wanted to try out, but they were convinced that we shouldn't fool with a successful formula. At least they didn't drop
us as soon as my voice changed, as some said they might.
It got to the point that it seemed there were more guys in the booth than there were on the studio floor at any given
time. They all seemed to be bumping into one another, giving advice and monitoring our music.
Our loyal fans stuck with us on records like "I Am Love" and "Skywriter." These songs were musically ambitious pop recordings, with sophisticated string arrangements, but they weren't right for us. Sure, we couldn't do "ABC" all our lives - that was the last thing we wanted - but even the older fans thought "ABC" had more going for it, and that was hard for us to live with. During the mid-seventies we were in danger of becoming an oldies act, and I wasn't
even eighteen yet.
When Jermaine married Hazel Gordy, our boss's daughter, people were winking at us, saying that we'd always be
looked after. Indeed, when "Get It Together" came out in 1973, it got the same treatment from Berry that "I Want You Back" had gotten. It was our biggest hit in two years, though you could have said it was more like a bone transplant
than the spanking little baby that our first hit was. Nevertheless, "Get It Together" had good, tough low harmony, a sharper wah-wah guitar, and strings that buzzed like fireflies. Radio stations liked it, but not as much as the new
dance clubs called discos did. Motown picked up on this and brought back Hal Davis from The Corporation days to
really put the juice into "Dancing Machine." The Jackson 5 were no longer just the backup group for the 101 Strings or whatever.
Motown had come a long way from the early days when you could find good studio musicians supplementing their
session pay with bowling alley gigs. A new sophistication turned up in the music on "Dancing Machine." That song had the best horn part we'd worked with yet and a "bubble machine" in the break, made out of synthesizer noise, that kept the song from going completely out of style. Disco music had its detractors, but to us it seemed our rite of
passage into the adult world.
I loved "Dancing Machine," loved the groove and the feel of that song. When it came out in 1974, I was determined to find a dance move that would enhance the song and make it more exciting to perform - and, I hoped, more
exciting to watch.
So when we sang "Dancing Machine" on "Soul Train," I did a street-style dance move called the Robot. That performance was a lesson to me in the power of television. Overnight, "Dancing Machine" rose to the top of the
charts, and within a few days it seemed that every kid in the United States was doing the Robot. I had never seen
anything like it.
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Motown and the Jackson 5 could agree on one thing: As our act grew, our audience should too. We had two recruits
coming up: Randy had already toured with us, and Janet was showing talent with her singing and dancing lessons.
We couldn't put Randy and Janet into our old lineup any more than we could put square pegs into round holes. I
wouldn't insult their considerable talent by saying that show business was so in their blood that they just took their
places automatically, as if we'd reserved a spot for them. They worked hard and earned their places in the group.
They didn't join us because they ate meals with us and shared our old toys.
If you just went by blood, I'd have as much crane operator in me as singer. You can't measure these things. Dad
worked us hard and kept certain goals in sight while spinning dreams at night.
Just as disco might have seemed like a very unlikely place for a kids' group to become a grown-up act, Las Vegas,
with its showcase theaters, wasn't exactly the family atmosphere that Motown had originally groomed us for, but we
decided to play there just the same. There wasn't much to do in Las Vegas if you didn't gamble, but we thought of the
theaters in the city as just big clubs with the club hours and clientele of our Gary and South Side Chicago days -
except for the tourists. Tourist crowds were a good thing for us, since they knew our old hits and would watch our
skits and listen to new songs without getting restless. It was great to see the delight on their faces when little Janet
came out in her Mae West costume for a number or two.
We had performed skits before, in a 1971 TV special called Goin' Back To Indiana , which celebrated our Gary
homecoming the first time we all decided to return. Our records had become hits all over the world since we'd seen
our hometown last.
It was even more fun to do skits with nine of us, instead of just five, plus whatever guests happened to appear with
us. Our expanded lineup was a dream come true for Dad. Looking back, I know the Las Vegas shows were an
experience I'll never recapture. We didn't have the high-pressure concert crowd wanting all our hit songs and nothing
more. We were temporarily freed from the pressures of having to keep up with what everyone else was doing. We
had a ballad or two in every show to break in my "new voice." At fifteen, I was having to think about things like that.
There were people from CBS Television at our Las Vegas shows and they approached us about doing a variety show
for the upcoming summer. We were very interested and pleased that we were being recognized as more than just a
"Motown group." Over time, this distinction would not be lost on us. Because we had creative control over our Las Vegas revue, it was harder for us to return to our lack of freedom in recording and writing music once we got back to
Los Angeles. We'd always intended to grow and develop in the musical field. That was our bread and butter, and we
felt we were being held back. Sometimes I felt we were being treated as if we still lived in Berry Gordy's house - and
with Jermaine now a son-in-law, our frustration was only heightened.
By the time we began putting our own act together, there were signs that other Motown institutions were changing.
Marvin Gaye took charge of his own music and produced his masterpiece album, What's Goin' On . Stevie Wonder
was learning more about electronic keyboards than the experienced studio hired guns - they were coming to him for
advice. One of our last great memories from our Motown days is of Stevie leading us in chanting to back up his
tough, controversial song "You Haven't Done Nothin'." Though Stevie and Marvin were still in the Motown camp,
they had fought for - and won - the right to make their own records, and even to publish their own songs. Motown
hadn't even budged with us. To them we were still kids, even if they weren't dressing us and "protecting" us any longer.
Our problems with Motown began around 1974, when we told them in no uncertain terms that we wanted to write
and produce our own songs. Basically, we didn't like the way our music sounded at the time. We had a strong
competitive urge and we felt we were in danger of being eclipsed by other groups who were creating a more
contemporary sound.
Motown said, "No, you can't write your own songs; you've got to have songwriters and producers." They not only
refused to grant our requests, they told us it was taboo to even mention that we wanted to do our own music. I really
got discouraged and began to seriously dislike all the material Motown was feeding us. Eventually I became so
disappointed and upset that I wanted to leave Motown behind.
When I feel that something is not right, I have to speak up. I know most people don't think of me as tough or strong-
willed, but that's just because they don't know me. Eventually my brothers and I reached a point with Motown where
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we were miserable but no one was saying anything. My brothers didn't say anything. My father didn't say anything.