𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐍𝐄

―𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒖𝒅𝒆⁴, 𝐈

interlude⁴, I | MAKE IT WITH YOU

❝I may be climbing on rainbows,
but baby here goes.❞

●

LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA.
MID-OCTOBER 1983.

The moment Michael stepped foot in the studio with Quincy, Walter Yetnikoff's interest in cultivating his solo career had been as distinct as a summer's day. Call it favoritism, call it simple, sheer luck—all Michael knew was that the CEO and President of CBS Records had taken a special liking to him. A liking so special, so honorable, it made Walter don his boxing gloves and go toe to toe with the most popular television network of the era.

MTV, keen on keeping its squeaky clean, "All-American" image of sweaty, pale crooners, had refused to budge. Not even Rick James, one of the feistiest, most intimidating men Michael had ever known, was successful in breaking down that impenetrable wall. It took David Bowie's heated exchange with Mark Goodman and Yetnikoff's subsequent threat of pulling CBS's entire catalog to convince them—or, rather, bring them to their knees.

Before Michael knew it, "Billie Jean" was streaking MTV's music block like no other. "Video Killed The Radio Star" may have been the first video on the channel to see the light of the day, but as far as Yetnikoff was concerned, "Billie Jean" tore the hinges off its honorary legacy, pounded it to dust, and then some. Although Michael wasn't completely satisfied (as he tended to be with anything he made), he accepted any compliments that came with grace and modesty. He was well on his way to becoming a believer until it happened: Thriller began to slowly fall in the charts.

That album had taken more than just his blood, sweat, and tears. It took his sanity, his patience, his sanctuary. The lengths he had gone to make Off The Wall weren't enough, so he sang, wrote, and nearly danced himself into a sanitarium hoping it would be the cream of the crop, the ne plus ultra his previous album hadn't.

Now was his opportunity to ensure that. As spring made its lazy dance toward summer, he worked. Came up with one idea, then another, and another, scrapped it, and started from the trenches all over again. Quincy wasn't shy about telling him he was sick of his shit, but he worked tirelessly alongside him, earning as much ire from Peggy, his wife, as Michael earned from his mother who made it clear every day she feared what would happen to him if he didn't slow down.

He couldn't blame her. His world was shaky. Love and insomnia had a tight fist around his neck and his health hadn't been the kindest either, but in the face of it all, he toiled. He married himself to work, using the turbulence as a propellant, stopping only when the goal was complete. That day, with Quincy and John Landis standing by his side, he reviewed his work, his stomach a cacophony of butterflies and bad nerves.

If "Billie Jean" was a success, could he capture lightning in a bottle and harness it all over again? Was this the thing that would catapult him into a stratosphere he had never known?

Walter seemed to think so.

"I think you've done it again."

The cold wasn't the only thing making his cheeks hurt. Walter wagged his finger at him, but his lips were peeled back in a way that only made Michael's grin larger.

"Don't let this compliment on your genius go to your head. We still have to get MTV on board and make sure it's properly formatted for television and—"

"You think MTV will show it no problem?"

Walter looked at him as if he had grown two heads. "Will they show it no problem? You bet your ass they will if they want to keep getting our business. What type of question is that?"