Being a Michael Jackson fan during the 90's and 00's was an exercise in surrealism that became more painful as time went on. One year before MJ died, you couldn’t get a person to admit tenderness for the man or his music, although we all saw the die-hards outside of his final go-round through the judicial circus relating to the unutterable nocturnal activities that he had been denying and running from since the early 90’s. We all saw them, and we all got to shake our heads in unison and say, “Poor silly bastards,” when what we were really thinking was, “Come on, Mike. I believe in you.”
I fell head-first into the pool of my MJ idolatry at what I am confident was the last great window of time when it was possible to do so, 1991-1992. In 1991, I was eight years old, and I was too innocent to care much about the face or the crotch-grabbing dance moves. My eyes were dazzled by glitter and sequins and effeminately masculine pop magic. (Of course, the irony that this was likely exactly how MJ would have hoped I would react to him had I ever met him in person is not lost on me.) Such is the wonder of childhood. You simply accept things. MJ used to be black, and he used to have an afro, and now he was much different, but does not an MJ by any other physical appearance dance as sweet?
I claim that my window was the last great window for two reasons: I became aware of MJ before the scandal erupted – the last wave of innocence, as it were. And I also was too young to appreciate the scandal when it did erupt. So when I saw MJ come on TV one morning from Neverland, looking pale under his shock of black hair and dressed in a scarlet shirt, talking about how the evil lawmen came to his house and invaded his privacy, even taking pictures of his penis (and my, how I did blush when I heard that), I did not recognize a desperate, panic-stricken man trying to beat the press meat-grinder to the punch. All I saw was my idol looking sad telling me that some judge had given the cops a warrant to search his junk.
While most of the rest of the world exclaimed one giant, “I KNEW it!” I carried on in my joyously oblivious world of preteen fandom. Worshipping in the privacy of my own Walkman was as easy as it had ever been, but witnessing for the glory of the King in public began to get the few social doors open to me slammed in my face at every turn. When I was given the responsibility (at 10 years old) of running the music at my elementary school cake walk and I discreetly swapped the cassette in the machine with my discreetly stashed copy of MJ’s “Bad,” (the only reason I miss cassettes was how portable and easily concealed they were, like hidden weapons loaded with bullets of rock and roll), and had the kindergartners cake-walking to “Dirty Diana,” I was swiftly relieved of my duties.
I got older, as did Michael. I watched as he married Lisa Marie, and I was glad for him because she was so pretty and a real woman who surely wouldn’t marry him if the allegations from a few years prior had been true. Again, I realize now that this is exactly what MJ wanted us to believe, but I was too naïve to see it that way. My heart still raced in anticipation every time an MJ special or performance was announced on TV, and I would be there with my finger over the record button of the VCR, waiting to capture it all for posterity.
I hadn’t grown up alongside MJ as my mom had, nor seen him spring into the public consciousness as a member of the Jackson 5 with the wizened eyes of an adult, as my dad had. MJ burst forth upon me with the weight of his mythology firmly in place. It was too much too soon and it was too late for me to let reason win out and kick him out of my heart forever, even as I matured into the capacity to understand more of the reality of MJ than I ever wanted to. As I saw the cracks in the crazy plastic façade of his life, his music, and his face (which I am convinced we will all one day learn the truth about), I turned like so many towards newer, less difficult objects of rock and roll adoration. But MJ was always there, sitting quietly in the back of my mind, weeping softly about the things he had learned: that love’s not possession, that love needs expression, and that it won’t wait. All of these things he learned too late, as did I. “Have you seen my childhood?” he would meekly ask, and I would reply in tones as soothing as I could muster that I had not, but that like so many of us around the world who had not forgotten, I was still looking.
When MJ announced the historic run of London concerts, my ears perked and my heart began to race. Could it possibly be that he was finally giving his fans something back for the years of torture he had subjected us to? The veil of MJ fandom shame had been lifted, and people all over the world held their breath in collective anticipation. It was beautiful to see how quickly all fifty London concerts sold out. Rehearsals for the massive new show were underway. There was a band, dancers, an entire production, and rumor had it that MJ was singing and dancing better than he had in years. That he was energized, excited, and passionate.
And then it was all over. MJ had fooled us again.
Like it tends to do, MJ’s death seemed to vindicate him of all sins, from his alleged crimes against children to his “Invincible” album. MJ memorabilia sold out all over the world, as did his music, which you know everyone already had anyway. I was happy for this outpouring of capitalist support, at least insomuch that it would show his family, both biological and fan, that we all really did still love MJ. That for those dark years he had been whispering to all of us.
I felt angry and cheated that the world never got to see the actual “This Is It” shows, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized that the timing was probably good for MJ to go out when he did, just to the left of the spotlight, having reawakened the sleeping leviathan of his legacy and once again taking the reins of his life. Fifty concerts is a lot for a man who hadn’t done a full show in almost a decade, and there’s no telling how it all would have gone, but MJ’s track record wasn’t the best. That he never got the chance to mess it all up may be one of the greatest cosmic blessings of his entire long career.
How can I live in a world post MJ? How can any of us? The shock wore into awe, which has worn into a dull acceptance. I have happy memories of my childhood, and MJ is a big part of that. From signing my autograph as MJ when I was 5 years old to tearing the plastic off my “Dangerous” cassette on Christmas morning 1991 and weathering all of the insanity that came later, when I think about MJ I always feel once more like that wide-eyed boy so blissfully unconcerned with everything but the music, and the magic. And when I listen to him today, I am still transported back to that place. That is what MJ means to me: innocence, joy, vanilla hard rock thrills, and a jump-start to the pop culture engine that runs my life even today. Would it have all come to pass without MJ? Perhaps, but it wouldn’t have been nearly as meaningful, sparkly, or filled with primal disco beats. I cannot speak for the world; I can only speak for me. And, MJ, from me to you, thank you. May you finally find your childhood, and claim your throne in the lusty pop hereafter.
Forever your fan,
Mark Schuster
No comments:
Post a Comment