In the annals of pop culture, few moments are as universally iconic as Michael Jackson’s first televised performance of the moonwalk. It was May 16, 1983, during the “Motown 25: Yesterday, Today, Forever” television special. Dressed in a black sequined jacket, a sparkling glove, and a fedora, the King of Pop glided backward across the stage during a live rendition of “Billie Jean.” The crowd’s roar was deafening, a visceral reaction to a move so smooth, so seemingly impossible, that it felt like magic. In a matter of seconds, Michael Jackson transcended from superstar to a singular force of nature, and the moonwalk became his signature, a dance move forever synonymous with his name.

But to believe that Michael Jackson invented the moonwalk is to ignore a rich, complex history that spans decades and continents. The truth, as revealed by the very man himself and those who knew him, is a fascinating tale of dance evolution, cultural appropriation, and the meticulous genius of a perfectionist. While Michael Jackson popularized the move, making it his own with unmatched style and grace, he was never its originator. As writer Shana Freeman aptly put it, the moonwalk is “the product of more than 70 years of dance evolution.”

The earliest known footage of a dance move nearly identical to the moonwalk dates back to the 1950s, performed by the tap dancer Bill Bailey. His “backslide” was a fleeting but unmistakable precursor to the move that would later captivate the world. But the moonwalk’s roots go even deeper, reaching into the jazz era of the 1930s. The legendary Cab Calloway, a master of jazz and scat, reportedly performed a similar move, a gliding step he called “The Buzz.” It was a foundational piece of the footwork that would later be refined and re-contextualized by a new generation of street dancers.

The dance truly began to take its modern form in the streets of America’s inner cities, born out of the burgeoning subcultures of popping and locking. These dance styles, characterized by sharp, sudden movements and fluid glides, were the creative playground of Black youth. Michael Jackson himself acknowledged this, noting in his 1988 autobiography, Moonwalk, that the dance “was born as a breakdance step, a popping type thing that black kids have created dancing on the street corners in the ghetto.” He saw its raw power and knew he had to master it. This is where the story of the moonwalk gets its most direct and definitive link to Michael Jackson: a dancer named Jeffrey Daniel.

Jeffrey Daniel, a member of the R&B group Shalamar and a former performer on the show Solid Gold, was a renowned figure in the dance community. His signature move was a backslide that he performed on a regular basis, captivating audiences in the UK and beyond. Michael Jackson, ever the student of his craft, had been an admirer of Daniel’s since his time on Soul Train. Their paths finally crossed in 1980, when Jackson, along with his younger sister Janet, met Daniel backstage at a Disneyland performance. A friendship was born, and with it, a series of lessons that would change pop history forever.

La Toya Jackson confirmed this, stating that the moonwalk “was a dance that the kids were doing in the streets,” and that Michael “had a guy by the name of Jeffrey Daniel teach him the move.” Daniel himself recalled the lessons, noting that he also taught the move to Janet. The dance was already “out there,” but Michael Jackson’s unique gift was his ability to absorb, refine, and perform it with an otherworldly perfection that no one had ever witnessed before. His genius lay not in invention, but in elevation.

Despite the hours of practice and the perfect execution he would later achieve, Jackson was a man consumed by an almost crippling insecurity. After his iconic Motown 25 performance, the one that blew everyone away, he was filled with “conflicting emotions.” He felt he hadn’t executed the move perfectly. The moonwalk itself was fine, but he was disappointed that a subsequent spin and a landing on his toes “didn’t work as quite as I’d imagined.” This is a profoundly humanizing detail about an artist who seemed superhuman. He wasn’t focused on the collective awe he inspired; he was fixated on a single, imperfect moment that only he seemed to notice.

His dissatisfaction didn’t last long, however. The day after the special aired, his phone rang. On the other end was none other than the legendary Fred Astaire. Jackson recounted the moment in his memoir: “You’re a hell of a mover man. You really put them on their asses last night… I’m the same way. I used to do the same thing with my cane.” For Michael Jackson, the greatest compliment he had ever received, and the only one he truly believed, came from a man he had idolized since childhood. This validation from Astaire, a master of dance and movement, was a balm to Jackson’s perfectionist soul and a powerful testament to the impact of his performance.

Ultimately, the story of the moonwalk is not just a story about a dance move; it’s a story about art, legacy, and the complex nature of credit. Michael Jackson was a pop culture alchemist. He took something raw and beautiful from the streets—a creation of unsung dancers—and transformed it into a global phenomenon. In his autobiography, he credited “three kids” for teaching him, a gesture that was either a term of endearment or a subtle deflection to maintain his mystique. Regardless, the truth is a reminder that even the most innovative moments in history are built on the foundations of those who came before. The moonwalk belongs to Michael Jackson, but its soul belongs to the generations of dancers who first slid, glided, and backslid their way into history.