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A willow deeply scarred, somebody's broken heart and a washed-out dream.
I think it was Thriller. If you didn't own a copy of Thriller--an original copy, on vinyl--whose cover you dragged around everywhere or studied endlessly or pinned to your wall. If you didn't, as a child, dance around your room or your living room to "Beat It" and feel cool. If you didn't see a man moonwalk. If you didn't or didn't know anyone who owned and wore a single glove, preferably a perfect replica--white with silver sequins. If you didn't. But in a few cases, maybe it wasn't Thriller. Maybe it was Bad or even something later. All I'm saying is, if you didn't have a certain childhood memory that you can associate with him, before he was an abstract concept, a tabloid conceit...then you probably can't relate. But for some of us, he was a "strand of our cultural DNA," as John Mayer put it.
Or as Touré said the day of, "If you remember Michael Jackson as a weirdo you didn't know him. There was a long, beautiful, groundbreaking career before all that stuff."
Everyone knows the basic story--boys raised by a tyrannical father to be perfect entertainers, and yes, they became famous, but then one struck out on his own and became the glory of the world. And then, the world turned on him. "Well, I can see that," the world said, when allegations turned from the merely eccentric to the criminal. The world is full of armchair psychologists.
The criminal allegations always have unsettled me. Part of me doesn't want to believe, because he was such an important part of my foundation, of my childhood. Part of me doesn't want to believe because I believe that many people will say and do many things for monetary gain. Part of me doesn't want to believe because I can be an armchair psychologist, too. He was a performer by age five, robbed of a childhood. It made sense that he'd relate on a childlike level, that he'd relate better to children. And further, in the case that went to trial, the prosecution's witnesses were problematic to say the least. But for all we know or think we know, we may never know for sure and that is unsettling on its own.
[At this point, I should admit that I have been friendly with someone who was instrumental in his acquittal.]
And of course, as if the allegations weren't bad enough, there was the matter and no small one at that, of his appearance. Allow me to relax into my armchair again and I'll postulate that perhaps rather than see Joe Jackson in the mirror, his children mutilated their faces. But again--I, you, most of us will likely never know for sure. All that is to be known now is that the face so many of us looked upon as children with heart-swelling love became one many of us couldn't stand to see as we grew older. But you know this story. It too became part of the strand of our cultural DNA. The glory of the world transformed by psychic burdens into the star of our cultural midway. And now, sic transit gloria mundi.
That's the story the world knows.
There have been several finger-waggers, some within my own circles of friends, who have asked, where was this outpouring of love when he needed us? But realistically, what could we, as people who did not truly know him, do? If I'd shown up at his doorstep claiming I wanted to help him, I'd be in the hoosegow or the nervous hospital by dusk. Even the people closest to him were often helpless and of course, some of the people close to him were undoubtedly motivated by their own greed. I don't think any of us can imagine what it's like living in a world where so many people that you encounter are walking balls of need. As Andrew Sullivan wrote:
"Watching him change his race, his age, and almost his gender, you saw a tortured soul seeking what the rest of us take for granted: a normal life.
But he had no compass to find one; no real friends to support and advise him; and money and fame imprisoned him in the delusions of narcissism and self-indulgence. Of course, he bears responsibility for his bizarre life. But the damage done to him by his own family and then by all those motivated more by money and power than by faith and love was irreparable in the end. He died a while ago. He remained for so long a walking human shell."
Many of us didn't consciously understand this, that he had splintered his soul, until we woke up the day after and felt the void in ourselves where a part of him had lodged. Maybe that empty feeling is also guilt--that we took him for granted, that we turned our backs on him, that we grew up, that we were able to grow up.
It's yet another thing I don't know for sure, of course. All I know is that if the Tralfamadorians are right and we exist in all time simultaneously, then it makes me happy that somewhere right now, I am a little girl dancing to "Beat It" and I feel cool. And it makes me happy that maybe he knows--that wherever he is, he knows that I couldn't imagine my childhood without him, nor would I want to.
Off-lj words I've enjoyed:
The Thrill Is Gone, Jezebel: And that voice. My god, that voice.
When A Superstar Dies, Everybody Gets To Be A Jerk Or A Poet For 15 Minutes, Jezebel: For many of us, I think, Michael Jackson was the first person outside of our immediate families that we really fell in love with...We loved him because he was so unlike anyone else. And when he suddenly became someone else, through the surgeries and the revelations about his personal life, we do what people always do when they lose an early love: we shut the door and said things like, "I was a kid, and that was a long time ago."
We Can Rock Forever, Fourfour: I'd never give the public that much credit if I hadn't observed countless examples of the unmitigated joy that results en masse when anything from Thriller is played at a party, no matter the attendees, no matter the occasion and still to this day.
