REBELJACKSON
00lunedì 7 aprile 2003 18:14
The Rash Magazine Interview with Michael Jackson
By Noah Masterson
January 11, 2001
Pop star Michael Jackson answers the door at his Neverland Ranch home with a broad grin and a hearty slap on the back. ÒCome on in, dude,Ó he insists. He is wearing loose-fitting sweat pants and a Green Bay Packers jersey, along with New Balance tennis shoes and a backwards Washington Redskins cap. He does not wear his signature glove or dust mask. ÒPlayoffs are on,Ó he says by way of apology.
I follow Mr. Jackson into the foyer, where he hangs my coat on a small set of deer antlers mounted on the wall for that purpose. ÒTito shot this buck during a hunting trip with Pops,Ó he explains. ÒI like having this sort of stuff around.Ó
ÒWhy?Ó I ask.
Mr. Jackson pauses, in apparent contemplation, then offers: ÒIt serves as a constant reminder of the tenuous relationship between Man and Nature. We as a species are at the top of the food chain‚a position that comes with considerable responsibility. It"s like we are mini-gods, doling out death as we see fit‹ Hey, that"s not bad. I"ll have to work that into a song‹Ó
In the living room, which is decorated with bear skin rugs, rustic oil paintings and antique barbed wire, Mr. Jackson and I are seated on an overstuffed leather couch. Empty Coors Light bottles and an ashtray containing a dozen or so cigarette butts litter the nearby coffee table. A widescreen television drones the Redskins-Dolphins matchup, and the King of Pop seems momentarily oblivious to my presence as he hoots at the screen: ÒThat was pass-interference! That was motherfucking pass-interference!Ó
After this outburst, he turns and grins shyly at me, an expression that brings to mind the Michael Jackson with which most of the world is familiar: eccentric, secretive, effeminate. He turns back to the screen and lights a Camel, giving me a moment to study his face. With the backwards baseball cap, matted hair and scraggly beard, it is easy to forget that the man sitting before me is the biggest pop phenomenon since the Beatles (whose songs Mr. Jackson actually owns). His skin is now the color of cream, which, along with the repeated rhinoplasty that has left little more than a bump of cartilage for a nose, does indeed make Mr. Jackson appear more Caucasian than African-American. But beyond that, Michael Jackson seems to have entered a new, more laissez-faire stage of his life. Both literally and figuratively, he has let his hair down, casting aside his previous obsessiveness with physical appearance in favor of a relaxed, easygoing and‚dare I say it?‚sloppy visage. ÒWanna beer?Ó he belches.
***
Michael Jackson was born August 29, 1958 in Gary, Indiana. A precocious child, he was dancing and singing as soon as he could walk and talk. In 1970, the Jackson 5‚Michael and four of his older brothers‚inked a deal with Motown and went on to release 13 hit albums in seven years.
Michael reached even greater levels of popularity when he broke from his brothers and embarked on a solo career that began with Off the Wall in late 1979. His followup, Thriller, released in 1982, was at Billboard"s top spot for 37 weeks and sold 24 million copies worldwide.
His career since Thriller has been checkered at best. Although he continues to remain popular abroad, over the last 20 years his American audience has gradually dwindled‚a fact which has had severe impact on sales of Jackson"s post-Thriller output: Bad, Dangerous, HIStory, Blood on the Dance Floor and, most recently, Invincible.
Widely publicized scandals involving alleged child molestation and bizarre rumors about Jackson"s personal life (that he sleeps in an oxygen tank, purchased the Elephant Man"s bones, etc. etc.) have served to make Michael Jackson one of the most consistently talked-about icons in pop culture. His September 2001 comeback performances with his brothers (along with pop newbies N"Sync and myriad others) at Madison Square Garden were possibly the most ill-timed concerts in music history; the final show took place on September 10, the day before terrorists attacked the World Trade Center and targets in Washington, D.C.
