they'd say, "We don't make them that small." I was so sad because I wanted to have shoes that looked the way those stage shoes looked, polished and shining, turning red and orange when the lights hit them. Oh, how I wanted some
patent-leather shoes like the ones Jackie Wilson wore.
Most of the time I'd be alone backstage. My brothers would be upstairs eating and talking and I'd be down in the
wings, crouching real low, holding on to the dusty, smelly curtain and watching the show. I mean, I really did watch
every step, every move, every twist, every turn, every grind, every emotion, every light move. That was my education and my recreation. I was always there when I had free time. My father, my brothers, other musicians, they
all knew where to find me. They would tease me about it, but I was so absorbed in what I was seeing, or in
remembering what I had just seen, that I didn't care. I remember all those theaters: the Regal, the Uptown, the Apollo
- too many to name. The talent that came out of those places is of mythical proportions. The greatest education in the
world is watching the masters at work. You couldn't teach a person what I've learned just standing and watching.
Some musicians - Springsteen and U2, for example - may feel they got their education from the streets. I'm a
performed at heart. I got mine from the stage.
Jackie Wilson was on the wall at the Apollo. The photographer captured him with one leg up, twisted, but not out of
position from catching the mike stand he'd just whipped back and forth. He could have been singing a sad lyric like
"Lonely Teardrops," and yet he had that audience so bug-eyed with his dancing that no one could feel sad or lonely.
Sam and Dave's picture was down the corridor, next to an old big-band shot. Dad had become friendly with Sam
Moore. I remember being happily amazed that he was nice to me when I met him for the first time. I had been
singing his songs for so long that I thought he'd want to box my ears. And not far from them was "The King of Them
All, Mr. Dynamite, Mr. Please Please Himself," James Brown. Before he came along, a singer was a singer and a
dancer was a dancer. A singer might have danced and a dancer might have sung, but unless you were Fred Astaire or
Gene Kelly, you probably did one better than the other, especially in a live performance. But he changed all that. No
spotlight could keep up with him when he skidded across the stage - you had to flood it! I wanted to be that good.
We won the Apollo amateur night competition, and I felt like going back to those photos on the walls and thanking
my "teachers." Dad was so happy he said he could have flown back to Gary that night. He was on top of the world
and so were we. My brothers and I had gotten straight A's and we were hoping we might get to skip a "grade." I
certainly sensed that we wouldn't be doing talent shows and strip joints much longer.
In the summer of 1968 we were introduced to the music of a family group that was going to change our sound and
our lives. They didn't all have the same last name, they were black and white, men and women, and they were called
Sly and the Family Stone. They had some amazing hits over the years, such as "Dance to the Music," "Stand," "Hot Fun in the Summertime." My brothers would point at me when they heard the line about the midget standing tall and
by now I'd laugh along. We heard these songs all over the dial, even on the rock stations. They were a tremendous
influence on all of us Jacksons and we owe them a lot.
After the Apollo, we kept playing with one eye on the map and one ear to the phone. Mom and Dad had a rule about
no more than five minutes a call, but when we came back from the Apollo, even five minutes was too long. We had
to keep the lines clear in case anyone from a record company wanted to get in touch with us. We lived in fear of
having them get a busy signal. We wanted to hear from one record company in particular, and if they called, we
wanted to answer.
While we waited, we found out that someone who had seen us at the Apollo had recommended us to "The David
Frost Show" in New York City. We were going to be on TV! That was the biggest thrill we'd ever had. I told
everyone at school, and told the ones who didn't believe me twice. We were going to drive out there in a few days. I
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was counting the hours. I had imagined the whole trip, trying to figure out what the studio would be like and how it
would be to look into a television camera.
I came home with the traveling work my teacher had made up in advance. We had one more dress rehearsal and then
we'd make a final song selection. I wondered which songs we'd be doing.
That afternoon, Dad said the trip to New York was canceled. We all stopped in our tracks and just stared at him.
We were shocked. I was ready to cry. We had been about to get our big break. How could they do this to us? What
was going on? Why had Mr. Frost changed his mind? I was reeling and I think everyone else was, too. "I canceled
it," my father announced calmly. Again we all stared at him, unable to speak. "Motown called." A chill ran down my spine.
I remember the days leading up to that trip with near-perfect clarity. I can see myself waiting outside Randy's first-
grade classroom. It was Marlon's turn to walk him home, but we switched for today.
Randy's teacher wished me luck in Detroit, because Randy had told her we were going to Motown to audition. He
was so excited that I had to remind myself that he didn't really know what Detroit was. All the family had been
talking about was Motown, and Randy didn't even know what a city was. The teacher told me he was looking for
Motown on the globe in the classroom. She said that in her opinion we should do "You Don't Know Like I Know"
the way she saw us do it at the Regal in Chicago when a bunch of teachers drove over to see us. I helped Randy put
his coat on and politely agreed to keep it in mind - knowing that we couldn't do a Sam and Dave song at a Motown
audition because they were on Stax, a rival label. Dad told us the companies were serious about that kind of stuff, so
he wanted us to know there'd be no messing around when we got there. He looked at me and said he'd like to see his
ten-year-old singer make it to eleven.
We left the Garrett Elementary School building for the short walk home, but we had to hurry. I remember getting
anxious as a car swept by, then another. Randy took my hand, and we waved to the crossing guard. I knew La Toya
would have to go out if her way tomorrow to take Randy to school because Marlon and I would be staying over in
Detroit with the others.
The last time we played at the Fox Theater in Detroit, we left right after the show and got back to Gary at five o'clock
in the morning. I slept in the car most of the way, so going to school that morning wasn't as bad as it might have
been. But by the afternoon three o'clock rehearsal I was dragging around like someone with lead weights for feet.
We could have left that night right after our set, since we were third on the bill, but that would have meant missing
the headliner, Jackie Wilson. I'd seen him on other stages, but at the Fox he and his band were on a rising stage that
moved up as he start his show. Tired as I was after school the next day, I remember trying some of those moves in
rehearsal after practicing in front of a long mirror in the bathroom at school while the other kids looked on. My
father was pleased and we incorporated those steps into one of my routines.
Just before Randy and I turned the corner onto Jackson Street, there was a big puddle. I looked for cars but there
weren't any, so I let go of Randy's hand and jumped the puddle, catching on my toes so I could spin without getting