It is not possible for me to write coherently of Michael Jackson, so conflicted are my feelings. I am old enough to remember the remarkable, young golden child of the Jackson 5 and my teen years are forever permeated by the echoes of Thriller. For me, it was always a kind of love-hate relationship. I was a Prince fan and, as such, considered his superiority over Michael Jackson, who, after all, was an entertainer extraordinaire but certainly not a musician, scarcely worthy of debate. That Thriller got more love than Purple Rain bothered me to no end. That Bad received more pub than Sign O The Times still amazes me. Prince was an artist. Michael Jackson was product.
But what product! The songs from Thriller will live forever, whether I like it or not. Truth be told, to my ears, “Beat It” remains a transcendent song to this day. And I can say I remember where I was the night I saw Jackson perform the Moonwalk on a Motown anniversary special. That was a moment that I imagine must be akin to The Beatles first performance on the Ed Sullivan Show. For anyone reading this who is too young to remember the night Michael moonwalked into the cultural stratosphere, I can only say you had to be there. Anyone who saw it can vouch for me. For a time, in the mid-eighties, Michael Jackson was the most recognizable, most popular person in the world.
His fall was not as dramatic as you may read about in other publications. Musically, with the exception of 1992’s excellent Dangerous, it was downhill after Thriller. Personally, the whispers of Jackson’s weirdness were already there by 1983. What transpired during the 1990’s was more sad than unexpected. I offer no solid argument that Jackson indeed molested children; but the fact he paid the first complaintant $22 million dollars to drop charges is, to my mind, very damning. The fact that he managed to get himself in hot water over the same issue less than five years later is simply astounding. The 60 Minutes interview he granted to Ed Bradley during the time of his molestation trial attests to his profound naitivite, incredible arrogance, or both.
His last years appear to have been an exercise in self-cannibalisation. Jackson fed off his fame and as much of the world lost interest in his strangeness, he became my generation’s Elvis. I write this with no glee. There is no joy in watching a supremely talented individual slowly kill himself. Indeed, as Richard Corliss writes in his excellent Time essay, the last years of Michael’s life, now that there is no one to pay for silence, will certainly be fully documented in minute detail. Every eccentricity, every prescription-drug overdose, every molestation accusation, it is all coming now. It will be the Jackson family who must bear the hurricane on the horizon.
So, I write this blog, attempting to sort out what it is I feel. I felt sadness when I heard he died. I have read the accounts of an abusive childhood- wait a minute, he had no childhood. I have the music he released, music which still makes want to dance and which brings to mind a much simpler time in my life. I am aware of the terrible accusations and, in all honesty, believe that they are, in some measure, true. And yes, I am troubled by my own hypocrisy: condemning him while continuing to play his music. With Michael Jackson, it seems, nothing is easy.
As I mentioned earlier, Richard Corliss has written a poignant essay about Jackson, one which I urge you to read. It is well worth your time.
I’m back from a week’s vacation in my hometown of Dallas. It was family-intensive; I wasn’t able to see everyone I wanted. However, my time there was well spent and very enjoyable. My family is good, my grandma is “still kickin” and the Rangers are red-hot. We sat through an endless rain-delay before Texas manhandled the New York Yankees. Good times. I caught an Italian Renaissance exhibit at the Kimball Art Museum and had tons of fun with the animals at the Ft. Worth Zoo. I miss Dallas. I suppose I always will.
Brian Alexander, of MSNBC.com, has written 
Enough of this. I talk and talk and talk about being a writer. Well, it’s time to write. Today. Here and now. For me, this is good; this is a purging of bad habits and an installation of discipline. Just write every day, write something… How many times have I read this in articles on the writing process? Simple enough, yes? I think so too.
