Being in a band with your siblings can be a dream or a nightmare. For the Jackson brothers, it was both. On stage, they were a whirlwind of synchronized talent and infectious joy. Behind the scenes, the bonds of brotherhood were tested by ambition, jealousy, and the immense pressure of global stardom. While the chemistry within the Jackson 5 was a carefully polished product, a fierce rivalry was brewing, one that would truly ignite after the group’s heyday. At the heart of this conflict were two brothers, bound by blood but separated by circumstance and a chasm of fame: Michael and Jermaine.

Their story of rivalry crystallizes in 1975, a pivotal year for the Jackson family and for the music industry itself. The Jackson 5, hungry for more creative control and larger album sales, made the earth-shattering decision to leave their iconic label, Motown, for Epic Records. All the brothers agreed, except one. Jermaine, who was married to Motown founder Berry Gordy’s daughter, Hazel, found himself at a devastating crossroads. His loyalty was split between his family and his father-in-law. In the end, he stayed behind, a solitary Jackson left in the Motown machine that had made them all stars. This single decision set the stage for a decade-long battle, fought on the charts, in the press, and in the shadow of one brother’s unprecedented ascent to pop royalty.

For Berry Gordy, this was not just a business loss; it was a personal betrayal. Motown, the hit factory of the 60s, was struggling. Superstars like Gladys Knight and the Pips and The Spinners had already departed for greener pastures, and the label was seen less as a star-maker and more as a gilded cage, trapping artists in restrictive contracts. The departure of their last great act, the Jackson 5, was a catastrophic blow. Gordy’s response was to go to war, and his chosen champion was his son-in-law, Jermaine. He was determined to prove that the brothers had made a grave mistake, and he would do it by launching Jermaine into a solo career that would eclipse their efforts at Epic.

The Motown machine roared to life, pouring all its resources into its last remaining Jackson. Gordy enlisted a who’s who of producers, including Hal Davis, who was instrumental in the Jacksons’ early sound, and even courted 70s hitmaker Barry White. The message was clear: Jermaine was being groomed for greatness. The rivalry immediately turned ugly. In a blatant attempt to confuse record buyers and sabotage the newly christened “Jacksons,” Motown released Joyful Jukebox Music, an album of old, unreleased Jackson 5 tracks, just weeks before the group’s highly anticipated Epic debut. It was a calculated move designed to diminish their sales and publicly pit brother against brother.

While the corporate battle raged, Jermaine faced a more personal struggle. The public, who had adored the unified family act, now saw him as a traitor. In a painfully candid admission, he later recalled playing basketball with his brothers and having fans approach for autographs. “They wouldn’t ask for mine,” he said, “because they would say, ‘Oh no, we don’t want your autograph because you left your brothers.’” The weight of that perception was immense, and the pressure to succeed was suffocating.

Despite Motown’s heavy promotion, Jermaine’s initial solo efforts sputtered. His 1976 album, My Name Is Jermaine, failed to make a significant impact, with its lead single stalling at a disappointing number 55 on the Billboard Hot 100. Two subsequent albums, Feel the Fire and Frontiers, fared even worse. It seemed Gordy’s gamble was failing. But then, a collaboration with another Motown legend changed everything. Jermaine enlisted Stevie Wonder to write and produce several tracks for his 1979 album, Let’s Get Serious. The title track was an explosive, funk-infused smash hit. It soared to the top of the R&B chart, even edging out his brother Michael’s mega-hit, “Rock With You.” For a moment, Jermaine had done it. He had achieved both critical and commercial success on his own terms. The validation culminated in a Grammy nomination for Best Male R&B Vocal Performance. In a twist of fate that perfectly encapsulated their entire dynamic, he lost. The award went to Michael, for “Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough.”

As the 80s dawned, the gap between the brothers widened into a canyon. While Jermaine felt stifled at Motown, frustrated by Gordy’s insistence that he needed more than “one hit record” before he could tour, Michael was becoming a phenomenon. The Jacksons’ Destiny album had been a success, but it was Michael’s solo masterpiece, Off the Wall, that signaled his true potential. The breaking point, the moment that forever sealed their respective fates, came in 1983 at the Motown 25 television special.

The event was billed as a grand reunion of the Jackson brothers. They took the stage together, a nostalgic and powerful sight. But then, the brothers exited, and Michael remained alone. What happened next changed music history. Performing “Billie Jean” for the first time, he unveiled a move that seemed to defy physics: the Moonwalk. The world was mesmerized. The headlines the next day weren’t about the Jacksons’ reunion; they were about Michael. That single performance launched “Michael-mania” into the stratosphere. His album, Thriller, would go on to become the best-selling album of all time, its music videos breaking racial barriers on MTV and captivating a new generation. Michael Jackson was no longer just a pop star; he was the King of Pop, a figure of almost mythical proportions.

For Jermaine, his brother’s colossal success was both a blessing and a curse. With a reunion tour in the works—a tour Michael reportedly agreed to only as a “parting gift” to his family—Jermaine was in a prime position to leverage the hype. He finally broke free from Motown and signed a promising new deal with Arista Records in 1983. This was his chance to prove he could make it without the shadow of Berry Gordy or the fame of his brothers.

As the much-hyped Victory Tour approached in 1984, Jermaine released his Arista debut. In a move that surprised many, he didn’t try to distance himself from his brother’s sound; he leaned into it. The album, titled Jermaine Jackson (or Dynamite internationally), was a slickly produced collection of 80s pop and R&B that sounded unmistakably like an attempt to capture the Thriller magic. Its lead single, “Dynamite,” featured a dance-heavy, epic-style video reminiscent of “Beat It.” Another track, a duet with Michael titled “Tell Me I’m Not Dreaming,” even featured a bass line strikingly similar to “Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough.”

Critics were merciless. They labeled his work as “poor imitations” of Michael’s hits, with one reviewer calling the video for “Escape From the Planet of the Ant Men” a “cheaper version of ‘Thriller’.” The album sold well, reaching number one on the R&B charts and going gold, but its success felt hollow. It was clear that the sales were fueled by the phenomenal buzz surrounding Michael. Instead of establishing Jermaine as a star in his own right, the album cemented his public perception as the “poor man’s version” of his celebrated younger brother. By trying to tap into Michael’s sound, he had inadvertently shrunk his own artistic identity.

The stage was set for the Victory Tour, the first time Jermaine would tour in eight years. He was the only brother, aside from Michael, granted a solo spot in the show. It was the greatest opportunity of his career to step out of the shadows and command the spotlight. Yet, the road to victory was never going to be smooth. For Jermaine, the battle was not just for chart success or public adoration. It was a lifelong struggle for his own name, his own legacy, in a world that would only ever see him as the brother of the king.