Notes on a Private Moment of a Public Death

  Michael Jackson dead at fifty. There are so many shocks contained in that statement: when did he become fifty? With no disrespect Jerry Lee Lewis is 73, Little Richard is reportedly 76, Eric Clapton is a surprising 64, Brian Wilson is 67. It is largely the improbability of the event that is the most shocking. As the circus winds its way up to Neverland or the Staple Center, the story itself is on the verge of exhaustion. Air travel is a great time to reflect and listen and I did coming back from Mexico City.

It must be noted that as to question of where were you when you heard the news of Michael Jackson’s death, it is a strange story. In the sub-tropical jungle of Alta Vista in Mexico, a location known as a highly spiritual junction with ancient petroglyph markings, a guide who spoke very little English broke the news as we headed down an extremely long road.  For over two hours the question lurked in every step: was this real? Only upon arrival in the Puerto Vallarta, did verification come from a somewhat lackadaisical hotel manager.

Celebrity deaths affect us in different ways. Farah Fawcett, who died the same day, did not provoke the same disbelief and sadness, perhaps because we were much better prepared for her departure. Jackson’s death seeped into dreams and it has taken days to accept. There was and is, something astonishing about his death. Where were the psychics? (LeToya Jackson claims to be psychic.)

Michael Jackson had a fierce, gifted energy, and though I cannot claim to own any CDs (ironically, I do now) I was in many ways a fan. It began for me on that night in 1982, when on television, live from the Apollo Theatre Michael took the stage and the world by storm. It was as if he had come out of nowhere at least for me. I was never a fan of the Jackson Five, the music, the songs, even Michael voice just  seemed adolescent. And it was. That night at the Apollo was Michael’s coming out party; he made the transition from boy to star in three short minutes. And it remained that way: we always had to watch, no matter what, Michael was a star, in so many ways. He was compelling as public figure: a changing face and image, court battles, peculiar marriages and always, his stage presence. There was only one Michael Jackson.

Musically, Michael’s music was driving, kinetic and relentlessly rhythm driven. His songs were operatic moments. What I always remember about listening to Michael Jackson was that his sound was the best in the world: the best producer, musicians, engineers and songwriters that money could buy. The production values were and still are are, simply the best. And then there was the voice,  His singing voice was the polar opposite of his speaking voice. The speaking voice was always demure, shy, slightly feminine and predictably young. The singing voice was defiant,  aggressive and confident. For some curious reason, I t was hard to believe Michael Jackson in interviews. His speaking voice seemed disingenuous. But the singing voice, even if if it was singing about a loving a girl or saving the world, somehow, you believed every second of it.

As a songwriter, it was difficult to understand his process He was not known to play piano or guitar, although he was rumored to play bongos as a child. And yet he managed some of the greatest pop songs ever written, though unlike most pop songs, they are not particularly karaoke-kind. His songs were ultimately written for his unique voice and talent, even when he wasn’t the songwriter. The other factor, which mentioned is usually mentioned in a casual way is the Michael’s producer on his major hits was the legendary Quincy Jones. Without Quincy, one can seriously doubt we would have been so moved by his music.

 Michael Jackson was in the end, that thing that celebrity becomes—­aloof, eccentric and unwilling to see the rules that most of us play by. His sexuality, which has been discussed very little in the press, should have been something detected in his music. Maybe it was. “Remember the Time” is an urgent, passionate song. It is laced with numerous “girl” as are almost all Jackson songs. But biographical? One wonders.

That Jackson was a kind of pederast is not in doubt. To what extent, we may never know. What is certain is that in his lyrics, one never suspects adult love. It was part of his persona, one that he created, of never growing up. What has escaped the public’s attention in this tragedy is Michael Jackson’s responsibility in creating it. Diprivan? His superstar appetite wouldn’t allow for a normal sleeping pill?

I am going to confess that I cried at times, and I’m not sure why. Walking through the parks in Mexico City, people would have televisions playing his videos, with small groups huddled watching. It was just sad, completely, painfully sad. For most us, he represented an era, a time, and a sound.  Yet he came and went with a larger message.  A message about celebrity, the unrelenting desire to change one’s appearance (where were these so-called good friends?) because being genuine was never part of his personality in his later years. There has been a chorus recently of  “leave him alone”, which suggests that we end speculation and investigation into his life as we mourn his death. Why should he get off so easily? It wasn’t as first reported, a heart attack. It was a man, apparently deep into drugs most of us have never even heard have. So yes, while we mourn, we should not forget this was not an act of God, no matter what anyone thinks.