The death of Michael Jackson had an unexpected effect on me. It made me do something I didn’t think I’d ever do again. I purchased Q magazine. Not because I was very sad about his death, I don’t subscribe to emotional outbursts over strangers, and not because I was a big fan. I was just interested in reading an article printed just before his death, to get some much needed perspective amongst the sobbing and adulation.
It is a fairly good article, treading the fine line between ignoring how nuts he was and being a hatchet job. It was also a nice piece of good fortune for Q that they chose to share cover space with Jackson and an article about dead rock stars. Maybe they had him killed. The conspiracy starts here.
The thing that strikes me most about Jackson’s death is how much respect is being showered on him by the press. This is the same media outlets that have pilloried the man for the last 15 years and were waiting with expectant pens for his big comeback concerts to be a disaster. And the same goes for all the music industry phonies that leapt to his defence since his death. A bit late it would seem. The early reports suggest that stress and prescription drug addition were the killers. Maybe Jackson would have been better off if his music industry chums had leapt to his defence whilst he was still alive. The same goes for the insane fan brigade. Treating an ill man like the messiah is hardly going to put him on a stable footing. The sad thing about Jackson wasn’t his death, it was his tragic life.
The phrase “King of Pop” must have been used a billion times since his death. But was he? I don’t deny the quality behind Off The Wall and Thriller, but be honest, he hasn’t produced a decent record for 22 years (I’m grudgingly including Bad in the good stuff). In many ways he has been a pure tabloid construct for most of that time. Accusations of paedophilia, a dubious relationship with a chimp, alleged obsession with Elizabeth Taylor and buying the Elephant Man’s head have been the stories surrounding the man, not his music. Even his comeback was a ridiculous folly. 50 dates at one venue, dogged by delays, stories of Jackson’s reluctance to play and the smell of one-upmanship (over Prince’s 30 odd date run) overshadowed the magical comeback.
People stress the enormous quantities of Thriller sold as a justification for the Diana-style outpourings after his death. But selling a lot of copies of an album is hardly relevant. Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours was the biggest selling album before Thriller came out. I doubt it would make the front page if Lindsey Buckingham exploded tomorrow. And if all the Backstreet Boys bit the dust it wouldn’t matter that they have an all time top ten album, most people wouldn’t care. Except, I hope, the people who knew them, which is how it should be.
His records are occupying almost every position in the charts since his death. What is that about? My favourite recording artist is Robert Pollard (the former Guided By Voices front man). He is a fantastic songwriter and also a brilliant live performer. If he died tomorrow I’d be a little sad, but I probably wouldn’t shed a tear. And I wouldn’t buy his records. I’ve got all the ones I want already. Because it makes sense to support him while he’s alive.
So, if you are an obsessive Jacko fan, get some perspective. He recorded some good records and had an amazingly weird and pretty sad life.
By Dorian Rogers, June 2009
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