Some called the Jackson 5 bubble gum music. It was anything but. Their hits were complex melodies and sophisticated arrangements. Even as a kid, I recognized that: the bass lines, the rhythm guitar, the percussive nuances. But beyond the music, they wore brilliantly patterned psychedelic-styled clothes and executed pinpoint-precise super-sharp choreography. At the center of it all was Michael. He was eleven but looked younger. I related to him.
In my parents’ apartment, I had already been listening to great voices coming off their records. Mom and Dad loved soul music. I knew Aretha Franklin, Gladys Knight and the Pips, Al Green, Curtis Mayfield, Otis Redding, and all the others. That’s why I can say that I knew that Michael, even at his young age, was as great as the greatest.
When I listened to the Jackson 5, I’d follow the conversations among the brothers and their musicians. I was right there. I heard how Michael was responding to the rhythm section. I understood how all the elements hung together—the strings weaving through the funk, the harmonic punctuations of the brothers’ background vocals, Michael’s lead vocal sailing over the top.
My response to their music was instinctual. I’d run to the closet, put on my black rubber galoshes (which I pretended were leather boots), drape myself in a few of Mom’s scarves, grab a Magic Marker to use as a microphone, and join the lineup. Mimicking the brothers’ moves, I became the sixth Jackson. At school, this is what I wrote in my notebook:
Lennie Jackson
Lennie Jackson
Lennie Jackson
* * *
It was October 16, 1970. I was six. I was surprised when Dad met me at school that day and said he was taking me somewhere. We walked a block over to Fifth Avenue and my dad hailed a cab. He told the driver, “Madison Square Garden.”
I asked him, “What’s at Madison Square Garden?”
In my mind, I was thinking, Is it the circus? The Ice Capades?
He wouldn’t say.
I became uncontrollably curious. The more I asked, the more he wouldn’t say. All he did was smile back at me with a sparkle in his eye. I had seen my dad happy and charming around his friends. But this was a first. Never before had I felt him this happy around me and me alone. When we finally got out of the cab and walked toward the Garden, my curiosity reached a boiling point.
The Garden was packed, everyone dressed to the nines. Men in leather maxi coats. Women in hot pants. Afros, wild hats, turbans, dashikis—you name it. Soon, as we settled into our seats, which were really close to the stage, a massive commotion broke out. The Queen of Soul was entering the arena. Flashbulbs popped. Heads turned. People cheered. Aretha Franklin, swathed in white mink and dripping in diamonds, had entered the arena. She and her entourage took their seats right behind us. Even before the music started, even when I still didn’t know who we were about to see, the proximity of the Queen gave me goosebumps.
Moments later, the lights dimmed. A band came onstage and started playing. It sounded good. I started moving. I had no idea who they were. It didn’t matter. I loved hearing live music, and I was happy to be there. When they finished, I thought the show was over. My dad laughed and told me, no, that was just the opener. (I’d later learn that the group was the Commodores, before they were called that.)
I could feel a restlessness in the air. People started clapping and stomping their feet. What’s going on? All of a sudden, the lights dimmed again. Blinding spotlights exploded to life. I could make out a bunch of guys running onto the stage and taking their positions. And then it happened.
Bump.
Bump-ba-da-bump.
Ba-da-dum-badah-dah.
Bum-bum-bum-bum.
Bum-bum … BUMP.
All of a sudden, I realized I was looking directly at the Jackson 5 as they launched into the intro of “I Want You Back.” I couldn’t believe it. It was a million times more explosive live than it was on my record player. The vibration pierced me to my core. There I was, in front of my real-life heroes. Their moves were precise, expressive, and irresistible. They were flawless. And Michael’s soulful, angelic voice soared. It was surreal. I jumped out of my seat. This was the best moment of my life.
The Jackson 5 were touring behind their Third Album, a record that had come out only a few weeks earlier. I already knew it by heart. I especially loved the James Jamerson bass line to “Darling Dear,” a song never released as a single. The hits “I’ll Be There” and “Mama’s Pearl” were dynamic. The album cover mesmerized me. I used to stare at their faces, their perfect Afros merging into one another. Their look inspired my Afro.
During the show, Dad pulled out his Leica. Being a photographer and realizing what this night meant to me, he documented it. To this day, a photograph from the concert remains on my wall and is one of my most prized possessions. It documents more than a life-altering event. It documents my father’s love and understanding of who I was. It’s interesting how much he missed about me, how much space there was between us. But at that miraculous moment in time, his insight lit the spark. That spark would define who I would ultimately become.
On the taxi ride home, I dozed in and out of sleep, leaning on Dad’s arm. Never had I felt so close to him.
* * *
Though he cared for me, Dad didn’t really understand how to deal with me. On a Sunday morning not long after the Jackson 5 concert, he took me to Central Park to watch me ride my bike. He sat down on a bench and I took off. Everything was going fine until the front tire hit a rock, and I crashed. My jeans ripped and my knees bled. I started crying—and got Dad angry.
“If you don’t stop crying,” he said, “I’ll give you something to really cry about.”
I didn’t understand his anger. Was he mad because I’d fallen or because I was crying? Instead of consoling me, he grabbed me by the arm and rushed me home. When we got there, he told Mom that she had a crybaby for a son.
Rather than argue with her husband, Mom waited till bedtime before asking if I wanted to say the magic word. I did: “Abracadabra,” and suddenly Ruff Ruff was right there for me. Ruff Ruff patiently listened to me. Ruff Ruff heard my confusion. Ruff Ruff understood how embarrassed I was. Ruff Ruff took away my pain.
That same year, my parents took me to the Rainbow Room, on the sixty-fifth floor of Rockefeller Center, in the midst of Manhattan’s glittering skyscrapers, to celebrate my sixth birthday. Duke Ellington was playing that night, his orchestra outfitted in formal tuxedos, looking like diplomats. Duke was dressed in white. The sound of his big band was enormous. Mom and Dad knew Duke, who came to our table for a brief moment. The great man picked me up and conducted his musicians as they broke into “Happy Birthday.” Saxophonist Paul Gonsalves walked over and played the melody right in front of me. Even though he didn’t know how to show physical affection, enlisting Duke was Dad’s way of making me feel special.
Other men were openly affectionate. Take Sid Bernstein. He was my friend Adam’s dad. Sid was the promoter who’d brought the Beatles to America and publicized their legendary concert at Shea Stadium. Sid worked with everybody, from James Brown to Herman’s Hermits.
You could fit our tiny apartment into one of the walk-in closets of the Bernsteins’ fifteen-room spread at 1000 Park Avenue. Each of the six Bernstein kids had their own bedroom and a private bath. The family dining room was as long as a bowling alley. Framed gold records lined the walls. There were nannies, cooks, and housekeepers. And then there was Sid himself, a big, loving man who took us to Patsy’s Pizzeria in Harlem, where he could devour three whole pies. Sid was full of life, full of fun, and free with his emotions. Every time he greeted his children—me included—he gave us bear hugs and kisses. It was the kind of affection from a father figure that I really craved.