On the night of November 14, 1991, 500 million people scattered across 27 nations simultaneously watched Michael Jackson grab his crotch 17 times. He simulated masturbation, shattered car windows with crowbars, and unleashed the primal screams expected from a man who owned publishing rights to the Beatles catalogue. Then he turned into a black panther. The video ends with Bart Simpson striking a B-Boy pose in a Michael Jackson shirt, and ordering Homer to “chill out, homeboy.” It shattered all previous viewing records on Fox.

The $4 million, 11-minute unedited telecast of “Black or White” ranks among the Smithsonian-worthy artifacts of ’90s pop monoculture—up there with Nirvana trashing their instruments at the ’92 VMAs, the premiere of “Summertime” after The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, and Hillary Clinton hitting the Macarena at the ’96 DNC. No one ever had more juice than Jackson did at the time, and it’s difficult to imagine that anyone ever will again.

This was right around the time when they named him an official king of the Ivory Coast. In Gabon, 100,000 greeted him with signs reading “Welcome Home, Michael.” His universal popularity was on par with pizza and the polio vaccine. Safe enough to be Captain EO at Disneyland, hood-certified enough to throw up the set with the Crips.

The 33-year-old had recently signed the most lucrative contract in recording history, worth hundreds of millions, giving him his own label and the highest royalty rate in the industry. What’s more, no one thought it was out of line for someone who had sold close to 70 million records in the previous decade. In the press, Sony claimed the deal would reap them billions.

So when he released the first single from Dangerous, his first album in four years, fanatical interest led MTV, VH1, BET, and Fox to televise it at the same time—offering the greatest strategic victory since the Berlin Wall tumbled two years prior. And even though Jackson technically didn’t cause the collapse of East German Communism, his star wattage was so supreme that the Stasi secret police spied on him during his 1988 Berlin concert, fearing that obsessive MJ fans would accomplish what Reagan couldn’t.

With “Black or White,” Jackson lashed out at his public perception. In the interim since 1987’s Bad, he’d grappled with both outlandish rumors (buying the Elephant Man’s bones, sleeping in a hyperbaric chamber) and some that drew blood (allegations of bleaching his skin). The innocent popcorn-eating Michael of Thriller was gone, but calling him “Wacko Jacko” was slander. He wanted us to know he was a man, an eccentric sure, but an adult with deeply rooted beliefs.

Released only five months before the LA Riots, the Rodney King beating and murder of Latasha Harlins almost certainly factored into Jackson’s increasingly political slant. “Black or White” articulated a utopian vision of a post-racial future while acknowledging the sins of contemporary bigotry. He demands equality, shouting that he “ain’t second to none.” He growls, “I ain’t scared of no sheets” (presumably Klansmen). Its hook offers his dream of a color-blind society, echoing Martin Luther King.

But this was Michael Jackson, not O’ Shea. Being King of Pop meant the need for mass appeal. The “Black or White” video exists as a microcosm of Dangerous itself. It potently affirms Jackson’s manhood, offers passionate screeds against racial strife, gang violence, and a parasitic American media. This is the album as multi-media spectacle, a precursor to Lemonade, with accusations of infidelity substituted for videos of Macaulay Culkin doing air guitar windmills to a Slash guitar solo and lip sync rapping about turf wars.

The lone #1 single from the 32-million selling Dangerous, “Black or White” spent seven weeks atop the Billboard charts. Directed by John Landis (“Thriller,” National Lampoon’s Animal House) the first quarter of its video reveals Jackson’s mischievous child-like streak, with Culkin towing out Spinal Tap-sized speakers, amplifying the volume to “ARE YOU NUTS!?!,” and shredding so hard that George Wendt gets ejected into the stratosphere screaming “Da Bears.”

