It’s been a week and two days since Michael Jackson died. A week and two days is more than enough time to be thoroughly sick of tributes to Michael Jackson, of replays and photographs. But I’m sitting here, listening to him, and I’m thinking, I’m not done with Michael just yet. There were moments when this guy was simply, stunningly incandescent. And whether you’re grateful for it or not, there will never be anyone quite like him again.
I’ve been looking at pictures of him and the newer ones remind me of why being a Michael Jackson fan requires some courage these days. Sickly white, strangely clothed, and a little wild-eyed, Michael always seemed to be in the news for the wrong reasons.
It’s easy to forget he was never convicted for child abuse, or that he didn’t fling his kid over the balcony or that he did in fact claim to have vitiligo,a skin pigmentation disease. Call me naive, but I’d rather believe the guy who sang ‘it don’t matter if you’re black or white,’ really meant it. Still, sometimes it got so bad, you’d forget how jaw-dropping-cool he used to be.
It wasn’t a coincidence that the first boy I ever had a crush on promised to teach me how to do the moonwalk.
I had Michael Jackson posters on my wall – first from ‘Thriller’ – which was released 7 months before I was born – ‘Bad’ and finally ‘Dangerous.’ By then, the fan club was already pretty crowded - Michael Jordan, Paul McCartney, Diana Ross, Madonna, Elizabeth Taylor and American Presidents jostled for space beside droves of ardent, near hysterical fans. It sometimes felt like the whole world loved Michael Jackson.
I’ve got his 1983 “Motown 25” performance playing now. He’s singing “Billie Jean” and there’s a part of me that is amazed really, that Michael pulled it all off – his silver spangled glove, sequined shirt equally shiny jacket, those pants that never covered those socks, those thin spidery limbs being flung about with incredible precision to create those steps that you can’t quite believe; and then he debuts the moonwalk and you hear the crowd respond with cheers, no, with a deep primeval howl, that sound of worship that only a few entertainers can elicit from their audiences.
When you hear that sound, you know it’s because Michael Jackson really was a demigod. A God of stage and sound, of dance and pure pop.
You could see it right from the beginning. How could an 11 year -old know enough about love to sing “I Want You Back” with that much clear determination? He could make grown women falter with that grin.
He owned the stage he was strutting across, there was nothing hesitant about his singing. He was never a novelty, another child star waiting to erupt into acne, Michael it seemed, was born a star.
Later, as a teenager, Michael made me feel like a “Pretty Young Thing.” When he sang “Thriller” I wanted to and did do the zombie dance in crowded discos. “Bad” playing on my first walkman had me strutting down the street. Every time I heard “Baby Be Mine,” I fell a little more in love. Not so much with Michael, but with love itself.
When things started to go wrong, I remember tuning out. It’s always seemed the best choice, not to confuse the musician with the music.
I’d read somewhere that his pet Chimpanzee shared his loo, that his ranch had its own ferris wheel. Then the messy business with ‘comforting’ children started, and the only thing I remember taking away from that was a strange combination of disgust and pity. He seemed a child himself, quite unable to distinguish between appropriate and inappropriate behaviour.
I would catch myself wincing every time another ‘comeback’ fell short, when each new video showcasing the results of another hideous surgery (don’t surgeons ever say no?) was aired. Still, I was mildly envious of friends who were going for the concert. But we never got to see if this would be the time when he would, finally, make his comeback. He was only 50.
But in death, Michael is beloved by millions once more. Along with fans around the world, I held my wake for the King. I put “Thriller” on repeat, and looked at videos and photographs – the ones from “Smooth Criminal” are clear favourites, in which he looks like he has rubber joints instead of ankles.
The thing with celebrity deaths is that you don’t grieve for a person as much as for the person you were with them.
He made me want to dance, which is why I’m glad there’s a party at a friend’s place this week, and that Michael is the whole play list.
I’m going to go there and I’m going to dance like I haven’t in a long time.
After all, you can’t love dancing and not have loved Michael Jackson. |
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