When you hear the name Michael Jackson, your mind probably jumps to moonwalking across a stage, shattering sales records with Thriller, or dazzling audiences with pyrotechnic tours. But if you ask Russell Crowe, the New Zealand–born Oscar winner will tell you there’s another side to the King of Pop — one that was armed with a telephone, an endless supply of dad jokes, and a stubborn streak that lasted for years.

Yes, years.

In a story that feels half rock ’n’ roll folklore, half schoolyard mischief, Crowe has revealed that Jackson once spent “two or three” years prank-calling him. Not an occasional call here or there — but an ongoing, sustained campaign of harmless, old-fashioned telephone comedy.

The Calls Begin

It started when Jackson somehow learned the pseudonym Crowe used to check into hotels, a common privacy tactic among celebrities. For most people, this information might be used to send flowers or arrange a discreet meeting. Jackson’s instinct was different: reach for the phone.

Whenever Crowe picked up, Jackson would launch into a deadpan, straight-from-the-1950s joke. “Mr. Wall?” he’d ask, feigning politeness. When Crowe confirmed, the punchline would drop: “Then what’s holding the roof up?”

It was peak dad-joke energy from one of the most famous men in the world. Crowe says the calls went on for “two or three years,” long enough to turn the gag into a running in-joke — a private connection between two people whose public lives were anything but private.

A King with a Sense of Play

For all his titles and accolades, Michael Jackson never lost his streak of childlike mischief. In fact, this wasn’t an isolated quirk — friends and collaborators often recalled his love for practical jokes, from silly disguises to spur-of-the-moment gags on tour.

The Crowe prank says as much about Jackson’s personality as any awards speech or concert footage. At the height of his fame, when his schedule was consumed by global tours, recording sessions, and relentless media attention, he still made time for the simple pleasure of making someone laugh.

It was a reminder that, beneath the glitter and choreography, he was still someone who delighted in the same playful rituals the rest of us do — the joy of catching a friend off guard, the satisfaction of landing a perfectly timed punchline.

Humor as Connection

What makes the story even more remarkable is the effort involved. Jackson wasn’t phoning Crowe from the room next door — these calls happened across continents and time zones. He had to know where Crowe was staying, obtain the pseudonym, and make the call without alerting hotel staff to the prank.

It wasn’t just about the joke itself; it was about building a bridge. Crowe has spoken about the calls with fondness, not irritation, which suggests the pranks were never mean-spirited. Instead, they became a private thread in their unlikely friendship — a shared laugh that had nothing to do with red carpets or box office numbers.

And in an entertainment industry often fueled by competition and ego, such gestures stand out. The calls weren’t publicity stunts or calculated networking moves. They were simply one person reaching out to another, in the most absurd and charming way possible.

Creativity Beyond the Music

Jackson’s artistry is usually measured in musical terms — the groundbreaking choreography, the genre-bending compositions, the music videos that redefined pop culture. But the Crowe prank reveals that creativity, for him, wasn’t compartmentalized.

Like a skilled comedian, he understood the mechanics of setup and payoff. He picked a joke simple enough to be instantly understood, yet absurd enough to catch Crowe off guard every time. Repeating it over years turned the joke into something bigger than the words — it became an ongoing performance, a miniature theater piece starring only two people.

This blend of spontaneity and commitment mirrors the way Jackson approached his art: relentlessly refining, but never losing sight of the joy it should spark.

A Legacy of Joy

Ultimately, the calls speak to a deeper truth about Michael Jackson’s legacy. Yes, he was a perfectionist in the studio. Yes, he was a revolutionary on stage. But he also understood the importance of small, human moments — the kind that create bonds outside of fame.

At a time when his life was under constant scrutiny, when every public move was dissected and magnified, he still carved out space to be playful. And he directed that playfulness not toward an audience of millions, but toward one man on the other end of the line.

For Crowe, it’s become a cherished memory, one he’s retold with a smile. For the rest of us, it’s a glimpse into the private warmth of a man so often defined by his public spectacle.

Michael Jackson will always be remembered as the King of Pop, the moonwalker, the boundary-pusher. But thanks to Russell Crowe’s story, we also remember him as something else: a man who knew that sometimes, the best way to connect is with a silly joke, a phone, and the persistence to keep it going for years.