Somebody's Watching Me

Hey Zoo Freaks, it's your fog-veiled Zoo Crew slipping in from the creaky corners of THE ZOO, where the jack-o'-lanterns wink wise and the wind rattles like old bones in the eaves. We're cranking Rockwell's "Somebody's Watching Me" from that shadowy self-titled debut of '84, and gosh, does this paranoid pop poltergeist still send shivers down the spine like a ghost peeking over your shoulder. Picture young Kennedy Gordy—our man Rockwell—huddled on his bedroom floor one fateful night, words tumbling out like a fever dream after he whispered a prayer for a hit: "I said to Father God, 'I will tell everyone about you,'" he shared in a Rolling Stone confessional, the lyrics flowing from childhood creeps of a nosy neighbor craning necks at his window to grown-up jitters of eyes in the fridge light. He demoed it raw with pal Curtis Nolen, but the real magic? Sneaking over to Michael Jackson's pad, belting it eight, nine times till MJ hollered for Rebbie, Janet, the whole clan—"Hey, you gotta hear this!"—and boom, the King of Pop slips in uncredited on that spine-tingling chorus, "I always feel like somebody's watching me," with Jermaine layering low like a lurking shadow. Motown boss Berry—dad himself—heard it blind from Rockwell's mom, sans nepotism whispers, and greenlit the gold; it topped R&B for five weeks, nipped Thriller at #2 on the Hot 100, even sparked BBC bans for being too "morbid." The video? A haunted house hoot with floating heads, ravens, and a Psycho shower nod—Rockwell later chuckled about the director ignoring his storyboards, landing a baby pig on a platter and a backyard graveyard that had folks wondering if it was legal. Over on X, fans are resurrecting it this All Hallows', one post crowing how MJ dodged the spotlight to let Rockwell shine, another clipping VHS rips of the band crashing a zombie conga, quipping it's the earworm that turns every fridge raid into a fright flick. Divine intervention or Motown mischief? Either way, it's the ultimate veil-thinner, Zoo Freaks—like honey on a razor wire.

Now let's amble back to the Motor City cradle where a Motown heir first dodged the family spotlight to chase his own chord, 'cause Kennedy William Gordy—born '64 in Detroit's humming heart to Berry Gordy, the label's founding force, and Margaret Norton—didn't lean on legacy; he sprinted from it like a cat from a bath. Named for JFK and Smokey Robinson, little Kennedy grew up elbow-deep in vinyl dreams, siblings like half-sis Rhonda Ross Kendrick (Diana's eldest) and future LMFAO kin swirling 'round the Gordy whirl, but by his teens, he's scheming solo: no handouts from pops, just raw hustle to hush the nepotism hounds. He cooks up early demos in secret, auditions blind at Motown without a whisper to Berry, nabbing that '83 ink on his own steam—stage name Rockwell? A sly nod to rocking well, or maybe that Norman Rockwell canvas that sparked the alias, far from any Gordy glow. First single "Knife" slices quiet in '84, but "Somebody's Watching Me" unleashes the storm, co-produced and arranged by his own wizard hands, turning childhood peeks into platinum paranoia. Follow-ups like "Obscene Phone Caller" (#35 flicker) and albums Captured and Jesus Loves You fizzle soft, so by '91, at 27, he shelves the stage for producing shadows and TV cameos—Bandstand boogies, Soul Train spins, even voicing bits in flicks like The Last Dragon. Through a '10 marriage to Nicole Moore (divorced '13), he's kept the low flame, resurfacing in '21 with a refreshed "Watching Me" that ghosts the Global 200 at 86. From Detroit dives to divine downloads, Rockwell proved a son's spark could eclipse the sun.

If the eyes are everywhere, Zoo Freaks, peek behind the curtain at the Rockwell Wikipedia nook, a fan-forged vault of vinyl visions and Motown mysteries that'll hook your haunt. Rally the watchers on Facebook's Rockwell Fans group, a cozy coven swapping bootlegs and backstory brews, or join the wider r/80smusic subreddit for era echoes and earworm debates that'll tickle your third eye. No fresh official website haunts the ether these days, nor Instagram scrolls or X thunder from the man himself, but kindred spirits flicker on AllMusic's archive for disc dives and divine dispatches. Light the lantern, cue the chorus, and let's peer through the peephole till the dawn creeps in, my twilight trailblazers.