***
I soon realize that we will not begin the interview until the football game is over. I politely accept a Coors Light and nurse it through the final quarter. Throughout, Mr. Jackson mutters half under his breath an endless stream from which I can pick only a few words and phrases: ÒC"mon, motherfucker‹ Fuckin" motherfuckers‹ Kick the fuckin" ball, asslick‹ Goddamn shitbird thinks he"s Mercury motherfuckin" Morris‹ Holy shit! ‹ That"s it, baby, that"s it‹ Tackle his sorry ass!‹ Motherfuckin" motherfuckers‹Ó And so on. His voice is deep, manly‚a stark contrast to the castrati squeals on his albums. At times he sounds like Elvis Presley, affecting a low Southern drawl as he shouts at the television: ÒY"all couldn"t tackle the side of a motherfuckin" barn.Ó
The Dolphins win 21-17, which prompts Mr. Jackson, apparently a Redskins fan, to throw a beer can at the screen. It lands harmlessly on the bear skin rug, and I take the opportunity to grab the remote and click off the TV. Michael gives me a sharp look of drunken indignation, then throws his hands up and sinks into the couch. ÒLet"s get this shit rollin",Ó he says.
So, you"re a Redskins fan?
Redskins and Packs. I"ve liked the "Skins since the 80s, since around the time Thriller came out and John Riggins was on the team. I consider them America"s football team "cause they"re from D.C. and shit. Screw the Dallas Cowboys. Fuckin" fags.
And the Packers? Why do you like them?
"Cause they"re Socialists.
Explain.
Well, that"s how a small town like Green Bay, Wisconsin, has a football team. The people in the community pay the players" salaries. I"ve traveled to a lot of Socialist countries‚I"m real big in China, you know‚and I think that, in some cases, that"s a pretty good way of doing things. Gets the job done, know what I"m sayin"?
Interesting that your favorite teams represent, to you, American patriotism and something akin to Socialism. Do you see a conflict there?
Naw, I"ve always been complicated and shit. The media can never figure my shit out. But the fans have always been there. They understand.
Speaking of fans, promoters had to scramble to fill seats at your Madison Square Garden Shows last year, dramatically slashing prices.
Man, that shit was so fucked up. I wanted to give a free show somewhere, like maybe Central Park or Woodstock, but my label and management wouldn"t let me. Then my brothers got involved and‚oy veh!
Have you talked to your brothers since the show?
I talk to Randy almost every day. Tito, too, although he"s kind of annoying sometimes.
How so?
Shit, man, he"d fuck a pile of rocks if he thought there was a snake under it.
A victim of pop star excess?
Naw, he"s just a horny son of a bitch, know what I"m sayin"?
And the others?
We haven"t spoken, but that don"t mean shit. Lots of families, mine included, can be tightly knit without bein" all up in each other"s shit.
Fair enough. What"s next for Michael Jackson? You seem to be experimenting with a new look. Will you take your music in a new direction as well?
I don"t know. I"m a billionaire and I don"t really give a fuck if my albums sell anymore. There"ll always be suckers in the Third World spending a month"s pay on whatever bullshit I put out, and that"s enough for me and Bubbles [Jackson"s pet chimpanzee] to live on. So I just might go in a new direction, see what happens.
Country-Western, perhaps?
What? No!
Sorry, I was just looking at your dÉcor. Oil paintings of old cowboys. Antique barbed wire. I thought maybe you"d discovered the Flying Burrito Brothers.
The flying who? Look, I just like having this shit around. I can"t explain why.
So, in what direction were you thinking of taking your music?
Well, I"m the King of Pop, and I always will be the King of Pop, but I"ve also been very attuned to what"s going on around me. I listen to a lot of electronica, like Moby and shit. I"ll probably incorporate more of the latest technologies on my album, like maybe I"ll use some of the same vocal effects Cher used on that one song, ÒSave Your SoulÓ or whatever. I also want to make more of a political statement.
A political statement? Were you affected by the events on September 11?
Not really, but I"m sure my album sales suffered. People forgot all about my comeback! Luckily the networks aired it on television a month later. That was pretty dope‹ Anyway, the political statement I wanna make is regarding the motherfuckin" Second Amendment: the right to keep and bear motherfuckin" arms!
And what is your stance on that?
Shoot first and ask questions later, know what I"m sayin"?
But thousands of children are killed every year by guns.
Fuck the children. Pardon my choice of words, but you know what I mean.
I guess so. Hey, what"s Bubbles up to these days?
You wanna go see him? I"m tired of this motherfuckin" interview anyway.
***
Michael Jackson leads me through the halls of the Neverland mansion. He is petite, and I tower over him, but his drunken swagger and almost alien presence make him seem larger than life. We pass through countless rooms and corridors, each with distinct themes: the Monet Room; the Fab Four Room; the Hall of Justice; the Garden of Unearthly Delights; Santa"s Enchanted Forest; the Funhouse. Eventually we reach a simple wooden door labeled ÒThe Menagerie.Ó We pause. Mr. Jackson appears to be contemplating something.
