his dancers and singers and musicians, and director Kenny Ortega form a circle in which Michael addresses the group.

  “Everyone is doing a great job, and just continue to believe and have faith,” he says. “Give me your all—your endurance, your patience, your understanding… It’s an adventure, it’s a great adventure, and it’s nothing to be nervous about.

  “They just want wonderful experiences. They want escapism. We want to take them to places they have never been before. We want to show them talent they have never seen before. So give your all.

  “I love you all. We’re a family. Just know that we’re a family. We’re bringing love back into the world to remind the world that love is important… We’re all one. To care for the planet, we only have four years to get it right—or for us it’s irreversible damage we’ve done. So I have an important message to give.

  “I thank you for your cooperation… Thank you… A big thank-you.”

  With that, he follows his entourage outside the arena. Randy Phillips walks with him. At one point Michael turns to the AEG chief and says, “Thank you for getting me here. I got it now. I know I can do this. I’ll take it from here.”

  He’ll be back tomorrow for another spirited rehearsal.

  All he needs now is a good night’s rest.

  25

  June 25, 2009

  Michael didn’t write “Man in the Mirror”—Siedah Garrett and Glen Ballard did—but he relates to the lyrics as though they sprang from his very soul. He sees himself walking out into the cold, turning up his collar as the freezing wind reveals the reality of starving children and homeless people the world over. He knows that he has been, as the song says, the victim of a selfish love. He knows that he has been obsessively self-absorbed. And he knows that this isn’t who he wants to be. He wants to be released from the prison of his own ego. He wants to devote himself to helping others—the scarred widow; the brokenhearted, defeated by washed-out dreams. His dream is to transcend himself and his endless concerns—Will my show be the greatest? Will my music set new sales records? Will my iconography be cleansed of all blemishes?—and concentrate on the issues that matter: the welfare of others, the welfare of the planet.

  Over the decades, Michael has looked at the man in the mirror and not liked what he has seen. For a thousand different reasons, his appearance has been unacceptable, even repulsive, to his own eyes. He has used his vast resources to change that appearance, but in doing so, he has been caught up in a hopeless dilemma. The changes have not brought him happiness. The changes have not calmed his restless soul. The perfection he has sought in himself—in both his physical body and the body of his artistic work—is an illusion. The real change, he finally understands, will happen when he moves beyond himself. On the deepest level, that’s what it means to ask himself—to demand of himself—that he change his ways. The metaphor of the mirror couldn’t be any clearer. Michael remembers the myth of Narcissus, who was fixated by the beauty of his own image in a pool of water. Because he didn’t understand the phenomenon of a mirrorlike reflection, his self-fixation caused him to drown.

  The man in the mirror does not want to drown in self-obsession. The man in the mirror does not want to die. He
wants to live; he wants to raise his children to be strong and caring human beings. He wants to be a strong and caring human being. And he is. After a lifetime of battling an army of demons of every stripe, he is once again ready to declare victory. “Man in the Mirror,” the song that will conclude his London shows, will also open a new chapter in his life.

  Optimism is a beautiful thing, Michael reflects after returning to the Carolwood estate. Optimism is rooted in hope, and hope is rooted in faith. Michael’s faith is strong. He has seen drive and desire return to his heart like long lost friends. He has felt the powerful camaraderie of his colleagues. He has learned that this project, so fraught with overwhelming problems, is suddenly not a problem at all. It’s in him to do this; it always has been. He finally envisions this long series of concerts with clarity.

  The vision excites his mind, and his mind moves into overdrive. He goes over all the songs that he has rehearsed. He makes mental notes about how to refine a gesture here and a dance move there. He can’t stop reviewing and thinking and relishing the happiness coursing through his spirit.

  All this means that he can’t sleep.

  Because Murray wants to keep Michael on a non-propofol program, at 1:30 a.m. the doctor gives him ten milligrams of Valium.

  But Michael’s overstimulated mind is stronger than the Valium, and at 2 a.m. he is still awake. Using an IV drip, Murray injects him with two milligrams of another drug often used for anxiety: Ativan.

  The Ativan doesn’t work.

  It’s 3 a.m. Michael’s excited optimism is turning into anxiety about his inability to sleep. If he’s to realize another great rehearsal tomorrow—and he’s determined to do just that—he can’t afford to be up all night.