Michael vs. Janet: The Secret Jackson Family Dance-Off That Nobody Knew About—And How It Led to a Legendary Unreleased Duet!

The Thanksgiving of 1986 at the Jackson family home was set to be a typical gathering filled with laughter, too much food, and the familiar challenge of keeping Joe Jackson from dominating every conversation. However, this year had an unexpected twist. Janet, who had recently experienced a surge in her career with the success of her album Control, arrived with a fierce determination to prove herself. Meanwhile, Michael, exhausted from the grueling recording sessions for what would become the Bad album, was simply happy to be home.

Catherine Jackson, the matriarch of the family, had a plan that none of her children suspected. As the evening unfolded, Janet, emboldened by the wine flowing freely at the table, challenged Michael to a dance-off, a choreography competition that would pit sibling against sibling in a battle of creativity and skill. Initially, everyone thought it was just the wine talking—a lighthearted moment that would be laughed off by dessert. But Catherine’s response changed everything.

“I think that’s a wonderful idea, Janet,” she declared, her voice cutting through the chatter. Suddenly, it wasn’t a joke anymore; it was a family event. Catherine announced that in three weeks, on Christmas Eve, both Janet and Michael would present their choreographed routines to the entire Jackson family. There would be no professional dancers, no backup singers, just raw choreography performed by the artists themselves. The family would judge, and the winner would receive a precious gift: a song Catherine had written years ago but never released, a song she had been saving for the right moment.

The atmosphere shifted, and a sense of anticipation filled the room. The stakes were raised, and the competition was officially on. This challenge was not just about dance; it was about recognition, validation, and the complex dynamics of sibling rivalry that had been a part of their lives since childhood.

 

 

The Pressure of Legacy

Thanksgiving 1986 arrived during a pivotal moment for the Jackson family. Michael was in the midst of recording what would become the Bad album, following the monumental success of Thriller, which had sold over 40 million copies by that point. The pressure on him was immense. How do you follow the bestselling album of all time? Every decision was scrutinized, every song had to be perfect, and every dance move had to top what he had done before. At just 28 years old, Michael was carrying the weight of being the biggest star in the world.

On the other hand, Janet was experiencing her own breakthrough. At 20 years old, she had released Control, an album that marked her declaration of independence from her father’s controlling influence and from being known merely as Michael’s little sister. The album went triple platinum, spawning hits like “What Have You Done for Me Lately?” and “Nasty.” Janet had proven she could be a star on her own terms, with her own sound and style.

However, the old family dynamics didn’t disappear just because individuals achieved success. The Jackson family had been shaped by years of intense training under Joe Jackson’s demanding, often brutal approach. Competition was woven into the fabric of their childhood—who could sing better, who could dance faster, who could capture their father’s rare approval. Michael had won that competition decisively, becoming the breakout star while his brothers remained in his shadow. Janet had been too young to compete in those early days, often watching from the sidelines as her brothers performed.

Now, in 1986, both Michael and Janet were successful solo artists, but they had never directly competed against each other. They had never tested who was better, who was more talented, who had inherited more of the Jackson family’s artistic genius.

The Challenge Ignites

As the evening wore on, the conversation at the dinner table turned to the recent MTV Video Music Awards. Someone mentioned a pop artist whose choreography had been praised as groundbreaking. LaToya laughed, “Groundbreaking? Please. Michael invented half those moves 10 years ago. That’s the truth.” Germaine agreed, “Nobody moves like Michael. Nobody ever will.”

There was general consensus around the table. Michael was, as always, the standard against which all other performers were measured. His siblings praised him with the kind of automatic reverence that comes from years of witnessing genius up close. But as the praise continued, Janet remained quiet, sipping her wine and feeling increasingly unsettled.

Something about the automatic worship of Michael’s choreographic supremacy bothered her—not because it wasn’t true, but because it left no room for anyone else to shine. It reduced every other dancer to merely “not as good as Michael.” Finally, she spoke up, her voice cutting through the multiple conversations. “You know, choreography has evolved since Michael’s early work,” she said, her tone firm. “There are different approaches now, different styles.”

The table fell silent. Whenever someone suggested that Michael wasn’t the absolute best at something, the family tensed. Michael, who had been pushing food around his plate looking exhausted, glanced up at Janet with interest. “What do you mean, Janet?” he asked.

“I mean,” Janet continued, emboldened by the wine and years of wanting to say this, “your choreography is incredible, precise, powerful, technically perfect, but it’s very controlled, very planned. I think there’s room for choreography that’s more spontaneous, more emotionally raw.”

Joe Jackson, who had been listening intently, interrupted. “You think you can do better than Michael?” His voice carried the edge that everyone in the family had learned to fear. Janet looked at her father, then at Michael, and in that moment, something crystallized. This wasn’t really about choreography; it was about all the times she’d been compared to Michael and found wanting. All the years of being the little sister rather than Janet in her own right.

