As Jackson couldn’t fluently play any instruments, he would sing and beatbox out how he wanted his songs to sound by himself on tape, layering the vocals, harmonies and rhythm before having instrumentalists come in to complete the songs.
One of his engineers Robmix on how Jackson worked: “One morning MJ came in with a new song he had written overnight. We called in a guitar player, and Michael sang every note of every chord to him. “here’s the first chord first note, second note, third note. Here’s the second chord first note, second note, third note”, etc., etc. We then witnessed him giving the most heartfelt and profound vocal performance, live in the control room through an SM57. He would sing us an entire string arrangement, every part. Steve Porcaro once told me he witnessed MJ doing that with the string section in the room. Had it all in his head, harmony and everything. Not just little eight bar loop ideas. he would actually sing the entire arrangement into a micro-cassette recorder complete with stops and fills.”
Proof there was a reason MJ was the King of Pop. R.I.P.
Whoa, Fred Phelps died? Nice! I knew there was a reason I was feeling inexplicably good today.
On a serious note, could not have happened to a nicer guy. I honestly hope that his death was long, painful, and that right before he kicked the bucket, he had a moment of profound existential and spiritual doubt that carried him into the void or (if you’re a believer in the Big Guy) the unending flames that await a person so committed to spreading misery and I’ll will in an affront to everything a loving God stands for.
My personal hope? In those last moments before he died, I hope a particularly attractive dude came into the room and Fred Phelps’ last thought was questioning his sexuality. Because I think that’d be great.