That’s where he lived for most of the next ten months. The only times he was away from the studio for any period of time was to film videos for two of his songs.

     In July 1987, two weeks after the “final” deadline had passed for him to turn in his album to Epic, perfectionist Michael finally let go of the tapes. It was only then that I got my first listen to Bad.

     I did have my immediate favorites: “The Way You Make Me Feel,” and especially “Man In The Mirror.” I love that song’s message: If you want to make the world a better place, take a look at yourself and make a change.

     But I had problems with Bad -- three problems, to be exact. The first song was “Smooth Criminal,” the second was “Speed Demon,” the third was “Dirty Diana.” To my ears those songs had an even harder edge than “Billie Jean” and “Beat It.” “Dirty Diana” was particularly difficult for me to listen to. All the guitar screaming! It sounded like noise to me.

     But part of the problem was me. I was so in tune with Thriller that I had been subconsciously expecting to hear Thriller II. I should have known by then that Michael is one of those artists who hates to repeat himself, who’s always breaking new ground. After I realized that, I began to open my mind to the album as a whole.

     Less than a week after Bad was mastered, Michael hosted a party at our house for fifty of the nation’s leading record retailers. After the businessmen were given a preview of Bad at the Beverly Hills Hotel, a fleet of limousines whisked them to our home.

     They toured the first floor of the house and then sat down to dinner in the backyard. Michael appeared with the first course, dressed in the same buckle-studded black outfit that he wears in the album’s cover photo. Toward the end of the meal, he circulated from table to table, before excusing himself. As usual, I excused myself before the party even began, contenting myself with an occasional peek from upstairs.

     By the time that Bad hit the record stores, Michael had already relieved his first good news. After only four weeks on the charts, “I Just Can’t Stop Loving You,” the album’s first single, had become a hit on the adult contemporary, pop, and R&B charts.

     Meanwhile, in Japan, the first stop on his first-ever solo tour, tickets to his nine stadium dates had sold out so fast -- within an hour -- that Michael had added five more concerts. Those concerts, too, had sold out almost immediately.

     Michael left for Japan as Bad was being released. I told him that I’d help keep him posted on how the album was being received in the United States.

     I’d expected to give him glowing reports. And, in fact, the first reviews were encouraging. But, all in all, Michael’s press was depressing. Instead of focusing on the fact that he had just released his follow-up to the best-selling album of all time and was embarking on his first solo tour ever, many in the media were using the occasion of Michael’s re-emergence to dwell on tired gossip.

     To be fair, a couple of the stories had been spread by Michael’s own people. I’m referring to the silly reports that Michael had slept in a hyperbaric chamber and had made a serious offer to buy the Elephant Man’s bones. I didn’t talk to Michael about the rumors, so I don’t know what role, if any, he had in putting the stories out. But I did watch with dismay as his manager, Frank Dileo played up the stories to the press.

     “You shouldn’t be spreading stuff like this,” I told Dileo shortly before he and Michael left for Japan. “It makes my son look like an idiot.”

     “Oh, it’s good to do it,” Dileo replied. “It makes people wonder about him, and this is what we want.”

     For the record, Michael doesn’t own, and has never slept in, a hyperbaric chamber. He lay down in one once, just to see what it felt like, during a visit to the Michael Jackson Burn Center. A photographer took his picture, and the picture got out.

     As for the Elephant Man’s bones, I have no idea whether Dileo made an attempt on Michael’s behalf to buy them. If he did so, he did so in jest. And if by some miracle the London medical center that owns the bones had agreed to sell them, Michael knows me well enough to know that I wouldn’t have let him in the house with them.

     But most of the Michael rumors were concocted by the press, and were hurtful.

     The most tired rumor of all was the one that Michael was gay. I first heard this rumor back in the seventies, when a black magazine claimed that Michael and a woman were vying for the love of actor-songwriter Clifton Davis, and it almost drove me crazy. Why would they print this? I said to myself.

     All I can say is, Michael is not gay. First of all, the Bible speaks against homosexuality, and he’s very religious. Second, he wants to settle down and get married one day. We’ve talked about it. And he will.

     REBBIE: If Michael were married, the gay rumor would stop immediately. But the press doesn’t see him with many women, not taking into account the fact that he’s a workaholic Also, with his eyes and his complexion and the fact that he wears makeup before the camera and onstage, he comes off to the press as looking sort of feminine.

