Never to Neverland

In the United States there are five main houses that pretty much everyone knows by name and location: The White House, the Biltmore, Graceland, Southfork and the exquisite Hearst Castle. Then there is Neverland Ranch. It is not famous at all for the main house which was hardly more than a typical ranch home like others in the area and rarely seen. Neverland Ranch, the former home of the late Michael Jackson, was more about the collection of trains, rides, animals and other amusements strewn throughout the grounds to entertain Michael and the long list of famous and underprivileged visitors.

The infamous man-child entertainer had passed away some 18 months ago and hadn't lived on the property since 2005 after the fallout of the second child molestation case brought against him. The place was overrun immediately following the death of the superstar and there have been few serious efforts to sell the place since. It stood alone, quietly to itself among the other ranches and wineries in the area just north of Los Olivos one beautiful Saturday afternoon, the day I chose to finally go and see it for myself.

Leaving the hotel where I was staying on business in Woodland Hills the drive seemed no less shorter for starting in the San Fernando Valley. Heading west on US-101 I joined California #154 for the drive over the mountains in to the Santa Ynez valley about 30 minutes north of Santa Barbara. In this same area is the Dutch tourism village of Solvang but my radar was locked in on finding Figueroa Mountain Road leading to the mountain range on the north side of the valley. Five miles up and on the left was #5225, the former home of Michael Jackson, Neverland Ranch.

The gate was all anyone today can see. What must it have been like when Michael lived here, groupies at the gates hoping for a glimpse as the motorcade sailed past? The gilded lettering announcing "Neverland Ranch" is gone. All of the floral arrangements from mourners were gone but much of the small graffiti left on the low walls around the gate remained. I parked in a small bare patch on the opposite side of the road that clearly had seen much use and thankfully noted two other cars parked farther down - at least I wouldn't be the only fan making a pilgrimage. I shouldn't have worried. The seen-it-all guards at the security house on the other side of the gate never came outside to see what was going on.

I took pictures from every angle, through the bars, off to the side, up a slight hill and as deeply in to the grounds as my zoom lens would let me go as it followed the winding road about a mile in before the road disappeared to the left around a small hill towards the main areas. I read some of the graffiti from well wishers that had traveled from as far afield as Australia, Japan, and Italy to pay and leave their respects. In September Nancy from Germany wrote on this rock "You were the greatest entertainer of all time. I will always keep you in my heart. I will never forget you."

A young couple from Chicago drove up soon after I did and we took each other's picture by the gate. Most stunning of all, a family stopped by in a minivan and helped the elderly grandmother walk to the gate first, cane in one hand, determination on her face.

The security guards came out to talk to her but the gate remained closed. There is really nothing to see except, as if visiting some ancient ruin, where things used to be. The house is empty, the rides and animals long gone. All of it in fact, and Michael, too, is gone too soon.

Gotta go!

"This Is It" New Zealand Style

Michael Jackson had passed away early in the Summer of 2009 just eight days before launching his paradoxical "This is It" comeback tour with 50 shows in London, England. I am glad I was able to see him live once many moons ago during the "HIStory Tour" but was pleased to hear later that Summer that his estate would be releasing a documentary film of the rehearsal footage. Those are the kind of extras found on a DVD of the full concert; since there would never be one, money grab that it was it was a good idea just the same to show the world what might have been.

My one dilemma was that the premier, October 28th, would be during my first week of vacation out of the country. Not to worry, my host family in New Zealand said. I had already planned to be in their part of the country that week and they had decided to go themselves so it was no trouble to arrange an extra ticket for the event. Sweet! On vacation, in New Zealand with old friends and seeing the last show of shows from one of the world's great showmen.

New Plymouth, New Zealand, is next to nothing else in the civilized world. Mt. Egmont, or Taranaki in native Maori, was itself kicked out of the Lake Taupo region by the other three massive volcanoes there after a fight over a girl according to legend and lore. Auckland and Wellington, the national capital, are five hours each to the north and south, respectively. There is a small industrial port but the town otherwise serves as a place to live peacefully by the sea and raise a family away from the madness of Auckland, the largest city in the country. This bucolic town/village by the sea is like a home away from home for me, filled with breathtaking scenery, caring friends and quiet times. It is not the place to expect cordoned streets, huge crowds or impersonators in full gear.

The theater did engage the velvet rope cordon but they needn't have bothered. The space eventually filled up but there was no mad rush for choice seats in the venue of roughly 300. There was a moment of silence for Michael, then the lights fell and the show began. The "Kiwis" enjoyed an early chuckle when one dancer from across "The Ditch" only got as far as "I'm from Australia..." before breaking down crying. What, we thought, are we in for if they're blubbering before we even get into the film too deeply?

The young "crunksters" laughed out loud again at some of Michael's more uninspired antics such as lying on his back and kicking his legs in the air but they were in lock step with the back-up dancers who were primarily their age. One dancer pulled off an aerial barrel roll during "Shake Your Body Down" that nearly got the entire audience on its feet but this is New Zealand where over the top displays outside of sports arenas are frowned upon. Still, "Billie Jean" was the crowning moment it always has been, the last time it would be seen live and the moment when every dancer on stage and in that theater first decided what they wanted to do for a living. It was a bittersweet homecoming for those of us who knew him when.

Michael played New Zealand only once during the "HIStory Tour," appearing in Auckland over two nights in November of 1996. Maybe some in the theater that night in little New Plymouth were there. Many surely pretended this was the actual concert come to New Zealand at last and enjoyed it for what it was. The small remainder simply saw it as an interesting night on the town, a two hour diversion like any other film.

