Now that the Michael Jackson feeding frenzy has somewhat subsided, I thought I might chime in from the cloud of funk I’ve been walking around in of recent. Watching the school of piranha pick clean the already gaunt bones of M.J. was abhorrent, and other than catching about an hour of the memorial at the Staples Center on television, I refused to be a part of the debacle and the debate over his legacy. Frankly, I wasn’t really sure how I felt about Michael now, although I was a huge fan of his in my youth. We weren’t pals. I never met him. I never saw him in person. If I wanted to hang out with Mike, I played his music, sang his songs, danced his moves, or watched his videos. Now that he is dead, none of that has changed for me or the countless fans grappling with how they “feel” about Michael. My sympathies go out to those who actually called Michael their friend. Their loss must be profound.
As a white kid growing up in the 70‘s and 80‘s in Pennsylvania’s blue-collar coal and steel country, I heard two kinds of music on the radio: Classic Rock or Country. There weren’t any R&B stations. I was lucky enough to be exposed to Grand Funk, Led Zeppelin, Chicago, The Beatles, and The Carpenters by my father who listened to great music like those artists as well as Sly and the Family Stone, Stevie Wonder, Curtis Mayfield, and Earth, Wind, and Fire. I was exposed to and loved all kinds of music, but I was drawn to Soul and R&B.
I found a way to splice the wires from an old iron into the antenna of my stereo and use it as a rudimentary satellite dish so that I could listen to Power 99FM from Philadelphia who played “black music”, or as many of my fellow citizens, friends, and relatives preferred, “nigger music”. While my friends were listening to Iron Maiden, Judas Priest, and Ozzy, I was in my basement listening to Grand Master Flash, The Sugar Hill Gang, The Commodores, Prince, and M.J., learning all of Michael Jackson’s dance moves and break-dancing with my brother Tony. When combined with my proclamation that I was going to wait until I was in love to lose my virginity, these things became fodder for endless and brutal ball-busting, mockery, and more than my share of fisticuffs. That break-dancing and moon walking and “rapping” was shit white kids didn’t do.
My first week as a recently de-virginized Freshman in college (I waited until I was in love), I nearly came to blows with my 6’ 4”, 270 pound defensive tackle of a roommate and several other guys on my hall who had taken it upon themselves to draw mustaches on my Prince and Michael Jackson posters which I had hung on the wall in my dorm room. These were the same fuckers in junior high and high school who would step on my brand new, immaculately white sneakers as soon as I stepped foot in the school. You know those dick heads? Drawing mustaches on those posters was an even greater matter of disrespect. I was fit to be tied. The laughter and the mockery that ensued over my reaction to this “harmless” vandalization of my property was unnerving. It certainly wasn’t the first time I had been called “nigger lover”, but I naively thought that by going away to college I had somehow escaped a certain amount of ignorance. I knew in that hallway that I hadn’t.
Oddly enough, it was Michael Jackson who helped to turn a lot of that kind of racism on its ear. When he had Eddie Van Halen play guitar on “Beat It”, cultures collided, and before long Run DMC was bringing Aerosmith back from the dead, Metal and Rap were merging, white guys were spitting rhymes, and black guys were winning golf tournaments. An African-American became President of the United States. If Michael didn’t make it all happen, he certainly had a seat at the table of the cabal that did.
I don’t mourn the loss of Michael Jackson. He lived a life that non of us could imagine. It was tortured and blessed all at once, and it touched hundreds of millions of other lives. That is truly astounding. I mourn that he never found peace with his appearance nor, in all likelihood, his sexuality. I mourn what is to come, as every thing he ever did in his life will be scrutinized and exposed in an attempt to find the “real Michael Jackson”.
I doubt that even those closest to Michael Jackson ever really knew him. I doubt he ever truly knew himself. He was thrust into the spotlight and exploited at a very early age and never had a chance at a “normal” life. He was known and was loved around the world, and yet with the world at his fingertips, hated himself so much he chiseled away his beautiful face. Why would anyone do such a thing? Look at him on the cover of “Off The Wall” and tell me one thing he needed to change about himself. Even if you allow him a certain amount of celebrity vanity, what did he need to change about himself after “Thriller” sold a gozillion copies? Frankly, someone should have tackled him and taken him to see Dr. Phil. Even more frankly, before a child was ever left unattended overnight at Neverland, someone should have tackled Michael and said, “Yes Michael, you very well may be Peter Pan, but a grown man can’t sleep with children that aren’t his. Sorry.”
When you are given the moniker “King” of anything, you gain a privileged view, but lose a whole lot of perspective. Ultimately his fame, the media circus that surrounded him wherever he went and whatever bizarre thing he did, whosever sperm and eggs he claimed as his own, his financial woes, and his extremely poor decision making with respect to socially acceptable adult/child relations forced him into seclusion. In the middle of our War on Terror, he moved to the Middle East. How badly would you want to get away from the media to do that?
It’s been a bad year for my idols. The recent deaths of my favorite actor and philanthropic idol, Paul Newman, and of George Carlin, who influenced my thinking as greatly as any teacher, philosopher, politician, or artist ever has were sad, but knowing that each of those men had lived a long and amazing life filled with love and success, and that their art will live on make it difficult to mourn.
For those same reasons, I can’t mourn the loss of Michael Jackson. What have we really lost? His art survives and is selling as we speak, and his dance moves live on in white boys like me. It’s best that Michael left us with memories of him in his prime before he withered away as a decrepit shadow of a once mighty king.
Long live the King of Pop.
Chris “Breeze” Barczynski, moonwalker.