     But just being around him and hearing the little things that he says about women tell me he’s definitely heterosexual.

     As for the related rumor that Michael’s taken female hormones to keep his voice high and his facial hair “wispy,” the truth is that his voice is genetically high, as is Jackie’s, my father’s, and my husband’s father. Michael’s lack of facial hair also runs in the family.

     The other Michael rumor that popped up again in 1987 is the one that he’s had his whole face remade by plastic surgeons.

     Why can’t people just love Michael for his music, instead of getting so caught up on what he looks like? I wondered. For the record: As Michael wrote in Moonwalk, he’s had his nose “done” twice, and a cleft added to his chin, and that’s all. The people who delight in comparing “before” and “after” photographs of Michael don’t bother to take into account the fact that he lost a lot of weight when he turned vegetarian and began fasting one day a week.

     Frankly, I didn’t want Michael to have plastic surgery at first. But being in the business he’s in, he wanted to look his best, and I thought, Well, there’s nothing wrong with that.

     “Michael, I wish you could put a stop to these stories” I told him when I got him on the phone. “Your public relations people don’t even seem to be countering this trash with the news about all the good things you’re doing.”

     Michael sounded surprised. “Mother, that’s not true,” he said. “I’m getting good press.” He said that he would send along copies of the articles that his public relations people had supplied.

     But even before I received the articles, I figured out what his PR firm had been doing: They’d been keeping the upsetting stories from him. It was up to me, I decided, to keep him informed about everything the press was saying.

     “Mother,” he said to me after one phone call too many, “it’s gotten to the point that when they tell me you’re on the phone, I don’t want to take the call because I’m afraid that you’re going to have something else that’s negative to tell me. And it’s hard for me to work when I hear these things, because they bother me.”

     Unfortunately, the stories disturbed Michael to the degree that he wound up penning an open letter to the press from his Tokyo hotel room.

     Michael wrote:

     Like the old Indian proverb says, “Do not judge a man until you’ve walked two moons in his moccasins.”

     Most people don’t know me. That is why they write such things .... I cry very, very often because it hurts and I worry about thechildren, all my children all over the world. I live for them ....

     Animals strike not from malice, but because they want to live. It is the same with those who criticize. They desire our blood, notour pain.

     But still I must achieve. I must seek truth in all things. I must endure for the power I was sent forth, for the world, for the children.

     But have mercy, for I’ve been bleeding a long time now.

     I cried when I read his letter. If only the press knew the Michael I know. I thought. So kind, so sensitive; childlike, yet wise.

     Michael’s letter represented his “final word” to his critics. By the time Joe and I joined him in Japan for his final concerts there, his focus had returned one hundred percent to his tour.

     Joe and I were amazed at the stir “Typhoon Michael” -- as the press had nicknamed him -- had caused ever since his arrival .... an arrival chronicled by six hundred photographers. Even the arrival, on a separate flight, of Bubbles drew three hundred photographers!

     Every store we looked in seemed to carry Michael Jackson T-shirts and jackets. We also saw his image on shopping bags and posters lining city walls.

     During the course of the tour, Michael was the subject of a two-hour prime-time special on the Nippon Television Network. The deal was put together by an old friend of Michael’s, Jimmy Osmond, formerly of the Osmond Brothers, and now a concert promoter.

     Needless to say, Michael had hordes of young people for company everywhere he went during his stay. His van was mobbed time and time again by screaming, crying fans when he ventured outside his hotel.

     Michael sipped tea with the mayor of Osaka, who presented him with the key to the city. In Tokyo he shocked commuters by making a surprise appearance on a bullet train. He was also able to indulge in one of his favorite pastimes, shopping, thanks to the cooperation of store owners who permitted him to browse before and after hours. Among his purchases: clocks, art books, an Oriental screen, and more toys for his toy collection.

     Back in his hotel room, he personally passed judgment on every backstage pass and photo. He also quietly saw to it that free concert tickets were dispensed to handicapped youngsters.

     One of his tour gestures was moving on a grand scale. When he learned that a five-year-old Osaka boy had been kidnapped and murdered, he announced during his next concert that he had decided to dedicate his tour to the boy’s memory. He sent condolences to the boy’s family, as well as a contribution.

