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He's Out of Our Life
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Motown's 25th anniversary was celebrated in part on a television special in the Fall of 1983. My college roommate was not alone in feeling excited about the show, as it promised a special appearance at the end by Michael Jackson who, at that time, was the biggest superstar in the world. I myself was nonplussed about the whole spectacle, because while I enjoyed Jackson's music I hadn't exactly drunk the Kool-Aid regarding his fame. Come to think of it I had likewise failed to drink the Kool-Aid regarding the "second British invasion" then underway. Nevertheless I stuck around the dorm room as my roommate and a friend of his set up a portable TV and broke out the beer. The show itself turned out to be a lot of fun, with most of the major Motown recording artists performing at least one song each. The excitement was heightened by the fact that a local FM radio station was simulcasting the show, and my roommate had his quadraphoenic stereo system loudly tuned in. Through our open window we could hear the whole dorm singing along to various songs, hooting, woofing and otherwise carrying on. The announcer stated at the next to last commercial break that Michael would be on next, and there was an audible run to the wash rooms upstairs. Nobody wanted to miss a second. When Jackson was introduced, all the carrying on stopped cold. The dorms went silent in anticipation.
I think I can accurately write, so many years later, that not a single person who was watching in any of the dorm rooms was prepared for what we all saw next. I myself sat through most of Jackson's breathtaking rendition of "Billy Jean" with my jaw not on the floor but leaking under the door, across the hallway and down the staircase. Time and sound became liquid, everything like a dream as this young man who was more than human floated, skittered, skated, shook and angled his way across the stage. The following week no less a dancer than Mikhail Baryshnikov said to a reporter "You know, some of those moves were pretty amazing. Really hard to do."
When it was over the audience in Los Angeles exploded into applause like a bomb. And about four hundred miles away, in a corner of San Francisco, three university dormitory likewise exploded into a drunken revelry that was amazingly free of drunks. The first sound I remember hearing was about fifty windows jerked open almost simultaneously, everyone within the rooms seeming to lean out as one and cry out their shock, amazement, awe and boogie-soaked exhultation. A cacophony of celebratory joy the likes of which I would not hear again until the next time the San Francisco 49ers defeated the Cincinatti Bengals for the Super Bowl. The bravest, or most oblivious, tried out the moves they had just seen in the hallways and elevator foyers. Music blasted from a hundred stereos, mainly the album "Thriller", Michael's masterpiece.
Then came "Bad" four years later, and all of us back then were convinced that Michael Jackson was some kind of rhythmic wraith who could detach himself from terra firma whenever his gigantic spirit moved him to do so. Jackson made the 80s go away and reminded me that I was lucky to be young.
Since that time Michael Jackson has had nothing but trouble. What started out as eccentricities turned creepy and weird, and not in interesting ways but ways that make one cringe. I will always believe that Jackson's trial for pedophelia was the result of him not paying extortion money the second time around. That, and a manifestly corrupt prosecutor who, in my opinion, should himself be in prison for abuse of his office. But what cannot be denied is that whatever was ailing Jackson sucked away his creativity. As the years passed Spielberg tried to get him to play in a musical version of Peter Pan, but the deal fell through with more than a whiff of recrimination about it (and what a disastrous mulligan "Hook" turned out to be). Paul McCartney, Jackson's musical and performance partner on two decent songs - "Say, Say, Say" and "The Girl is Mine" - turned on Jackson and made unflattering remarks in the British press. Jackson's daliance with plastic surgery turned into an obsession as he attempted over and over again to rob his face of its resemblance to his abusive father's. In the end we were all denied music or concerts for the better part of a decade, and that was as big a tragedy as his untimely death.
There are odd and disturbing parallels between the circumstances of Jackson's death and Heath Ledger's. Both of them were getting prescriptions from multiple doctors, both were under enormous creative pressure, and both were seeking a chemical solution to insomnia. And now both will sleep until the sounding of Gabriel's trumpet. I would like to believe that these two tragedies are isolated, but somehow I doubt that's the case. I fear there will be more, many more in the years to come. I shudder to think of who else will be taken too soon.
And Michael? I hope he rests in peace. Although he left too soon what he left behind as an artist was simply magnificent. The Elvis comparisons should stop, if only because Michael had so much more to give and was preparing to give it when he died. Such was not the case with "The King." I hope Michael's family can find some way of leaving his memory alone. He has earned a quiet rest, not a circus.
PLEASE NOTE: I am currently living in a rural area without access to a high speed Internet connection; moreover, my dial-up connects at about 24.5Kbps. As a consequence it is impractical for me to try and hunt down and insert links and photos.
