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Spin Magazine "The Pressure to 'Beat It'"

It’s March 1987, and it’s getting late. Westlake Studio is deserted except for Michael, Quincy, Bubbles the chimpanzee, and a few technicians. “Smelly,” as Jones calls Michael (possibly because the singer is so obsessively clean), still wants to lay down more vocal tracks. On the recording console in front of Quincy sits a comic strip clipped from a newspaper, the punch line to which reads: “Michael Jackson is 30 years old and he’s never had a date.” Michael picks it up and reads it. Then he puts it back gently and turns away. He seems hurt by the words. Half a beat passes, then he giggles like a schoolboy, and walks into the recording booth.

Alone in the semidarkness, illuminated softly by a single spotlight, he starts to sing. This, finally, is what it’s all about. Somewhere out there Prince has finished his new record and Run-DMC are thinking about theirs and Walter Yetnikoff is learning to live with the CBS balance sheets. But that’s some other place. Here, for now, none of that exists; there are no problems, no merchandise deals, no deadlines, no family rivalries. It’s just Michael and the song.

Suddenly, he is no longer the dreamy, whispering recluse. He is no longer soft. He attacks the song, dancing, waving his hands, moving with unexpected power. He is in his own world, but for once, it’s a world that others beside himself can believe in. For these few moments, at least, he is neither a joke nor an icon, just a very, very talented singer.

But then the song is over. Quincy looks on approvingly: it’s a take. Michael walks over to the console and gives him a hug. Then he pulls a surgical mask from his pocket, slips it over his head, and takes off into the L.A. night.