“Actually,” Janet said, her voice steady despite the tension, “yes, I think I could choreograph a routine that’s more innovative than anything Michael has done recently.” The table erupted in shock. Tito choked on his drink, LaToya gasped, and Germaine started to laugh but stopped when he saw Janet’s serious expression.

Joe slammed his hand on the table. “Janet, you’re drunk. Apologize to your brother.” But before Janet could respond, before she could back down, Michael did something unexpected. He smiled—a genuine, almost relieved smile. “It’s okay, Dad,” Michael said quietly. “Janet’s not drunk. She’s honest, and I want to hear what she means.”

The family stared at Michael, astonished. This wasn’t the response anyone expected. Michael was notoriously sensitive to criticism, protective of his artistic reputation, and competitive to the point of obsession. He should have been offended or defensive, but instead, he turned to Janet with genuine curiosity. “What would you do differently? How would your choreography be more innovative than mine?”

Janet hadn’t expected this response either. She had anticipated Michael dismissing her, pulling rank, making her feel foolish for even suggesting she could compete with him. His openness disarmed her completely. “Your choreography is about precision and power,” Janet explained. “Every move is executed perfectly. It’s like watching a machine that never makes mistakes. And that’s incredible. But my approach would be different. I’d create choreography that leaves room for improvisation, for emotional vulnerability, for showing the struggle—not just the perfection. It would be messier, more human, but also, I think, more relatable.”

Michael considered her words for a long moment. The entire family waited to see how he would react. Finally, he spoke. “I think that’s a fair criticism, and I’d like to see what you would create. Let’s do it.”

“Do what?” Janet asked, confused.

“A competition,” Michael replied. “You choreograph a routine your way, I’ll choreograph one my way. We’ll perform them for the family and see what happens.” The table erupted again, but this time with excitement rather than tension. The siblings began talking over each other, the prospect of a real competition between Michael and Janet—two of the most successful performers in the family—sparking a renewed energy in the room.

Joe Jackson, however, was not pleased. “This is ridiculous. Michael doesn’t need to prove anything to anyone.” But Catherine, with her quiet authority, cut through the chaos. “I think that’s a wonderful idea, Janet,” she said, smiling. “In fact, I think this should be an official family event.”

Catherine announced that in three weeks, on Christmas Eve, both Janet and Michael would present their routines to the entire family. “No professional dancers, no backup, just raw choreography performed by the artists themselves. The family will judge. And the winner will receive a song that I wrote many years ago but never released—a song I’ve been saving for the right moment, for the right performer.”

The room fell silent. Katherine had never mentioned writing a song before. She had been a supportive mother, a manager at times, but a songwriter? This was new information. Michael and Janet exchanged glances, both surprised and curious. “So, we have three weeks,” Michael said slowly. “Christmas Eve performance. Family judges. Winner gets Mom’s mystery song.”

“Exactly,” Catherine confirmed. Janet nodded, still processing what she had started with her wine-fueled challenge. “Okay, I’m in.”

The Preparation

The rest of Thanksgiving evening was consumed with discussions of the upcoming competition. Siblings took sides, some backing Michael’s precision, others intrigued by Janet’s promise of emotional rawness. Rules were debated, and Joe tried several times to shut the whole thing down, calling it a waste of time and disrespectful to Michael. But Catherine overruled him each time with quiet firmness.

When the family finally dispersed that night, Michael and Janet stayed behind to help Catherine clean up. The three of them worked in comfortable silence for a while, loading the dishwasher, putting away leftovers, restoring order to the kitchen. Finally, Michael spoke. “Mom, why did you support this? You could have shut it down. Janet had been drinking. I wouldn’t have been offended if you’d just changed the subject.”

Catherine paused, dish towel in hand, and looked at her two most successful children. “Because you two have never competed with each other directly,” she explained. “You’ve each been successful in your own lanes. But you’ve never tested yourselves against each other. And I think you need to—not to hurt each other, but to see each other clearly—not as the legend and the little sister, but as two extraordinary artists who come from the same family but have different gifts.”

Janet leaned against the counter. “What’s this song you mentioned? The one you wrote?”

Catherine smiled mysteriously. “You’ll hear it when there’s a winner, but I’ll tell you this: I wrote it 20 years ago when you were all children. I wrote it about a dream I had for this family—that you would all support each other rather than compete destructively. That you would recognize each other’s talents rather than resent them. And I’ve been waiting for the right moment to share it.”

“Why now?” Michael asked.

“Because you’re both finally ready,” Catherine replied. “Michael, you’ve achieved everything there is to achieve. You’re secure enough in your own greatness to be challenged without feeling threatened. And Janet, you’ve proven your independence and established your own identity. You’re confident enough to challenge Michael without it being about insecurity or jealousy. The timing is perfect.”