     As for Michael’s Japan concerts, they had everything that a fan could ask for: great songs, inspired performances by Michael, and breathtaking special effects. The only thing I felt was missing was Michael’s brothers.

     I couldn’t help but recall that originally the Jacksons’ Victory tour was to have been a world tour, with Japan included on the itinerary. But Michael’s people had advised him not to extend the tour, and he went along with them.

     And yet here I was watching the identical show -- plus a couple of songs from Bad -- that Michael had performed with his brothers three years earlier. Michael had had no choice but to bring the Victory show with him because he hadn’t had time to work up a new show.

     In place of his brothers, Michael had hired four male dancers. He had also brought along four backup singers.

     It wasn’t the same -- for me, at least. I didn’t realize how strongly I felt about this until after the first show I saw.

     “Well, what did you think?” Frank Dileo asked.

     “I thought it was great. Michael’s always good,” I replied. “But it would have been a better show with the brothers.”

     “Oh, you’re crazy,” Dileo said.

     “No, I’m not,” I said, the forcefulness in my voice surprising me. “Each brother had his own personality. They know how to dance and harmonize together. Their voices blend in a special way because they’re brothers. So the show would have been better with them.”

     When Michael returned to Los Angeles in December, Bad was still holding down the number-one spot on Billboard’s album chart, thanks, in part, to the success of his second single, the title tune.

     But even as “The Way You Make Me Feel” became the third single in a row off Bad to hit number one on the charts in January 1988, I had my doubts whether Michael would walk away with one of the top Grammys at the March awards ceremony in New York. I feared that the press’s preoccupation with gossip had fueled a Michael Jackson backlash.

     My first were borne out as I watched the Grammy show on television. Not only did Michael not win for Album of the Year, he didn’t win any of the other awards he was nominated for. The only time he took the stage at Radio City Music Hall during the awards ceremony was to perform.

     Afterward, Michael phoned me. “Did you see the Grammys?” he asked.

     “I did,” I replied.

     “What did you think?”

     “Well, I don’t think they were fair.”

     “Neither did I.”

     Considering what had happened, I was happy that he'd decided to make his first TV appearance in five years on the Grammys. His performance was a reminder that he had acquired his fame not as a media curiosity but because of his God-given talents as a singer and dancer.

     Michael was electrifying from the moment he strutted onstage to sing “The Way You Make Me Feel,” his hat pulled over his eyes. I wondered how he could top his performance of that song, which included his full arsenal of twists, turns, and thrusts. But in his second number, “Man in the Mirror,” he found a way. At the climatic moment of the song, he skip-danced across the stage and back, then dropped to his knees in joyful, sobbing testimony.

     Bad, in the end, did not set a new sales record. By the summer of 1989, twenty million copies had been sold approximately half the number of copies of Thriller. That was still an awesome figure, however, and it qualified Bad as the third-best-selling LP of all time.

     By the time Michael’s world-wide tour ended in January 1989 at the Los Angeles Sports Arena, he had also set a record for the biggest box-office gross ever: one hundred twenty-five million dollars. During his year and a half on the road he performed for nearly four million fans.

     From January 1988 on, my nephew Tony Whitehead was one of the approximately one hundred sixty people who comprised Michael’s tour staff. His view from the crew:

     TONY: Michael hired me as one of the five carpenters. Together with the riggers, technicians, lighting people, sound people, and band-crew people, we were responsibly for the set.

     The carpenters’ specific charge was to make sure that the stage was put together safely for each show. It was a job fraught with tension. If the stage collapsed during the show, people -- including Michael -- could be killed.

     That stage was humongous. It filled one end of the Pensacola {Florida} Civic Center, where Michael rehearsed his new show in January and February 1988. I don’t know exactly how long it was, but it took me seven minutes to walk it off. The main stage that Michael danced on was comprised of ten ten-foot-long decks alone.

     The tour was organized to a tee. Everyone on the crew received a booklet outlining our schedule. On a particular day we knew where we were playing, where we were staying, who the promoter was, what time the doors opened, and, most important, what time the sound check was. That’s when the stage had to be completely set up.

     People think when you’re on the road you’re having a good time. Please, you barely have time for a good time. It took us eighteen hours to get the set up; usually we’d work from seven A.M. to past midnight. I’d be so tired the next day I’d just want to rest.