It blends into his idealistic visionary side that wanted to heal the world through philanthropy and moonwalking. There is pop locking with Balinese dancers, rain dances with Native Americans, folk dances in front of the Kremlin, and the serenade of a Hindu goddess on a freeway. This is the magical Michael Jackson of our early memories—the man with the graceful dance moves and lithe falsetto that seemed celestially ordained (masking a notoriously intense perfectionist streak). Faces of all races harmoniously morph into one another, the most cutting edge FX that 1991 had to offer.

In the third section, boy becomes man: Jackson struts through a wall of flames, Henley shirt open, screaming at his enemies like a mad king. It gives way to Culkin rapping in shades and oversized gold chains, which is just as well considering that this is the man who actually spit the bars. Jackson’s embrace of hip-hop not only aligned him with the popular sound of black (and white) youth culture, it adds an aggressive masculinity unseen in his catalogue, and ultimately paved the way for the late period Biggie therapy session.

Of course, in the final section, Jackson turns into a black panther. You understand that meaning. So did millions of parents in Tipper Gore America, who flooded Fox and its local affiliates with phone calls, forcing Jackson’s team to re-cut and sanitize the video.

A quarter century later, it seems absurd that Michael Jackson smashing a few windows before turning into a Jungle Book character could be cause for mass protest, but you have to remember how adored and family-friendly Michael Jackson was. My parents only owned two records: Thriller and *Bad. *So until I was 9 years old, I listened to those two almost every single day of my life, and honestly I didn’t really need anything else. Michael Jackson was my entire conception of music. Millions more could say the same thing.

So when he dropped “Black or White,” it was shocking. If he was previously pop’s Peter Pan figure, Jackson had suddenly adopted a more carnal streak, but even here it was cartoonish. If the adult world looked dull and stifling, Jackson’s imagination offered a hope that it was possible not to wind up like George Wendt, bloated on a couch with a bored housewife. You could hang out with Macaulay Culkin, dance on top of the Statue of Liberty, and if all else failed, you could transform into a panther and bounce.

Imagine being Teddy Riley in 1991. You’ve gone from humble origins in Harlem to inventing New Jack Swing; you've produced multiple hits for your own band Guy, Bobby Brown, and Keith Sweat (“I Want Her”). Then late one night, you get a phone call from Michael Jackson telling you that he needs you to produce his new album—in effect making you the new Quincy Jones. All before your 24th birthday.

Before Riley headed west, Jackson had labored on* Dangerous* for over a year to varying degrees of success. Something always seemed off. Bad might have been the last album before hip-hop became the de facto soundtrack of urban culture. 1988 changed everything. Public Enemy, Rakim, and Big Daddy Kane left the competition sounding effete and timid. Gang wars and the crack epidemic continued to inflame inner cities. Songs like “Smooth Criminal” seemed obsolete.

Meanwhile Jackson’s sister Janet had recently delivered a hard-stomping R&B-pop classic in 1989’s Rhythm Nation 1814. Its influence on her older brother was so great that he even asked Jimmy Jam & Terry Lewis to produce Dangerous. Out of loyalty to Janet, they turned him down. According to his engineer, Bruce Swedien, Michael was searching for something “very street that young people would be able to identify with.”

He wasn’t alone. His longtime competition Prince sought to re-connect in a similar fashion, forming the New Power Generation with rapper, Tony M. Released just one month before* Dangerous*, the purple one’s Diamonds and Pearls* *exists as a companion piece, documents of blurring eras. As ’80s pop gave way to ’90s hip-hop, they sought to find their place in the re-configured landscape. Except while Prince predictably constructed his own insular unit, Jackson looked outwards to Riley, the hottest producer of the moment.

If that seems obvious today, it wasn’t at the start of 1991. Many mainstream artists still saw hip-hop as a passing fad or stereotyped it as nihilistic and violent. Jackson needed to walk the fine line between disposable bubblegum rap like Vanilla Ice and MC Hammer, and alienating longtime disciples with something too radical.