Mother and children looked at each other with a depth of understanding that went beyond words. This wasn’t really about a competition; it was about something Catherine had been architecting for years—a way to heal the wounds that competition and comparison had created in her family.

 

 

The Creative Process

Over the next three weeks, both Michael and Janet threw themselves into creating their choreographic routines. Michael worked at his personal studio, Havenhurst, while Janet rented a rehearsal space. Neither would tell the other or any family member what they were creating, adding to the anticipation.

Michael approached his routine with characteristic perfectionism. He spent hours mapping out every move, every transition, every moment. He wanted to create something that was indisputably his best work—not just good, but undeniably brilliant. The competition with Janet awakened something in him, a creative drive dulled by the massive commercial pressure of the Bad album. This was pure; no record label interference, no marketing considerations—just him creating movement for the love of the art itself.

But as he worked, Michael found himself pondering Janet’s earlier criticism—that his choreography was technically perfect but emotionally controlled. Was that true? Had he become so focused on precision that he’d lost some of the emotional rawness that had characterized his earlier work? The question bothered him, pushing him to dig deeper and access something more vulnerable.

Janet, on the other hand, approached her routine from a different perspective. She had always felt like she was escaping Michael’s shadow, defining herself in opposition to him, but this competition forced her to acknowledge what she had inherited from being Michael’s sister—the understanding of stage presence, the innate musicality, the Jackson family’s genetic gift for movement. She could honor that legacy while still creating something uniquely hers.

Janet’s routine explored themes of control and freedom, structure and spontaneity. It was intentionally imperfect in places, with moments where the choreography seemed to fall apart and then reconstruct itself, showcasing visible struggles. It was the antithesis of Michael’s flawless execution, and that was precisely the point.

As Christmas Eve approached, the excitement within the entire Jackson family grew. This wasn’t just a competition anymore; it was an event, a moment that would become family legend, regardless of who won. Siblings who hadn’t planned to attend Christmas that year suddenly rearranged their schedules. This was unmissable.

The Performance

Christmas Eve arrived, cold and clear. The Jackson family compound was decorated with lights and wreaths, but the main event wasn’t religious observance or gift exchange; it was the performance. Catherine had converted the large living room into a performance space, moving furniture to create an open floor in the center.

The entire family gathered—nine siblings, parents, a few grandchildren, some cousins—about 20 people total, all arranged in a semicircle around the performance space. The rules were simple: Michael and Janet each selected a piece of music, not their own songs, but tracks that served their choreographic vision. Each would perform solo, and the family would discuss and vote. Catherine would award her song to the winner.

They flipped a coin to determine the order, and Janet would perform first. Standing in the center of the space, she took a moment to center herself. She had chosen “What’s Going On” by Marvin Gaye, an unexpected choice that immediately signaled this wasn’t going to be a typical performance.

As the soulful, questioning music filled the room, Janet began to move. Her choreography was unlike anything the family had seen from her before. It was powerful yet vulnerable, controlled but with moments of deliberate messiness. She moved through phrases of tight, precise choreography that would suddenly break apart into something more freeform, more desperate.

It was as if she was showing the struggle between control and freedom, between perfection and humanity. There were moments where Janet actually stumbled, but the stumbles seemed intentional, part of the narrative she was telling through movement. She recovered from each stumble with power, transforming apparent failure into resilience.

The choreography was emotionally exhausting to watch. You could see the effort, the strain, the humanity behind every movement. When Janet finished, she was breathing hard, sweat visible on her face. The family sat in stunned silence for a moment before erupting in applause. LaToya was crying, Catherine nodded with quiet approval, and even Joe looked impressed, though he tried to hide it.

“That was raw. That was real,” Rebby said breathlessly. “I felt every emotion.” Marlon added, “I saw you struggling, succeeding, failing, rising. It was like watching a complete story.”

Michael had been watching with intense focus throughout Janet’s performance. When she finished, he stood and walked to her, pulling her into a hug and whispering something in her ear that only she could hear. Janet nodded, tears in her eyes.

Now it was Michael’s turn. He had chosen the instrumental track of “The Way You Make Me Feel,” but not the version from his album—this was a stripped-down version featuring just bass and drums, raw and primal. As the music began, Michael stepped into the performance space.

What followed was vintage Michael Jackson. Technically flawless, impossibly smooth movements that seemed to defy physics and anatomy. The moonwalk, spins, the anti-gravity lean—every signature move was present but executed with even more precision than usual.

Then, about two minutes into the routine, something unexpected happened. Michael made a mistake. His foot slipped slightly during a spin. It was barely noticeable, but in the context of Michael’s usual perfection, it was glaring. The family tensed, waiting to see how he would recover. Instead of trying to hide the mistake or smooth over it, Michael incorporated it into his routine. He stumbled again deliberately, caught himself, and suddenly, the choreography transformed.