     Then there were the “overnighters.” The hardest “day” we had was when we did shows in Indianapolis and Louisville back to back. We set up the show in Indianapolis, then, after Michael performed, tore the set down and loaded it into the eleven set trucks. We left Indianapolis at four A.M. and, three and a half hours later, began putting together the set all over again in Louisville. We finished an hour before Michael was due to go on -- our closest call on the whole tour. My arms were numb.

     My schedule and my cousin’s were totally incompatible. But even if they were identical I wouldn’t have seen him offstage. I didn’t even know where he was staying. Michael’s hotel address was kept a secret so that in case the crew members were asked where he was by fans, we could honestly say, “I don’t know.”

     In his position, Michael had no choice but to be security-conscious. I knew of at least twelve security people on his staff, but there were more. He had advance teams check out each hotel he was going to stay at and each arena or stadium he was going to play in. And these people were professionals.

     Although I never knew where he was staying, I’d hear from a band member what he was doing in his room day after day: writing songs. That’s Michael for you; the man doesn’t pay social calls. He’s always making good use of time.

     Usually I wouldn’t lay eyes on him until minutes before the show. He had a backstage ritual. He and his dancers and backup singers would huddle around one of the wardrobe people, who’d lead them in prayer. Then suddenly they’d shout, “One; two; three -- let’s go!” And, hey, the magic would begin.

     No matter how tired I was, Michael’s energetic performance and the enthusiastic crowd would lift me up. It wouldn’t be long before I’d get this buzzing feeling in my body -- a feeling, really, of amazement.

     During the show I wore another hat: prop master. In the darkness between songs, I would be one of several people scurrying around the stage placing or removing stools and other props.

     My favorite task was training a huge fan on Michael from down in the “trenches” in front of the stage when he sang "The Way You Make Me Feel” at the end of the show. The fan, of course, would blow his hair and clothes around.

     Wherever Michael walked or danced, I’d follow with the fan, which was on wheels. He’d wink at me. I’d wink back. He’d smile at me. I’d smile back.

     When he started dancing, I would, too. “It’s all I can do to keep from laughing when Tony starts mocking my dancing,” he told my aunt.

     Actually, I wasn’t trying to mock Michael; I was just enjoying myself. This was my moment together with my cousin on the tour. Michael doesn’t even know how much that moment meant to me.

     I had my special moments on the road with my son, too, after I joined him in late August for the final dates on the European leg of his tour.

     I hadn’t seen him for months at that point, although we’d keep in touch by phone. One time, when he couldn’t reach me, he told our security staff that it was “urgent” that I return his call. When I got his message I was alarmed. “Michael, what’s wrong?” I asked him.

     “Oh, nothing,” he said. “I just wanted to talk.”

     I was pleased to see Michael looking healthy and rested, even though by that time he’d been touring for almost a year. He’d make a wise decision to perform usually three and no more than four shows a week. Not only did that easy pace keep him fresh, it also helped his throat.

     Singing oneself hoarse had been an occasional problem of Michael’s. During the 1980 Triumph tour he had had a hard time hitting the high notes during the brothers’ engagement at the Forum. Jackie did his best to cover those notes for him, but Michael’s hoarseness was evident enough for the reviewers to make mention of -- and for me to cringe in the audience.

     It was after that engagement that Joe and I urged Michael to consult a voice coach.

     “I was born with this voice. I don’t want to tamper with it,” he protested.

     “It’s not to change your voice,” I said. “It’s to teach you how to breathe and sing from your stomach so that you won’t keep getting sore throats.”

     Eventually Michael did agree to work with a coach, and he saw that I was right. During the Bad tour, he even invited his coach, Seth Riggs, out on the road with him from time to time to lead him in voice drills. It wasn’t until November 1988, in the midst of his L.A. dates, that swollen vocal cords forced him to postpone any shows. He made up those five dates the following January.

     The other key to his good health, I believe, had been his diet. Before Michael had left on the tour, his doctor had insisted that he go on a high-protein diet, including fish, so that he’d be able to keep his stamina up. Michael had reluctantly agreed.

     Even before Michael turned vegetarian in the late seventies I’d worried about his lack of interest in food. When the family would go out for hot-fudge sundaes, he’d be the only one who wouldn’t want one. “I’m not hungry,” he’d say. Now, what kid turns down a hot-fudge sundae? I’m ashamed to admit that sometimes LaToya and I would eat two of them a day.

