LUCIDMEDIA

The King of Pop, Dead at 50

Written by Adam A. Donaldson Friday, 26 June 2009 09:06

Pop. Nadine Bachan looks at the death and life of one of the last, great titans of the music industry while Catherine Kustanczy recalls how the man’s music influenced her and other children of the 80s.

The Phenomenon Lost

Written By Nadine Bachan

Tragic news surfaced on Thursday afternoon that singer Michael Jackson has passed away from cardiac arrest at the age of 50. Reports indicate that the pop star was in a coma when paramedics arrived at his mansion in Los Angeles. The actual cause of death is still unclear. There is currently an open investigation being conducted by the LAPD.

In his life, Jackson was more than a superstar, he was such a success at the peak of his career that he was a musical entity all his own and he was such an extraordinary talent that the music world may never witness his type again. From his beginnings as the youngest member of the family band The Jackson 5 he wowed the world with his beautiful voice and incredible stage presence at the tender age of 8. With The Jackson 5, he was the voice behind several hits, including “I Want You Back,” “I’ll Be There,” and “Shake Your Body (Down to the Ground).”

His star continued the rise as he grew older, breaking away from the band and embarking on a solo career, which began in 1972. He solidified his place in music and pop culture history with a number of chart-topping albums (Off the Wall, Thriller, Bad) and hits including “Ben,” Rock With You,” “Billie Jean,” “Beat It,” “Bad,” “Thriller,” “We Are the World,” “Dirty Diana,” “Smooth Criminal,” “Black or White,” and “Heal the World” among so many others.

Wearing a white, rhinestoned glove and an emblazoned military jacket, Michael never failed to impress with his unique, high-energy performances, bestowing upon dancers and imitators everywhere his signature moves, including the famous Moonwalk. The Neverland Ranch, the constant headlines in the tabloids, a short marriage to Elvis Presley’s daughter, massive spending habits, and Bubbles the chimpanzee transformed him into someone who was perceived as ‘otherworldly,’ and he became a bizarre and quite sad example of what superstardom does to a person.

Many past and contemporary musicians have cited Jackson as an inspiration and dreamed of meeting and working with him. You can clearly see his influence in the way singers perform today with Justin Timberlake and Usher in particular seeming to channel The King of Pop as they sing and glide across the dance floor. All over the world, he had thousands upon thousands of teary-eyed, die-hard fans who were more than just extremists – they saw him as a God-sent phenomenon. That is the kind of rare power Jackson had.

His more recent years have been peppered with bizarre tales and the fodder of comedy, but his fans remained vigilant that the superstar would rise again. In that light, his untimely death is even more tragic as people were excited about Jackson’s planned concert series and hopefully career-reviving 50 show performances in London. Despite rumours of delays, many had hoped Jackson would be true to his word. At his age, anything was possible. Fans believed he still had much to offer the world.  

Michael Jackson may always be remembered for a lot of things: his eccentric ways, his medical history, his rumoured personal life, and his much-parodied decline into a recluse, what matters most is that his fans will remember the King of Pop and his music. They, and the music world, will miss him dearly.

The Music Wins Out Over Scandal

Written By Catherine Kustanczy

I can’t say I have a first memory of Michael Jackson; it’s just as if he was there all along. A ghost, crooning in his high-pitched wail and spinning through summers filled with popsicles, and too many pratfalls practicing a moonwalk.

I remember the mad hype that greeted Thriller at its release. As a child of the 1980s, Jackson was the entertainer of his day; with his cool white glove and slick dances moves, he made suburban kids like me want to boogie, shimmy, and shake. He was also safe enough for suburban parents to approve of, coming as he did from the squeaky-clean, sanitized pop of The Jackson 5. There was no come-hither dirtyness of James Brown (the crotch-grab had yet to make an appearance) or the spaced-out musings of George Clinton. Jackson was the epitome of America, and Motown especially, his sound pure soul, his countenance pure pop. His leanings to vanilla became physically more manifest as time wore on, but in the late 70s and early 80s, us kids didn’t notice or care. Michael could dance.

Of course, in retrospect, “Billie Jean” was –and remains –a nasty piece of business lyrically, but us kids had no idea what he was talking about. We were more interested in the groovy bass-meets-percussion beat, and that awfully cool video of Jackson making the floor bright with a footstep on the newly-created music video channel. He was cool, he was clean, and there was something we related to. Michael was our man, for our generation. He didn’t just sing for Pepsi. He sang for us.

Jackson was also one of the forerunners of the music video generation. When MTV, and then MuchMusic, first came into being, Jackson was one of the things we ran to see. As he grooved in his pleather suit and magically lit up the squares onscreen, my friends and I would groove in a mad kind of tribal celebration. Michael lit up our little suburban lives with two shots of groove, one shot of sass –and a handy little white glove, a mark of class and coolness, nobility and untouchability, theatricality and vulnerability. We understood on a grooving, unrealized primal level. Feet lead the heart back then. King, Child, Magician, Conjurer, Mr. Bojangles come alive without strings or tricks –and at that point, we knew nothing of Pappa Joe or the backstage tribulations that would come to haunt him. Time seemed endless and the electro-beats of Thriller were our lifeline.

