The Jackson 5

The Jackson 5 were already a huge black music draw when Motown scooped them up in 1968; the mighty mite at the front of the Gary, IN-based family act had left an indelible impression on people right from the start. Eleven-year-old Michael and his brothers (Jackie, Tito, Jermaine, and Marlon) had already been touring around the country when Gladys Knight and then Bobby Taylor recommended them to Berry Gordy. Pre-History preserves their earliest hometown recording experiences. There's a certain charm in hearing pint-sized Michael attack "Let Me Carry Your Schoolbooks" or lament "I Never Had a Girl," but this is really just an embryonic audition tape by a group that was obviously going places; their versions of "My Girl" and "Tracks of My Tears" tell you where.

Depending on your perspective, the Jackson 5 were either Motown's last classic gasp or the standard-bearers of a second generation that never quite took over. The group was groomed on the traditional company conveyor belt, but with some major adjustments. The writer/production team called the Corporation (Deke Richards, Freddie Perren, Fonce Mizell, and Gordy himself) was based in Los Angeles, where the J5 records were cut using local session pros instead of Hitsville's fabled Funk Brothers. No matter; the confident kiddie-soul of their first three singles ("I Want You Back," "ABC," and "The Love You Save") is as enduring as anything in the label's hallowed history. These are perfect records, and when the ballad "I'll Be There" (this one produced by Hal Davis) became their fourth consecutive #1 in less than a year, the Jackson 5 became a phenomenon.

Like all Motown performers before them, the Jackson 5 were positioned as a singles act. Nightclub-bound schlock and obvious cover versions pad their hits-plus-filler albums. The flurry of Jackson 5 releases in the first years of the '70s shows the brothers bumping up against the limits of Motown formula. "Never Can Say Goodbye" (from Maybe Tomorrow) goes the earlier ballad one better, as the disarming warmth and increased authority of Michael's singing lift this beyond the MOR of the cooing backing vocals and flute trills. But "Sugar Daddy" (from Maybe Tomorrow) feels like "ABC" revisited -- already. These early albums are all rushed and uneven; Motown's 2001 reissue strategy of putting two on each CD cuts the sting somewhat. Their 1970 Christmas album, however, is a small gem. It wasn't until the Jackson 5 confronted the emergent disco animal in 1974 that they created their finest overall Motown effort, Dancing Machine. Its percolating title track is where the Michael Jackson we know today first emerges. It was their final Motown peak, and a signpost to their CBS future. Their Motown past is captured in The Ultimate Collection, which lives up to its name. It contains all the hits and essential tracks, plus four of Michael's solo outings (including "Got to Be There" and "Rockin' Robin") and Jermaine's hit remake of "Daddy's Home." The Millennium Collection is a budget compilation of hits, while Never Can Say Goodbye is a random and pointless assortment. The double Anthology replaces, and improves upon, a previous package of the same name. It has room for topshelf album material, including their killer versions of Smokey Robinson's "Who's Loving You" and George Clinton's "I'll Bet You," plus a smattering of B-side rarities.

When the group split for CBS subsidiary Epic in 1975, Jermaine stayed behind (he'd married Berry Gordy's daughter Hazel) and was replaced by younger sibling Randy. The Jacksons and Goin' Places brought the renamed quintet to Philadelphia, though the expansive Gamble and Huff groove has a level-ing effect on their newfound dance sound. Moving from one hit factory to another didn't exactly provide the artistic freedom that the Jacksons -- especially Michael -- craved. Despite somewhat rote songwriting, you can spot Michael developing by leaps and bounds. The 1977 R&B hit "Show You the Way to Go" from The Jacksons wraps his deepening vocal twists and turns in a creamy-rich double-tracked chorus; singing rings around himself, Michael sounds like nobody else on earth. His brothers' contributions are now out of print, but shouldn't be completely discounted. Finally producing themselves, the Jacksons and a coterie of sessionmen (led by keyboardist Greg Phillinganes) fashioned a glossy yet progressive pop-soul sound on Destiny; they plowed right through the late '70s rock-disco barricade without thinking about it. Michael's skittering, intense vocal workouts on "Blame It on the Boogie" and "Shake Your Body (Down to the Ground)" made dancing seem like very serious business indeed.

Triumph is where the Jacksons reach an audible peak; "Can You Feel It" and "This Place Hotel" are so all-encompassing they teeter on the brink of sonic overkill -- without caving in. That air of melodrama adds something, but it's a bit ominous, too. The supernova phase of Michael's solo career soon overshadowed the Jacksons. Victory suffered unjustly from the fallout surrounding the group's last tour in 1984. It's not up to the level of the last two, but Jermaine's return signals a consistent, communal effort -- and Michael's somewhat restrained presence never hurts. His absence, however, clearly does: The post-Michael 2300 Jackson Street (1989) was a major letdown, and has been banished from the catalogue. (MARK COLEMAN/BEN EDMONDS)