An Open Letter To Those Who Insult Michael Jackson, Tremendous News: The lesson is simple. Michael Jackson was an icon. He did more for the world of music than you’ll ever do for the world of douchebaggyness.
I-Mockery's Tribute To Thriller, the video
Or as Touré said the day of, "If you remember Michael Jackson as a weirdo you didn't know him. There was a long, beautiful, groundbreaking career before all that stuff."
Everyone knows the basic story--boys raised by a tyrannical father to be perfect entertainers, and yes, they became famous, but then one struck out on his own and became the glory of the world. And then, the world turned on him. "Well, I can see that," the world said, when allegations turned from the merely eccentric to the criminal. The world is full of armchair psychologists.
The criminal allegations always have unsettled me. Part of me doesn't want to believe, because he was such an important part of my foundation, of my childhood. Part of me doesn't want to believe because I believe that many people will say and do many things for monetary gain. Part of me doesn't want to believe because I can be an armchair psychologist, too. He was a performer by age five, robbed of a childhood. It made sense that he'd relate on a childlike level, that he'd relate better to children. And further, in the case that went to trial, the prosecution's witnesses were problematic to say the least. But for all we know or think we know, we may never know for sure and that is unsettling on its own.
[At this point, I should admit that I have been friendly with someone who was instrumental in his acquittal.]
And of course, as if the allegations weren't bad enough, there was the matter and no small one at that, of his appearance. Allow me to relax into my armchair again and I'll postulate that perhaps rather than see Joe Jackson in the mirror, his children mutilated their faces. But again--I, you, most of us will likely never know for sure. All that is to be known now is that the face so many of us looked upon as children with heart-swelling love became one many of us couldn't stand to see as we grew older. But you know this story. It too became part of the strand of our cultural DNA. The glory of the world transformed by psychic burdens into the star of our cultural midway. And now, sic transit gloria mundi.
That's the story the world knows.
There have been several finger-waggers, some within my own circles of friends, who have asked, where was this outpouring of love when he needed us? But realistically, what could we, as people who did not truly know him, do? If I'd shown up at his doorstep claiming I wanted to help him, I'd be in the hoosegow or the nervous hospital by dusk. Even the people closest to him were often helpless and of course, some of the people close to him were undoubtedly motivated by their own greed. I don't think any of us can imagine what it's like living in a world where so many people that you encounter are walking balls of need. As Andrew Sullivan wrote:
"Watching him change his race, his age, and almost his gender, you saw a tortured soul seeking what the rest of us take for granted: a normal life.
But he had no compass to find one; no real friends to support and advise him; and money and fame imprisoned him in the delusions of narcissism and self-indulgence. Of course, he bears responsibility for his bizarre life. But the damage done to him by his own family and then by all those motivated more by money and power than by faith and love was irreparable in the end. He died a while ago. He remained for so long a walking human shell."
Many of us didn't consciously understand this, that he had splintered his soul, until we woke up the day after and felt the void in ourselves where a part of him had lodged. Maybe that empty feeling is also guilt--that we took him for granted, that we turned our backs on him, that we grew up, that we were able to grow up.
It's yet another thing I don't know for sure, of course. All I know is that if the Tralfamadorians are right and we exist in all time simultaneously, then it makes me happy that somewhere right now, I am a little girl dancing to "Beat It" and I feel cool. And it makes me happy that maybe he knows--that wherever he is, he knows that I couldn't imagine my childhood without him, nor would I want to.
Off-lj words I've enjoyed:
The Thrill Is Gone, Jezebel: And that voice. My god, that voice.
When A Superstar Dies, Everybody Gets To Be A Jerk Or A Poet For 15 Minutes, Jezebel: For many of us, I think, Michael Jackson was the first person outside of our immediate families that we really fell in love with...We loved him because he was so unlike anyone else. And when he suddenly became someone else, through the surgeries and the revelations about his personal life, we do what people always do when they lose an early love: we shut the door and said things like, "I was a kid, and that was a long time ago."
We Can Rock Forever, Fourfour: I'd never give the public that much credit if I hadn't observed countless examples of the unmitigated joy that results en masse when anything from Thriller is played at a party, no matter the attendees, no matter the occasion and still to this day.
An Open Letter To Those Who Insult Michael Jackson, Tremendous News: The lesson is simple. Michael Jackson was an icon. He did more for the world of music than you’ll ever do for the world of douchebaggyness.
I-Mockery's Tribute To Thriller, the video
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I would never have thought that MJ's death could turn so many of my LJ friends into total douchebags, but hey it did! It is nice to see something well-reasoned on the topic.
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