When the fantasmo-zombie kicks of the “Thriller” music video made its debut on Halloween night, we ran to our television sets. Trick-or-treating got put off and we sat, in full make-up and wiggery, waiting, agog and twitchy, mute and shouty, waiting for our man. It was weird, it was creepy, it was a Very Big Event. It scared the crap out of me, but it was weirdly compelling. The video, with its assortment of well-choreographed corpses, captured the imaginations of a million suburban kids surrounded by newly-built malls and homogenous sprawl. Jackson lit up the night brighter than any firecracker, crooning for us to "Beat It" -beat the system, beat the boredom, beat the monsters in the closet and lying in wait in shut-down hearts and minds. His feet beat out a Morse-code only us kids heard: this isn't the way is has to be. Beat it. Beat like poetry, like fighting, like music, all at once.

He was as ubiquitous in the ‘Burbs as Shreddies at breakfast. If you didn't see him live, you could see him on the telly, his natural home, after all. He was everywhere. There were cheers at the Grammys. Squeals at the moonwalk. Big videos. Bigger live concerts. His dance moves were revolutions. Television –and by extension, Western culture –would never be the same.

High school came, and with it, guitars, amps, punk rock, metal, grunge. Michael who? Who cares? Who listens? Didn’t he used to be black? He pleaded for us to believe he was “bad” but he tried too hard; rebellion makes no such pronouncements, nor has such outright desperation. It was, rather, a rebuke to his father, talking in the mirror, a sad state of affairs: “I’m bad! I’m bad!! I even got Martin Scorcese to direct!” “Martin WHO?” we all said in unison.

The child-like wonder was gone, replaced with a harder awareness and more cruel assessment, but Michael was still living like Peter Pan, communing with chimpanzees and marrying the truck driver’s daughter. Boy, Wonder, Wannabe Rock Star singing to his Dirty Diana, with Slash at his side or Liz Taylor on his arm. Invading Heroes Square in Budapest, a relentless narcissism, creative in-breeding, too many ‘yes’ people and hissing oxygen tanks, ranking himself among the mighty. He was pale and painfully self-unaware, a perennially smooth-faced boy-man, no "Smooth Criminal" and never the badass he so wanted to be. So he stayed young, or tried to. The perpetual innocent went head-to-head with the unabashed egomaniac and we turned our backs.

And then came the charges he’d taken the Peter Pan too far, directing wishes to hands to children. A step too far and so far removed. I remember being in Copenhagen listening to U2’s Zoo-TV live from Dublin on the radio, and hearing Bono say, “you’re not Bad… you've been deemed guilty before being given a chance...” Vulnerability recognized itself and saluted.

On a cold, late-summer Copenhagen night, tears welled up and suddenly the dance moves and memories of one-gloved Halloweens and television-squealing came back: the joy, the exhilaration and all the time stopping in the moments between the beats. Concern for being cool, for being angry, or for kicking out... vanished, and was replaced with joy. No ego... just sound and light and wonder. I remembered dancing in my empty garage with the ghetto blaster blaring for hours on end, pointing at cobwebs as if they were sets of eyeballs, staring at me. Michael would go on tiptoe and the world would stop. I remembered those days amidst a starry Scandinavian night.

But time moves on from its heroes. We thought he should be humble, but Michael never bowed, except to his own image his handlers presented back. What happened to the boy I loved who crooned “I wanna rock with you”… ? He turned his face into something I didn’t recognize. We loved him the way he was -but he didn't, and he posted his heartbreak across his ever-changing mug. His Motown-meets-modern world sound morphed into music for the dental office. He moved on, or tried to. He was a big smash, and a car crash, all at once. Ongoing court dates, a threatened bankruptcy, a Neverland that never was, revealing interviews and backstabbing friends. Not to mention failed marriages, children, and baby-dangling. The spotlight became Michael’s cocaine, and we were his rolled-up $100 bill.

I don’t remember when Michael left my consciousness, but I wrote him off as an eccentric a la Howard Hughes. For his children, I felt grief; for his relatives, I felt contempt. And for his die-hard fans, it was always a sense of wonder. How did they maintain such faith with such commitment? A school acquaintance had seen Michael multiple times and had a trophy case filled with mementoes which she showed off to me during a party, as if it was her own child’s. She and her sister ran the Canadian MJ fan club and even through the scandals, the skin dyes, the sensationalism, they never lost their faith. What was it –is it –about this man, this boy-child, moonwalking between the worlds of black, white, dance, disco, rock, pop, art, image and sound, that captures our heads and hearts?

I’m still trying to work it out. But a piece of my past died yesterday and along with it, a piece of America and its past –a piece worth celebrating, remembering, and most of all, dancing to. Rumours or not, “Billie Jean” has the greatest bass line in the history of music. Thriller, killer, pumped up and maxed out with a pink bow tie, his beautiful black self commanding the world with a wiggle of the glove –that is the sound of America, the groove of a nation, the rallying call for every suburban kid who saved up to buy a copy of Thriller. Michael’s my generation’s man, and we’ll always remember him this way.