Either way, we all agreed that this concert, this documentary, would have topped them all. One thing we couldn't agree on was how long he would have stood there on opening night to all that applause before lighting in to the first number. Five? Ten? Fifteen minutes? Who knows?

Gotta go.

Her Royal Rock Goddess

Music concerts have never played that large a part in my entertainment life but the ones I have enjoyed have been nothing short of once-in-a-lifetime events, including two spoken-word opportunities to hear Bill Cosby at the Kennedy Center in Washington, D.C. and Miss Maya Angelou at the Myerson Symphony Hall in Dallas, Texas. Well, "hear" Bill Cosby might be a misnomer as my younger sister and I spent most of the evening doubled-over and crying tears of laughter during the famous "Dentist" routine.

A friend of mine took me to see Stevie Wonder "In the Round" at the old Reunion Arena in Dallas for my birthday one year while the highlight year for me was 1997 when I saw five different acts, including Bruce Springsteen at the Oakland Coliseum, the Prince "Emancipation" and Fleetwood Mac "Dance" tours within days of each other at the Shoreline Amphitheater in Mountain View, California and the King of Pop himself, Michael Jackson's "HIStory" tour at Wembley Stadium in London, England.

It was particularly hard to choose which of these was the best of the best since each offered a different style of music, evoked different personal memories and feelings and presented different levels and values of production. They all fell short, however, of the original Rock Goddess, Miss, Lady, Her Histrionic Highness, Dame Tina Turner. Where music is a highly personal choice and some do not prefer her body of work there has always been the consensus that her story of survival is at least among the most compelling and miraculous of them all.

I missed the "Private Dancer" and "Break Every Rule" tours and wasn't old enough to see the decidedly adult shows that she fronted during the "Ike and Tina Turner Review" days in the late 60s and early 70s. My first audience with Her Musical Majesty was the "What's Love" Tour, an Americanized version of the "Foreign Affair" production that had taken all of Europe by storm. I was on the lawn in general seating at the Shoreline Amphitheater but felt as if I was the only one in attendance, certainly not the last time I would feel that way in her presence. I sat in the outer section of reserved seats at the same venue for her next visit and arguably high-water mark, the "Wildest Dreams" Tour at the tender age of 57. Fifty-seven? To this day an aunt of mine laments that she and Ms. Turner share the same age but by no means the same genes!

The Year 2000 found me in London, England on business for my employer at the time. I had contacted a cousin who had never been to England to join me for a few days over the weekend because I had a big surprise planned for her. My colleagues in London had presented me with tickets to Tina Turner's "24/7, One Last Time" Tour on the very day of my birthday. I told my cousin my plans were only to take her through Salisbury, Stonehenge and Bath for our one day out in the countryside.

The performance was the first music event at the brand new Millenium Dome in Cardiff, Wales and the shocked look on my cousin's face remains a treasured moment to this day. And Her Rockness did not disappoint.

The seats were the closest I'd yet come to the stage, I discovered a new band from Australia, "Taxiride" who did a solid job as the first of three acts on the bill, to be followed by John Fogerty himself, author of Tina's signature song, "Proud Mary." We were breathless when she invited him onstage for the opening "nice and easy" part of the classic song and out of breath indeed when it was all over.

Of course I saw the "50th Anniversary" Tour, her last, in 2008; as if! And for me, finally, after all these years of respect and admiration, I got as close to my wish as anybody in a 20,000 seat venue (The United Center at Chicago) could hope for. I met her.

Sort of. Saying her good-byes to the audience at the end of the evening, she walked over to my side of the arena and, pointing to me, Anna Mae Bullock, "Miss Tina Turner" blew me a kiss, waved and was gone.

Gotta go.

An Assembly at Wembley

“Dude,” I pleaded, “I can get tickets to any show on the tour.”

In my eyes it was a fair trade. Free concert tickets for a place to stay. The new album was out and a monster tour all over the world was in full swing but one that would not touch the American mainland. It had been at least five years since the last tour but there was no sense that everything was winding down, heading towards retirement or that this would be the last show. I only sensed that for a tour that size NOT to touch the United States it seemed unconscionable to miss.

Having playfully twisted my buddy’s arm I flew to London from my home in California for a once in a lifetime event at Wembley Stadium. On the famous Metropolitan Line heading up to the historic venue we rattled off which songs were likely to be performed and which ones were our personal favorites, hoping the two lists would overlap more often than not. Would the oldies medley be different this time? Would it matter?

London fans have always set the bar for adoring and supporting their music icons. Still, very few artists dared to announce not just one but multiple dates at the original Wembley Stadium instead of the arena nearby. Adding to that would be the festival atmosphere of open seating on the field itself instead of the orderly reserved seats for premium prices at American venues. I also knew the energy of the crowd would be just as electrifying as the show we had all gathered to see.

July 15, 1997. Some 73,000 descended on venerable Wembley on a clear, late afternoon to fellowship with and bask in the presence of one man. And this was a Wednesday. In the United States we only see packed stadiums like that on Sunday afternoons in the Fall. Our spot on the field was half-way back in the midst of a human ocean yet we still had a good view of the stage. What would the opening number be? Would it matter?

Not a bit. Over the next two and a half hours the fans showed out as much as the man putting on the show. The opening was bombastic, the ballads beatific, the dance numbers dazzling and the signature moves as silky and sizzling as ever, this in a production already ten months on the road with three more months to go.

His greatest hits were then and are now permanently behind him. His detractors will fade in to the shade they struggled to cast upon him. Will it matter? Not to the exhausted but satisfied fans then, now and always. Decades from now "Wanna Be Startin' Something" will kick some party in to high gear just like it did that yesterday's Wednesday at Wembley. That is HIStory.

Rest in peace, Michael Jackson.


Gotta go.