Note: If viewing Michael Jackson Ultimate Archive on archive.org (Wayback Machine), please view the latest snapshot of this page for the most up-to-date information and media.

Dinner Party for Unveiling of "Bad"

Nearly five years had elapsed since the release of Thriller, which became the biggest album in history, spawning seven hit singles, winning eight Grammys and selling an unprecedented 38.5 million copies worldwide. Thus the unveiling of Bad was a major event, and treated as such. Less than a week after Bad had been mastered, Michael's label, Epic, footed the bill for a group of the most powerful record retailers in America to be flown in and put up at the Beverly Hills Hotel. The party of fifty – including executives of CBS, Epic Records' parent company – met at the hotel's tightly guarded Crystal Ballroom to hear the première playing of Bad. Yet since most of those gathered were businessmen, not pop connoisseurs, they were uncomfortable sitting around listening to a record. They were eager to get to the real show – Michael Jackson and his child's paradise.

The guests were chauffeured to Encino in a fleet of stretch limousines. They drove past the black iron gates that seal off the Wonderful World of Michael, down the long gravel driveway to the immense ludor-style house. With its fanciful clock tower and turrets lighted like Christmas trees, well-stocked candy shop and manicured lawns, the estate strongly resembled Disneyland at night. Only the sight of the uniformed security men staked out on the roof of the house broke the magic spell.

For the next hour or so, everyone milled about, drinks in hand, touring the house as if it were an amusement park. They marveled at the large collection of antique clocks and the giant statues depicting Louis XIV on horseback and David killing Goliath. Michael's machine-packed game room offered everything from Space Invaders to a mechanical bucking bronco; in the trophy room visitors could gawk at the astounding number of gold and platinum records.

Up the stairs, above the garage, was the gallery, containing memorabilia from nearly twenty years of show business: a life-size wax figure of Michael, glass cases containing his Sgt. Pepper-style jackets, his sequined socks, his famous gloves. Most impressive were the photographs, hundreds and hundreds of them covering the walls, dating back to Michael's earliest years as a child star. Michael and President Reagan. Michael and Jimmy Carter. Michael and Fred Astaire. Michael and Yul Brynner. Michael and Sammy Davis Jr. Michael and Liza. Michael and Liz. (There's one of Michael and Wayne Newton, too, but it hasn't been put up yet.)

And if sightseeing grew tiresome, there was always the ever-delightful Bubbles. Outfitted in suspenders and trousers, under the watchful eye of his trainer, Bob Dunn, the mischievous chimp was willing to play with anyone who showed interest. He posed for photos with some of the guests, performed back flips and did his own version of Michael's moon walk.

Just before dinner was served, Michael materialized with his sister La-Toya from the rear of the garden, striding toward the back-yard tables. Michael looked as if he had stepped right off the cover of Bad: black pants, black shirt, metal-studded belts. All that was missing was the black Bad jacket, festooned with zippers and buckles. (La-Toya, 31, was also in black, looking frighteningly like Michael, save for a white admiral's hat.)

The clothes are part of Michael's new street image. His manager and certain record-company honchos seemed to feel that the old sequined look was a tad fey, so now Michael's duded up like a stylized punk. But his pale, made-up face with its newly clefted chin looks anything but street; it barely seems of this world.

But business is business, and this evening Michael and La Toya dutifully took their places at a table with a group of Michael's closest friends and advisers: Dileo; CBS Records Group president Walter Yetnikoff; CBS Records president Al Teller; and Michael's attorney, John Branca. After a gourmet barbecue featuring grilled salmon and veal chops served up by celeb chef Wolfgang Puck and topped off with Cristal champagne, it was time for Michael to meet his guests – sort of.

Michael deftly maintained his famous there-but-not-there stance. The only actual interaction between Michael and his guests came toward the end of the meal, when one of his security guards preceded him to each table and grouped the visitors together for a photograph, explaining that the star would be there in one minute. Then another guard brought Michael over, a few banalities were exchanged, the photo was snapped, and he was scooted off to the next table. That was it. "It was almost like a military exercise," says Record Bar executive Steve Bennett. Still, most retailers came away from the dinner ready to believe in the renewed magic of Michael.

His obligations met, Michael disappeared into the house.

Perhaps he ducked into his thirty-two-seat screening room and sat beside the large, stuffed Mickey Mouse to watch a few cartoons: he has said he believes that "cartoons are unlimited. And when you're unlimited, it's the ultimate." Or maybe he stopped for a moment in the trophy room, reveling in the awards and staring fondly at the centerpiece, a large terrarium containing a diorama from Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, which had been delivered to Michael personally by Disneyland characters.

Or maybe, just maybe, when Michael escaped the party, he headed up to the bathroom to stare at his ever-evolving features in the mirror, and ponder the note he's taped to it.

Michael Jackson is fond of writing himself messages. In his house and around its grounds are signs on posts and walls, sweet aphorisms about the importance of memories, of reaching for the stars and following your dreams, that sort of thing. But the note on the bathroom mirror merely reads, 100 Million.