Spotlight || MJ/Prince

Spotlight || Preface

1987

Angela "Angie" Powell

I am nothing without creativity.

I first realized that art would change everything for me when Momma purchased my very first guitar. She worked overtime at our local corner store to give presents on my birthday. That hard-working woman refused to let her child stay miserable.

Unfortunately, my father lost his life during the Vietnam War. I was ten years old. Even he would sing all the time, long before his fatal deployment. We'd stack records all over the place in that house, us enjoying Stevie Wonder among others.

Now far away from home, I nodded along to the sound of my own voice, squeezing my curly hair with too-large studio headphones. As the favorite guitar draped over my chest, I'd placed accented chords. Other beats still echoed along for tempo.

My mind focused on nothing else while situated here in the basement. Unlike others, I rarely complained or even whined about working alone. Independence helped me push through life without hang ups, at least so far. Time would tell.

Just when I finally took off my headphones and planned to check playback, someone cleared their right behind me. I nearly jumped at the sight of my manager. She folded both arms while standing in that open doorway, perplexed.

"Shit! Don't scare me like that." I warned her, already annoyed that she had walked into this studio without even acknowledging me. I didn't know what to think, but soon waited for her to explain this reasoning. Silence began to fall between us.

"Do you ever sleep?" My manager spoke up. These four walls seemed to close in on me as I refocused on the music at hand. Yet, she had shifted my own concentration in one way or another, leaving me more agitated than earlier. Enough was enough.

"I was gonna sleep on the couch tonight. Don't worry about me." I answered her, sitting down at the mixing board with another thought. My manager then clicked her heels further into this room, joining myself soon after. I knew she would.

"I'm not too sure about that bedtime yet. You might wanna stay up just a little bit longer." My manager winked soon after. I didn't know what to believe once more, but my mind still jumbled with many questions. She could've done anything now.

"What are you talking about?" I turned away from the mixing and watched her, still trying to figure what the hell she meant this time. I'd spent quite some time hustling in this studio to complete my debut album. Nothing else seemed better.

Seconds later, footsteps echoed from the hallway. I narrowed my eyes until someone finally entered this recostudio. There was no mistake when I recognized him. The entire planet knew about him, unless some people lived underneath rocks.

Michael Jackson offered his trademark smile. I didn't faint or squeal like some random fan or groupie that night. This moment didn't actually show the first time that Michael and I crossed paths before, but it was still surprising to see him.

The first time that we truly met, Studio 54 stood within its heyday. We had both turned twenty-one, young and ready for those disco lights. I graduated from college with a music production degree, but flew away from home to start my own career.

Back then, Mike's afro caught my attention first. Dancing with Diana Ross, he grooved in this black suede suit. White confetti fell over everyone around him. Once we both glanced across that dance floor and noticed each other, I just laughed when I noticed the sprinkles and shook his head, chuckling adorably with me.

Now, I opened both arms to embrace Michael like an old friend, which was true. Quite some time had passed since we saw one another. Maybe, just maybe, it was because "Thriller" still handed over accolades to him that other superstars wanted.

"No more confetti." Michael took off his fedora and winked. On the other hand, my manager had excused herself from this studio, most likely planning to call up security and bring me home. As I've said, she always groaned when I worked late.

At that moment, his remark sent me right back to the disco floor. Diana had left for that evening. Music thumped louder and louder, still not ending the joyful party surrounding us both. I danced in my seat, still chatting between songs with him.

Back then, when I continued speaking with Michael, this server roller-skated clumsily, almost spilling wine on my bell bottom jumpsuit. That scare left Michael and I in stitches, but we sympathized with the employee, who learned his mistake.

"Oh, stop it. How are you? It's been too long." I chuckled, sitting at the mixing board again to give us both room in this space. Of course, I still knew so much better than to just stand in anyone's personal bubble, no matter our relationship.

"Still working. What else is new? Surprised?" Michael sat alongside me in that empty chair, fiddling with the control panel. I rolled my eyes, teasing, as if he didn't already know what to do in here, even without Bruce or Quincy around to help him.

"I thought you'd be touring or something by now." I titled my head, asking the most obvious question that the world still begged to know: when would Michael Jackson release another album? Like everyone else, I was ready for new classics.

"I'm still working in the studio. You'll love this project. Please give me time." Mike rehearsed that answer, ready to give another interview. Even if it was me, one of his few industry friends, I knew better. His autopilot answers were televised, too.

"Four years is a long time, Mike." I just pointed out the obvious, which already prompted Jackson to roll his brown eyes. I smirked right back, waiting for him to respond in one way or another. His own answer soon caught me off guard now.

"A lot can change in eight years too, girl." Michael stood up from the chair, leaned in to kiss my cheek, and left without another word.