     After Michael took Jermaine’s lead and decided to forgo meat, he became even less interested in eating than before. He employed a full-time chef, but I don’t know why he bothered. When she took him his food he’d eat two tablespoons and leave the rest. “If I didn’t have to eat to live, I’d never eat,” he told me.

     One day a week Michael fasted. “I’m cleaning my body out, which is a healthy thing to do,” he explained. But instead of laying low that day to conserve his energy, Michael would dance nonstop for two hours on his portable dance floor.

     Michael enjoyed having the last word in our arguments about his diet. “You’re always worrying about me being skinny,” he’d say, “but you know what? My doctor told me I was in number-one shape. So stop worrying about me. I should be worried about you. You’re the one who keeps putting all the bad stuff into your body.”

     But the Victory tour had gotten the better of Michael physically. He suffered from exhaustion and dehydration. The memory of his illness was still fresh in his mind when his doctor laid down the law about his diet for his solo tour.

     I, of course, hoped that after a year of eating three square meals a day, Michael had developed a permanent interest in food. But my hope was dashed the first time we talked after I joined him overseas. Happy as he was with the way the tour had gone to that point, he told me, “I’ll be glad when it’s all over, so I can start eating the way I want to again. I’m tired of forcing myself to eat.”

     While I was with the tour, Michael remained characteristically his busy self, often writing and taking care of tour business in his hotel room during his “free” hours. But we did enjoy some special one-on-one times together.

     On a free day in Vienna, he hired a driver, and we visited the homes of Beethoven, Mozart, and Strauss, as well as the historic restaurant they gathered in. On another free day, we went shopping, and Michael purchased more statues and paintings. But we had to cut this outing short because he was recognized.

     This amazed us at the time, because Michael had been wearing what we both had thought was a foolproof disguise: afro wig and hat, fake moustache, and phony teeth. We later learned that the photos of Michael walking around in public in that very disguise had recently been published in Austria! The photographer happened to be a member of Michael’s crew. Needless to say, Michael gave the person the walking papers.

     Most of our visiting took place in Michael’s hotel suite. After a show, I’d join him for a late supper, and we’d talk. He told me about his especially memorable shows to that point, among them his June 19 concert at the Berlin Wall in front of sixty-five thousand West Germans, and his five sold-out July dates at London’s Wembley Stadium.

     One of his offstage moments had been meeting Prince Charles and Princess Diana, who attended his July 16 Wembley concert. Michael presented the Royal Couple with a check for four hundred fifty thousand dollars for the Prince’s Trust, his proceeds from the concert. The donation was embarked for the redevelopment of the Great Ormand Street Children’s Hospital.

     While I was with Michael, he continued to make memories. On August 26 and 27 he played his sixth and seventh concerts in his record-setting Wembley engagement. Two days later, he performed at Roundhay Park in Leeds. If anyone in the crowd ninety-two thousand didn’t know it was Michael’s thirtieth birthday when they arrived at the park, the plane circling overhead towing a banner reading HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MICHAEL let them in on the fact. At every break in the show, segments of the crowd began singing “Happy Birthday.” Even though Michael doesn’t celebrate birthdays because of his religious beliefs, he stood quietly onstage at one point as the entire crowd honored him with a thunderous rendition of the song. All Michael said when they were through was a soft “thank you,” but I know that the show of affection from his fans moved him.

     Concerts in Germany, Austria, and England followed, but they served as a prelude to the concert that Michael was really gearing up for: his September 11 date at Liverpool’s Aintree Racecourse, the final show of his European tour.

     It was Michael’s wish to play Liverpool. “I have always considered Liverpool the home of contemporary pop music by virtue of its being the birthplace of the incomparable Beatles,” he told the press.

     Making his Liverpool date loom even more significant was his announcement that it would be his last European show ever, and that he intended to quit doing live performances completely following his world tour. While I didn’t believe for a minute that Michael would never perform again, I did think it was conceivable that he would take a break from performing so that he could pursue other interests.

     As it turned out, the Aintree Racecourse concert drew the largest crowd, by far, on Michael’s world tour: one hundred thirty-three thousand Liverpudlians. When I scanned the crowd from the side of the stage before Michael went on, I was astounded by the sight of people, people, and more people everywhere.

