I stepped into The Tobacco Store on University Place this morning to grab a copy of the newspaper. While I was in there, another gent was busily snapping up a copy of each magazine festooned with the doe-eyed visage of the late Michael Jackson. Suffice to say, by the end of it, he had amassed a rather stately stack of mags, including People, Us, Rolling Stone, Q, Newsweek, TIME, OK and handfuls of others. "More Michael Jackson, eh?" giggled the man behind the counter. The MJ-archivist smiled. "I must," he gravely intoned," .... he was the King of Pop!" I glanced down at the copy of the New York Post I was waiting to pay for and sneered. A Michael Jackson story was on the front page there too.
It's now been about three weeks since Michael Jackson unceremoniously moonwalked off this mortal coil. I wasn't going to mention it here at first being that (a) there was more than enough information about the event elsewhere and (b) I simply don't really care that much. Without trying to sound needlessly callous, I was never really a fan. I've never owned a Michael Jackson album. To be perfectly honest, the music that spoke to me when I was growing up served as the antidote to the slick, meaningless and maddeningly ubiquitous sonic product of Michael Jackson. Sure, he could dance and sing and all that, but so could a whole lot of other artists. I just didn't think he was really all that great, or at least not nearly as great as so many people seem desperately intent on telling me he was. I've also always been turned off by Jackson's ludicrous grandiosity. That might sound a bit rich coming from an avowed fan of Kiss, but I can forgive Kiss because -- at the end of the day -- Kiss rocked. Michael Jackson -- try though he might -- just did not. Certainly not to my ears, anyway.
But, of course, it should be remembered that the appreciation of music is entirely subjective. While I may not have heard anything exceptional in "Dirty Diana" or "P.Y.T." or ____________ (insert name of slavishly overrated MJ anthem of your choice here), others certainly did. As such, while I still think the self-appointed King of Pop's (alleged) infamous extracurricular activities render the merits of his musical oeuvre rather moot, I can still recognize the need of his nation of fans to mourn their idol's sudden passing. His music meant a great deal to an incalculable number of people. They're entitled to grieve.
But, really, let's all get ahold of ourselves now, shall we? For some reason, the media are still buzzing about it, three weeks after the fact. I can't seem to walk down the street without being confronted by some bit of Jackson ephemera. Yesterday, I was sent a poll on Facebook asking me whether or not I think Michael Jackson should get his own national holiday (my favorite response thus far: "Not unless James Brown gets one too.") It's the story that simply will not...er...die.
I will say this, however. During a long train trip last week, "Can You Feel It?" by the Jacksons came on in a random shuffle on my iPod (yes, I downloaded it at one point after divining that its bass line acted as the infectious main sample in the rather bizarre 1998 single, "Feel It [Blunt Edit] by Tamperer). While I may have been leading the charge in decrying the slavish revisionism and media over-saturation regarding the death of Michael Jackson, I have to admit that the song -- featuring prominent contributions by the formerly gloved one -- is pretty damn great (check out its entirely ridiculous video here). As I grooved, I felt a twinge of guilt.
So yeah, Michael Jackson was an insanely damaged and fairly creepy individual who probably molested a few little kids, but ... he did have his moments. Can we move on now?
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