After preparing grooves in Q-Tip’s Soundtrack Studio in Queens, Riley flew out to the Neverland Ranch to meet the master. There was a tour of the trophy room, the carousel, and the zoo, and then after they talked late into the night, Jackson put Riley on his personal helicopter and had him flown to the Universal City Hilton, a short distance from the San Fernando Valley studios where they recorded Dangerous. Riley began work the next day.

Jackson established nerve centers at Record One and Larrabee Studios, just a few miles down Ventura Blvd. The latter had the SSL mixing console that Riley needed to make the tracks slap, and despite his pop reputation, Jackson wanted his new songs as hard as humanly possible. Engineers remember Jackson demanding that they play the New Jack Swing songs so loud that your ears bled. He invariably blew up a pair of headphones each session.

As you’d expect, the recording process boasted its requisite share of idiosyncrasy. Nancy Reagan visited the studio once, requiring the Secret Service to search the place for hours prior to her visit. Brooke Shields called frequently to talk to Michael, who materialized every day in the same black dress pants and red button-down shirt (he had a clothing rack of just two items).

One night, he left early to go to Tower Records, which had been shut down just for him to spend $1,500 on CDs. Another afternoon, he ordered several $900 remote controlled motorcycles brought to the studio. Despite usually eating meals prepared by a personal chef, Jackson requested McDonald’s for lunch on one occasion. He’d never actually eaten there before, but someone told him it was good, so he ordered one of everything on the menu and took a small bite of each. (The fish sandwich particularly wowed him.)

Then there was Madonna. During March and April of 1991, Jackson and Madonna went out to dinner at least three times, which led tabloids to immediately report that they were dating. During these conversations, Jackson reportedly asked her to duet on the unfinished version of what became, “In the Closet.”

“I think all he wanted was a provocative title, and ultimately he didn’t want the content of the song to live up to the title,” Madonna said at the time. “I said, ‘Look, Michael, if you want to do something with me, you have to be willing to go all the way or I’m not going to do it.’”

His engineers remember her visiting him once at the studio, where they spent a little time in his private room in the back. “When I asked Michael later about her visit he said that she ‘scared’ him,” his engineer Rob Disner later said. “I think we all speculated that she tried to make a ‘move’ on him but Michael never said. In any event, we never saw her again.”

The creative union most likely fizzled due to major stylistic divergences. Madonna imagined an extreme makeover: giving him a Caesar haircut, getting him out of his bedazzled military uniforms, taking him to New York and hanging out with the voguers, House of Xtravaganza. Michael wanted to go hip-hop and ultimately enlisted rappers Heavy D and Aqil Davidson of Wreckx N’ Effect as the principal guest vocalists.

During the summer of ’91, competition broke out within the two studios and three rooms dedicated to *Dangerous. At Record One, *Bill Bottrell and Bruce Swedien worked on the album’s softer more adult contemporary material (and “Black or White”). At Larrabee, Riley handled the New Jack Swing half. Even though engineers remember the sessions as “giggly, innocent, and so much fun,” Jackson did his part to foster a friendly rivalry—bouncing back and forth between studios and taunting his teams, “Oh boy, they got some smelly jelly going on in there.”

As Sony’s deadlines kept getting blown, Riley’s beats began forming the spine of the record. After being initially awestruck, Riley asserted more and more control at Jackson’s behest. “It worked itself out when he shook me,” Riley told HipHopWired in 2009. “[He was like] listen, you’re going to have to really produce me like you’ve produced a new artist. I need you to talk to me, I need you to criticize me, I need you to comment, I need you to give me all of you. I want the Teddy Riley that got that record out of Guy and the records out of your previous artists.”

If Michael danced in the studio, it meant that a track sounded right. No matter what, Jackson ensured that the melodies were his own, while Riley sought to merge his trademark New Jack Swing with Quincy Jones’ baroque pop. At one point, L.A. Reid and Babyface were brought in to help produce, but none of their contributions made the final cut. Over 60 songs wound up being written over a period of 18 months. It cost $10 million in total, not counting video costs.