     Unfortunately, the night also made news because it was marred by violence and injuries.

     We had been warned about Liverpool. “You have to careful there,” we were told. “A lot of people are out of work, and they’re uptight.”

     Sure enough, thousands of people without tickets tried to crash the concert, eventually breaking down the makeshift walls that had been erected around the racecourse. Dozens of police on horseback attempted to keep them back, and the scene resembled a battle zone. Inside the track, meanwhile, several thousand people were treated for fainting and minor injuries, a result of all the shoving and jockeying for position among the incredible mass of people.

     Violence even erupted in the lighting and sound booth, high above the crowd. The local security people had taken themselves to seat their friends in the choice seats there, seats that had been reserved for Michael’s V.I.P. guests. When one of Michael’s security people asked them to leave, a handful of the Liverpool security people jumped him. The police had to be called in, and they ordered everyone down from the booth except for Michael’s technicians.

     Because of the cold weather I remained on one side of the stage, so I didn’t see the brawl. But the fighting affected me, too, in that, for security reasons, I was asked by Michael’s people to join his V.I.P. guests in making an early exit from the show aboard a bus. I wound up missing the last half of the concert.

     Michael didn’t learn about what had happened in the crowd and the lighting booth until after the show. Pleased as he was with his show and the reception he’d received from the mammoth crowd, he was quite upset by the injury report and, especially, the violence. If there is anything that Michael abhors, it’s violence.

     After finishing Europe, there was nothing that Michael wanted more than a few days of peace and quiet in the country before he started his fall swing through the United States. “Mother, I want you to come with me,” he said.

     I had already been away from home three weeks at that point and Joe was agitating for my return, but I told Michael that I would join him for a day or two. I was eager to visit his new home in the beautiful Santa Ynez Valley, north of Santa Barbara.

     Michael had fallen in love with that area of California in 1982, when he and Paul McCartney filmed their “Say, Say, Say” video there. During the filming, Paul and his wife, Linda, rented an incredible property, the Sycamore Ranch. The ranch was nestled on nearly three thousand oak-tree-covered acres, a beautiful setting for the ranch’s jewel, a two-story “European country home.”

     The developer who built the house was obviously a man after Michael’s heart. He recruited three dozen European craftsmen to build the house according to exacting Old World standards. The result was a relatively new home that for all its beautiful wood detailing looked as if it had been built in another century.

     When Michael visited Paul and Linda at Sycamore Ranch, he fell in love with it. But I didn’t realize how much he loved the ranch until he bought it in March 1988.

     Adding to my anticipation as we headed out for the ranch after our arrival at Los Angeles International Airport was a curious request that Michael received from one of his employees at the ranch: that Michael phone the ranch a few minutes before we reached the front gate.

     “Now, why am I supposed to announce myself at my own home?” Michael wondered.

     When we arrived in the early evening, we saw why. There to greet us under the sign reading WELCOME TO NEVER-NEVER LAND -- Michael’s new name for the ranch -- were two drivers in top hats atop a carriage pulled by two Clydesdales. Michael had ordered the carriage months ago, and while he was away on tour it had arrived.

     Michael and I got into the carriage and we were driven the quarter of a mile to his front door. Awaiting our arrival were the ranch’s employees, lined up on either side of the walk. “Welcome home, Michael!” they exclaimed.

     As Michael had been on tour for most of the time since he’d purchased the house, he didn’t know many of the workers. However, both of us recognized the familiar face of the maids, Bianca, who had worked at our house in Encino. She broke ranks and ran up to Michael and gave him a hug.

     That night Michael gave me a tour of the house. The next morning we got into one of his golf carts and he drove me around the ranch. We circled the five-acre lake and cruised over to the barn, where Louie and Lola, the llamas, now live. Then we stopped by the guest houses and game house. He also pointed out where he intended to build a movie theatre, a small zoo, and a playground for his nieces and nephews and other young guests.

     Then we headed for the far reaches of the property. We scooted over hills and dales. At one especially scenic spot, we stopped to soak in the view.

     It was hard for me to believe that just a couple of days earlier Michael was performing in front of one hundred thirty-three thousand screaming fans half a world away. Now it was just the two of us on a silent morning in the country.