| | Twice now, my father has been borne news of unexpected death. Getting home later than the rest of the family results in catching more recent news on the radio, and so he manages to surprise those of us who have been away from our computers for a few hours. He was the first of us to hear about Heath Ledger’s death a year ago January, and I’ve written here about my reaction of surreal incredulity. When evening arrived a week ago Thursday, Farrah Fawcett’s passing was old news, but Dad still managed to throw us a curveball: Michael Jackson had died at the age of fifty. The surprise hit me then, and I questioned Dad just as I had with Ledger—he couldn’t have died today, because I would have heard about it. And just like with Ledger, my father was proven right. Except this time around I was at a loss as to why the whole world cared. It’s hardly an insight to say that celebrities die every day, just like regular people do, and the attention they receive upon their passing seems to depend on a combination of their prominence, their age, and the circumstances surrounding their final moments. Heath Ledger was big news to me; a young, vivacious man who was an active part of the popular culture of my generation went much too soon. Paul Newman was worth noting, too; here was a great actor and a model citizen who had lived a long, full life. But once I got over the initial surprise of Michael Jackson’s death, I really didn’t spend any more time thinking about it. The man wasn’t young, first of all; he wasn’t old, certainly, but I don’t know that his cardiac arrest was the biggest of surprises, seeing as how his very appearance in recent years seemed to indicate a decline that was more than a little unsettling. Most importantly, I had casually assumed that the world had largely ceased to care about Michael Jackson. Sure, he was the king of pop; sure, Thriler was quite possibly the last great cultural phenomenon, but the album came out the year before I was born. By the time I was in elementary school, the genius versus wacko argument had already begun: I remember a classmate who thought the man was, well, the man, and I was loath to bestow such praise on someone when I couldn’t understand how he had once been black and now was not. In recent years, Michael had become an occasional talk show punch line from whom only eccentricity was expected. As far as I was concerned, the biggest consequence of his death would be the absence of the inevitable string of comeback tours. I assumed the rest of the world would share my view, vaguely sad at an icon’s passing but almost relieved that I wouldn’t have to watch him grasp at vanishing fame as he got older. I was wrong. Starting on the evening of his death, I couldn’t listen to the radio without hearing a Michael Jackson song, with DJs and listeners alike talking fondly of their favorite MJ moment. Websites crashed with internet traffic, mourning happened all over the world, and all around me I was witnessing the shockwave that comes with a royal death: the king was dead. And still I couldn’t quite understand it, couldn’t grasp why anyone was so upset, couldn’t fathom why the audience at his 2001 anniversary concert included children under ten and men over fifty. To like the guy’s music was one thing, but to love him unconditionally even after he’d descended into debt and drugs. Why? What did Michael Jackson do to transform the world like this? I’ve come across an answer now, or at least a partial one, after being involuntarily exposed to the life and legacy of Michael Jackson over the last week. It started that Thursday night, when listening to the radio during a twenty-minute drive showed me how many of his songs I actually enjoyed. Then my brother left Vh1 Classic on all weekend, and my mother told me to tape the video retrospective they were showing, and I got to see how Michael could really, truly, unbelievably dance, how every movement of his seemed otherworldly even when he was surrounded by backup dancers, how witnessing something like that evoked a response in me, just like dancing always has. Then a radio morning show likened the impact of Michael’s passing to the impact of Elvis’s passing on the generation before me, and I started to get it. When I was standing in a Barnes & Noble yesterday, listening to Michael over the store speakers and watching people literally dancing in the aisles, I was sure I was right: Michael did change the world. Twenty years ago he gave us music to which we couldn’t help but move, and then he showed us moves that blew our mind. There’s simply no discounting that, just as Elvis can’t be ignored just because his life crumbled around him. I may never have a well-formed opinion of the man who was Michael Jackson, and I may never spend enough time thinking about it to really form one. I will, however, always admire Michael the musician and Michael the dancer, and because of that I know now why he will be missed. |
