Michael's Message

January 26, 2010

Ok...I mustered up enough will to rent and sit down to watch Michael Jackson's last performance documentary, "This is It." I emphasize the "muster" part, as it was difficult to bring myself to view the last living footage of a person so internally tormented. I will not detail, in this blog, the uneasiness I feel regarding the man's alleged sexual deviance-- as I do not want to feed into either side of the persecution, be it truth or falsehood. Instead, I choose to ink out this topic out of pity for the man's life under the rule of an industry so corrupt, a father so tyrannically abusive, and friends and hangers-on so sheepishly well-wishing.

Regardless of the tabloid rumors and allegations against the man, this was a person endowed with a gift most of us would barter with Satan to possess. His musical inspiration was just that...inspired. It was as if the man's own being was touched by some ethereal force, and the musical end result was instant satisfaction to the core.

This man's life and death mark an indictment of corporate greed. The industry surrounded him with mealy-mouthed sycophants all too quick to cater to his every whim, while simultaneously dousing his insides with consistently heavy doses of regulated meds to silence his cries. Then...the coup de grace...after his passing, the "estate" reaps even more of the benefits of his misfortune by circulating this final documentary. Commercial media sickly feeds into the frenzy, hyping it as a tribute!

As I sat there and watched the first 50 or so minutes of the film unfold, I found myself becoming more and more nauseatingly distressed. I had to cease my viewing...I couldn't watch anymore. I felt like a voyeur watching a "snuff" film of a man in an overtly pained state, moments before his own death. The media outlets touted this film as one of the best of its kind, and exclaimed Michael never looked more energetic-- leaving his own dancers, most 20 years or more his junior, in his frenzied dust, reminiscent of his heyday. I, on the other hand, the common viewer, saw a much different portrayal onscreen. I saw a skeletal figure of a person I once new as the "King of Pop" masquerade around dark sets with very fleeting energy. His comments were often so incoherent that subtitles were needed. I realize rehearsal does not require full-bore energy, nor does it enforce the entertainer to hit the marks-- but, Michael's performance during these sessions felt lifeless and flailing, as if he required resuscitation.

And, as we all gravely came to find out, Michael did need resuscitation. But, who would dare interrupt the money-making machine? Keep the talent, keep it quiet, and keep it green. As I iterate these thoughts, I'm turning green...with nausea. Michael was a product. His father saw the potential, raped it, his family enabled it, and the corporate machine ultimately digested it...so that all you could see at the end was a boy in a quasi-man's suit, grossly disfigured on the inside and out. He became a brand...a charicature of what he was supposed to be.

Rather than analyze the figure of Michael that was created and all of his various publicly branded pseudonyms, I choose to remember an individual so graced with an innate gift. I hope that, out there somewhere, beyond the American Idol auditions and the endless waves of pointless reality shows (both just bastardizations of early Motown and other empires of its kind), individuals exist with these gifts who have had parents strong enough to resist the fame / power push and parents strong-willed enough to grace their gifted children with choice. In this world, authenticity doesn't receive a golden ticket or the right to negotiate a multi-million dollar contract for ultimately abandoning a family of eight , wife not included. Authenticity is power, my friends. Michael had it-- unfortunately, it was discovered too young and without any regard for the individual possessing it.

Some people ultimately serve to simply...inspire.