ÒI should warn you,Ó he begins. ÒBubbles is gettin" up in years. And we all know that chimps get unruly in middle age‹ Well, you"ll see what I mean.Ó
We enter the room, which is long and narrow, fluorescently lit, and flanked with glassed-in chambers, each containing an exotic animal. There are toucans, skinks, sloths, koala bears and many others. There is a curious absence of noise, however, which I realize is a result of soundproof glass; the animals are shrieking and hooting as they normally would, but it is inaudible. We stroll to the far end of the room, our footsteps echoing, until we reach the cage containing Bubbles the Chimp, who sits sullenly in the corner. His face is flecked with gray hair and he has grown to the size of an adult human. He is naked. His cage, about the size of a one-car garage, contains only an old truck tire, which Bubbles is presently ignoring. Michael presses a button on the wall and a small window opens.
ÒYo, Bubbles!Ó Mr. Jackson chirps. As if stuck with a hot poker, the chimp screeches and throws himself against the glass, then beats it with his fist. I jump back, startled, but Michael is undeterred. ÒHe"s grouchy now that he"s all grown up, just like a lot of people I know. Hee hee!Ó
I observe Mr. Jackson and the chimp. Bubbles has stopped banging on the glass, and the two stare into each other"s eyes. Michael keeps his eyes locked on Bubbles"s as he speaks to me. ÒI saw this king-fu movie once. Man watched a monkey so he could learn how to fight a snake.Ó
While still holding Bubbles"s gaze, Mr. Jackson reaches down and unlocks a drawer I hadn"t previously noticed, and removes a pillowcase that"s knotted at the top. It writhes with life. Michael throws the pillowcase through the window into Bubbles"s cage, and presses the button that closes the window, shutting out all sound.
Immediately Bubbles pounces on the pillowcase and unties the knot at the top. An 8-foot King Cobra emerges and, upon seeing the chimp, rears up, opens its hood and hisses noiselessly. Bubbles crouches low, fangs bared. He screeches but no sound escapes the cage. Then the snake and the chimp eye each other warily, striking and feinting, circling and watching. The air is brittle between them. Then, in the blink of an eye, the cobra strikes and Bubbles leaps straight upward, landing on the snake"s hood like a cowboy on a horse. The chimp bites hard into the serpent"s eye, sending spasms through its body and blood onto the glass in front of us. Bubbles keeps his teeth locked until the cobra goes rigid and dies. The chimp looks up at us and offers a bloody smile.
ÒNow it"s safe,Ó Michael says. ÒFightin" takes the edge off. Helps him get his ya-ya"s out.Ó He presses another button and the glass wall that separates us from the chimp rises into the ceiling. Bubbles lumbers out and bashfully hugs Michael Jackson, nuzzling his neck with a bloody kiss.
They embrace for a long time, ignoring me. Out of deference to them, I nod my good-byes and wordlessly let myself out the front door.
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In poche parole,il giornalista sarebbe andato a Neverland,per un'intervista a Michael,che in quel momento guardava una partita di calcio.Il giornalista non ha fatto altro che un qudro di un Michael totalmente irriconoscibile,volgare,alcolizzato,e collezionatore di trofei imbalsamati.
MI AUGURO CHE QUESTA INTERVISTA SIA SOLO INVENZIONE DI UNA MENTE MALATA DI UN GIORNALISTA.
Che la cosa sia vera o no quello che non condivido in Michael,e davvero sono CONTRARISSIMA,è lo zoo personale, o il voler portare i figli allo zoo o al circo.
Odio l'idea che molte bestie innocenti e,si,anche belve,debbano dare spettacolo sotto l'effetto di frustate e droga,per renderli più buoni e per rendere bello lo spettacolo.La gente si diverte e gli animali soffrono.
Se questo per Michael è amore per gli animali........
No no non ci siamo. Stesso dicasi per abbigliamento o accessoriato in pelle.Sai la fine che fanno queste povere bestie prima di diventare giubetti borchiati,lussuose giacche,o peggio,borse,salotti o accessori da studio? Non avete la minima idea di quello che gli fanno passare.
Voi cosa ne pensate?