It was still technically brilliant, but now it had something else—vulnerability, humanity, imperfection. Michael was showing the effort behind the perfection, acknowledging the struggle, letting the family see him as human rather than superhuman. It was as if he had taken Janet’s criticism from Thanksgiving seriously. He had created choreography that honored his technical mastery but added the emotional rawness she had challenged him to explore.

When Michael finished, the silence in the room was even deeper than after Janet’s performance. This wasn’t just impressive; it was revelatory. Michael Jackson, the perfectionist, had deliberately shown imperfection, and it made the performance even more powerful. The family erupted again, this time with tears in their eyes.

Catherine beamed with quiet joy as she watched her children embrace each other, both emotionally and physically exhausted. Janet stood and walked to Michael, and they hugged again, this time longer, both of them overwhelmed with emotion. “You actually listened?” Janet whispered. “You heard what I said and you grew from it.”

“You were right,” Michael whispered back. “I had gotten too controlled, too afraid to show struggle. You reminded me that perfect execution isn’t the same as perfect art.”

The Resolution

After the performances, the family spent the next 30 minutes in animated discussion. This wasn’t about judging who had won; it was about processing what they had witnessed. Two artists at the top of their abilities, pushing each other to grow, creating something better than either could have done alone.

Finally, Catherine stood, and the room went quiet immediately. Everyone knew this was the moment of judgment. “Before I announce anything,” Catherine began, “I need to tell you all something about the song I promised. I wrote it 20 years ago, yes, but I never intended for only one person to sing it. I wrote it as a duet. I wrote it for two voices, two perspectives, two equal parts of a whole.”

Michael and Janet looked at each other, understanding dawning. “I’ve been waiting for the right moment to reveal this song,” Catherine continued. “And I’ve been waiting for two family members to reach the place where they could sing it together—not in competition, but in collaboration, where they could celebrate each other’s strengths rather than tear each other down.”

Catherine pulled out a piece of paper, handwritten sheet music and lyrics, yellowed with age but preserved with care. “There’s no winner tonight because you’ve both already won. You’ve won by seeing each other clearly, by learning from each other, by becoming better artists because of this competition.”

The room fell silent, except for quiet crying from multiple family members. Michael and Janet stood together, looking at their mother, understanding that this had never been about winning. It had been about healing, about transformation, about Catherine’s love for her children manifesting as a brilliantly orchestrated lesson in mutual respect.

Joe Jackson, who had been mostly silent through both performances and Catherine’s speech, finally spoke. “So, nobody wins. That’s it?”

Catherine turned to her husband with a look of such gentle firmness that even Joe fell silent. “Everyone wins, Joe. That’s the point. Everyone wins when we lift each other up rather than tear each other down.”

The song that Catherine had written was titled “Family Ties.” It explored themes of shared heritage, individual identity, and the complicated love that exists between siblings who are both rivals and best friends. Michael and Janet recorded it together in early 1987. Though it was never officially released as a single, it became a deep cut on both their albums, appearing on Bad and Control.

Music critics who noticed the duet praised it as one of the most beautiful sibling collaborations in music history, but they didn’t know the story behind it. They didn’t know about the Thanksgiving challenge, the Christmas Eve performances, or Catherine’s long game of healing family wounds through artistic competition.

For the Jackson family, Christmas Eve 1986 became legendary. It was retold at every gathering, with details added and embellished over the years, but the core truth remained: two artists had competed, and both had won because they had been brave enough to challenge each other and humble enough to learn from each other.

Michael would later say in a 1988 interview, “Janet made me a better artist. Not because she beat me at anything, but because she made me question assumptions I’d had about perfection and control. She showed me that vulnerability could be a strength rather than a weakness.”

Janet would say in her own 1990 interview, “Michael gave me permission to be excellent without apology. By taking my challenge seriously, by respecting my artistic vision, even when it contradicted his own, he showed me that I didn’t have to diminish myself to avoid threatening someone else’s ego.”

Catherine Jackson never gave another interview about that night or the song she had written, but those who knew her well understood that the choreography competition had been her masterpiece. Not a song or a performance, but an act of maternal love that transformed competition into collaboration, rivalry into respect, and siblings into true artistic peers.

The Jackson family had always been talented, but on Christmas Eve 1986, they learned something more valuable than talent: that greatness doesn’t require tearing others down, that family can be both your competition and your biggest support, and that the most beautiful art comes from pushing each other to grow rather than fighting to prove who’s better.

This incredible story of family competition and the power of mutual respect reminds us all that we don’t have to be better than someone we love to be brilliant. We just have to be brave enough to challenge each other and humble enough to grow together.