When Jackson revealed the final tracklist to Riley, the latter expected to see his name once or twice. Instead, Riley produced six of the 14 songs—arguably all the material that has aged the best. As a result of his contributions, you can convincingly argue that Dangerous is Jackson’s final classic album and the best full-length of the New Jack Swing era.

As soon as you pressed play on the tape, Riley’s drums attacked with Scud-era force. “Jam.” The sound of glass breaking, bells reminiscent of LL Cool J’s “Jingling Baby,” funky drums that knock like Clyde Stubblefield was behind the kit, and roaring saxophone licks. The words “you want to get up and jam” are initially buried in the mix, but the vocals are as acrobatic as a highlight reel, so it only made sense that the Chicago Bulls used it in their 1992 championship video. Starring Michael Jordan and Kris Kross, the “Jam” clip became almost as iconic as “Black or White.” Filmed in an abandoned rat-infested armory on the South Side of Chicago, it finds Michael Jackson teaching Jordan how to dance and the other MJ teaching him to hoop. Through the wonders of special effects, Jackson ultimately swishes shots that not even Steph Curry can hit; but not even the greatest dancer of the last half-century can teach Jordan how to dance. Point Jackson.

Riley recruited Jackson’s favorite rapper Heavy D for four nimble bars, his baritone artfully offsetting the singer’s falsetto growl. The first song wastes no time in articulating the album’s leitmotif. Jackson urges the world to come together, decries false prophets crying of doom, and admits that the universe is a complicated place full of “tears for fears.” He’s “conditioned by the system” and doesn’t want to be preached to. His ultimate realization is that you have to “live each day like it’s the last,” find inner peace to stay strong against the haters, and when in doubt, jam.

You can see these themes stressed on nearly every song. “Why You Wanna Trip on Me” exists as a mission statement. This is the Michael who fame has isolated and forced into retreat. There’s a newfound menace in his voice, an angelic sneer, as he recites a litany of crippling ailments (world hunger, illiteracy, disease, gangs, homelessness, drug addiction, corruption, police brutality)—and yet ironically, he has somehow become the media’s bullseye. Written during his 33rd year, Jackson can’t help but implicitly compare himself to Jesus—a popular healer who wants to help, misinterpreted and publicly crucified.

But even though Teddy Riley had Jesus, Jesus never had Teddy Riley. These drums could turn stone walls to white sand, the vocals are meticulously layered, the multiple bridges leave just enough room for interpretative dance moves. Jackson adapts seamlessly to the new genre, funkier than Guy, more lyrically incisive than Bobby Brown.

Without Madonna, “In the Closet” received a cameo from Princess Stephanie of Monaco, mainly because Michael liked her sultry speaking voice even though she couldn’t sing. Shot in the desert, the Herb Ritts video stars Naomi Campbell at her pret a porter peak. Michael wears a tank top with a plunging neckline. It’s probably the most erotically charged of his career, about as far from “Thriller” as Basic Instinct is to The Mask. * *

You can trace Timbaland and the Neptunes experiments to a song like “She Drives Me Wild,” in which their former mentor created the percussion tracks from automotive sounds: car horns, motorcycles idling and revving, vehicles starting and screeching. This is probably Jackson’s closest attempt to match his sister’s* Rhythm Nation*.

Some interpreted it as a desire to catch up, but it’s more emblematic of his lust to conquer. If Off the Wall was Jackson mastering late ’70s soul and disco, Thriller was his perfection of ’80s pop. This is Jackson showing that he could blend hip-hop and R&B better than anyone had previously imagined. The new decade starts here, with artists like Mary J. Blige, Jodeci, TLC, R. Kelly, et al. taking cues from Jackson and Riley’s alchemy. To say nothing of Kanye, Drake, and countless others still atop the charts.

