MICHAEL JACKSON TEEN ERA

A cramped backstage dressing room, vanity bulbs burning, costume rack heavy with sequins and rhinestone. Five versions of the kid who was already a working professional — one lacing his boots on the floor in red-and-yellow Vegas glitter, one in a gold-embroidered jumpsuit catching his breath, one in plain shirt and jeans like a brother just stopping by. The whole frame smells like hairspray and pressure. This is the unseen half of stardom: the twenty quiet minutes before a young man walks out and becomes someone else for two hours.