Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough

Growing up in the Detroit area in the ’60s and ’70s, I had
the good fortune of being carpet bombed with Motown songs on a daily
basis by the local radio, the Jackson 5 prominent in the mix. Whenever
a J5 tune would air, you couldn’t help feeling jolts of excitement as
the Gary, Indiana, brothers translated Motown’s sterling stable of
composers’ ideas into audio dynamite. Michael’s voice radiated out of
the tightly choreographed sonic genius with a soulfulness and power
that belied his diminutive stature. His phrasing and rhythmic delivery
were pure brilliance, a natural resource that invaded minds and
activated limbs with utter joy. It split the difference between James
Brown and Stevie Wonder, sans the carnality of either. Songs like
“ABC,” “The Love You Save,” “I Want You Back,” and “Rockin’ Robin”
propelled me speedily through entire pre-adolescent days. I felt
incredibly lucky to have such a beneficial stimulant as a lad.

Although he was the youngest Jackson in the group, Michael was
blessed with an outsized vocal presence and incomparable charm. His was
the sort of superstarhood that people recognized instantly. That he had
Motown’s paradigm-shifting, hit-making machinery behind him resulted in
a surfeit of immortal classics, some of the greatest pop music ever.
Irrepressible youthful insouciance (probably illusory, as Michael’s
father Joseph reportedly bullied him), plus supernatural talent, plus
calculating record-biz pros, equals a bursting catalog of bubbly dance
hits and touching ballads that should be inducing smiles until the sun
explodes.

Michael went solo at age 13, made some outstanding disco-soul jams
with the Jacksons (“Can You Feel It,” “Shake Your Body [Down to the
Ground],” “Blame it on the Boogie”), and then hit his peak with 1979’s
Off the Wall. Aided by the arranging, producing, and writing
skills of Quincy Jones and Rod Temperton, Michael inhabited a clutch of
down-, mid-, and up-tempo compositions with cheetah-like gracefulness.
It was his last LP with his original face intact.

Of course, Thriller would go on to conquer the omniverse and
become as ubiquitous as McDonald’s commercials. It’s admittedly a
(flawed) masterpiece, but serious overexposure has dimmed its luster.
Plus, it contains the second worst song of all time: “The Girl Is
Mine.” Off the Wall benefits from MJ still being somewhat hungry
and not yet obsessed with polishing his King of Pop crown.

Paradoxically, Michael became less believable as he aged. He seemed
to be playing a “human being” with “emotions” in his songs rather than
really occupying them. The lyrics almost always rang hollow, especially
when he attempted to emulate a tough guy. This was overcompensation at
its worst. “Bad”? “Dangerous”? “Smooth Criminal”? Ooh, don’t hurt us,
Mikey—please. When he was deadly earnest, which was often,
Michael couldn’t help ladling on the saccharine and platitudes. Do you
crave to hear “Heal the World” and “You Are Not Alone” anymore? You
must have vats of insulin at your disposal.

With each revelation regarding his, uh, idiosyncratic personal life
and peccadilloes, Michael’s late-era music appeared to be more damage
control/reflexive defensiveness than art. Each album and tour was like
an expensive PR campaign erected to shore up MJ’s rep. In a nutshell,
the more eccentric/neurotic, stranger-looking, and whiter Michael
became, the less appealing his music sounded.

It’s likely a function of nostalgia, and hearing Michael during a
mostly carefree childhood, but even as the decades passed, my love of
the Jackson 5, the Jacksons, and Michael’s solo work (through
Thriller) never really diminished. Honestly, only the most
soul-puckered curmudgeon could deny the pneumatic ebullience of J5
Michael and the silky technician of prime solo years Jacko.

In retrospect, though, it’s ironic that the artist I consider to be
the poster (man)child of extreme asexuality helped to stoke my libido
so furiously 30 years ago. Back in the summer of ’79, a freaky
16-year-old chica gallantly relieved me of my innocence. Throughout
that muggy season, Michael’s “Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough” dominated
Detroit-area radio and fired my sexual imagination like nothing else on
the airwaves, as my first real girlfriend and I did our damnedest to
ensure my innocence never returned. At that point, as a 17-year-old,
I’d never heard such an infectiously lubricious song. It seemed to
swoon and thrust with equal fervor, mirroring teenage hormonal surges
with breathless accuracy. And its title offered advice that we heeded
as if decreed by Dionysus.

We spent our nights driving around suburban Detroit looking for
secluded spots to get our groove on. Michael’s “oohh”s complemented
ours in perfect harmony. The girl is not mine anymore, but “Don’t Stop
‘Til You Get Enough” always will be.