Dangerous has its flaws. The ballads on the back (non-Riley) half of the album could pass for gospel renditions of Celine Dion schmaltz. Despite its noble message and Jackson’s statement that it was the song he was most proud of writing, “Heal the World” is essentially “We Are The World Pt. 2.” The theme from Free Willy, “Will You Be There” offers a sweet sentiment, but it’s not exactly “I Believe I Can Fly.” “Gone Too Soon” falls into that same category of beautifully intentioned crooning that ultimately sounds like a dentist office doxology, especially when contrasted with the brilliant funk of the first side.

If nothing else, they display the full range of his sharply targeted social consciousness, one that encompassed environmentalism, the AIDS pandemic, and every other affliction that still plagues the globe. In that sense, Dangerous might be Jackson’s most complete album, spanning dance music to dark nights of the soul. It’s a portrait of a persecuted genius, desperate to stay relevant, burdened with guilt and rage, lashing out at villains and offering inspiration to allies—always making it seem effortless.

My favorite song on Dangerous is “Remember the Time.” Like so many others on this album, it’s inextricable from its video, which also received the MJ treatment: simultaneous premieres on MTV, Fox and BET in February of 1992. Directed by John Singleton, it stars Eddie Murphy, Iman, the Pharcyde, Magic Johnson, Tiny Lister, and some adorable striped tabbies. It’s probably the only song from Dangerous that can still go off in any club on any given night.

As far as I’m concerned, it’s the greatest music video ever made, a New Jack Swing hybrid of Cleopatra and Indiana Jones. There are swirling hourglasses, busts of Pharaohs, hand drums, wriggling snakes, and Michael Jackson as a gilded wizard with dance moves so smooth that he can even elude the future Deebo. He’s so cool that steals the Pharaoh’s wife (who also happens to be David Bowie’s future wife) and then disappears into a cloud of gold dust, just as his capture seems imminent.

Being a child of the ’80s and ’90s meant that Magic Johnson, Eddie Murphy, and Michael Jordan were your heroes. (Maybe you liked Larry Bird or something, but I assume if that’s the case, you’ve long stopped reading this review.) And in his videos, Michael Jackson managed to best them all, making him the undisputed King. For most of my pre-adolescence, he was a pure sorcerer, a demigod immune to the gravitational pull and perimeters that stifle the rest of us.

At 10 years old, I assumed the video was shot somewhere in Egypt, because even though I no longer believed in bullshit like Santa Claus, I still accepted Michael Jackson at face value. Besides, nothing else he did seemed like it operated under any budgetary constraint. Only about a year ago did I learn that it was shot at Mack Sennett Studios in Silver Lake, a soundstage across the street from my apartment that I’d obliviously walked past thousands of times. It was one of those depressing realizations that makes much less sense than believing that Michael Jackson built a time machine and brought the star of Beverly Hills Cop, a supermodel, and the best point guard ever, along with him to the time of Ramses the Great. Watch that video again and tell me otherwise.

In that same way, it’s difficult to listen to Dangerous without considering the child molestation allegations that greeted him shortly after he came home from its marathon 69-concert tour. It’s tricky not to read too much into a song like “In the Closet.” How do you reconcile that someone as pure of spirit as Jackson could potentially have a monstrous streak?

Whether you believe the allegations or not, it’s clear that he was never the same after Dangerous. The damage became too absolute, the vitriol aimed his way too severe for someone that sensitive. Never again could his music exist on its own merits, the illimitable genius ravaged by prescription pills, insomnia, and obliterating pressure. Dangerous is the last time that Michael Jackson was Michael Jackson.

In an interview given shortly after the release of Dangerous, Jackson said that his goal was to do “an album that was like Tchaikovsky’s ‘Nutcracker Suite.’ In a thousand years from now, people would still be listening to it…. Something that would live forever.” He’s been gone for over half a decade, but I still think about this quote every time I walk past that sound stage—considering the possibilities that Michael Jackson unlocked in every song, the infinite magic that he could create out of an empty room, the orphic visions of one of our final myths.