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June 26, 2009
Day After
Via Andy and Famous Friends.
Also: Fascinating perspective in this April 1984 New Republic essay by Michael Kinsley - tellingly entitled "The Prisoner of Commerce" - on Jackson's tragic corporatization. Check out the angry responses it provoked, too. Sharon Ladenson (age 10) told him good!
And, finally, the last word - over here, at least; and besides the music itself, thank god - the last word here comes from Rabbi Shmuley Boteach, who writes today in the Jerusalem Post about his relationship with his friend Michael Jackson. It's a must-read - MJ met Elie Wiesel? - because it gets exactly to the worries Kinsley is highlighting above. It's the sad denouement that we shoulda seen coming.
Excerpt:
Michael's death is not just a personal tragedy, it is an American tragedy. Michael's story was the stuff of the American dream - a poor black boy who grows up in Gary, Indiana, and ends up a billionaire entertainer. But we now know how the story ends. Money is not a currency by which we can purchase self-esteem and being recognized on the streets will never replace being loved unconditionally by family and true friends.
Ok. RIP. We'll remember how we were little, and how we sang along and danced to his music. That's ok.
--
POSTSCRIPT: Ok ok ok. Last one, for real. Hua Hsu in The Atlantic with the definitive take of what yesterday night felt like in New York:
We ended up in a hotel lobby. Our friends were there. Greetings were exchanged. Two television monitors above them confirmed that Michael was dead. I pointed above their heads and said that Michael Jackson had just died--there was a strange, sick thrill in the telling, in the preemption of the hail of texts, emails and phone calls they would soon be receiving. Whispers of cardiac arrest, requistite observations about how weird he had become, pledges to pour some out for the King of Pop. We walked down the street in search of a bar, and on the corner of 32nd and Broadway, a beefy gent in shades and a Yankee tanktop bumped "Wanna be Startin' Something" from his car.
This is precise and exact and much appreciated:
Jackson was one of the last figures of our time who could, in his very presence, describe the possibilities of pop. He wasn't just the King--he was the entire domain, the rules and regulations, the dream-horizon of the citizenry, the place where the land met the heavens. Jackson was one of the first (and last) artists whose new videos, tours and albums were actual, global events, as when he debuted his "Black or White" video in 1991 after an episode of The Simpsons. This was the cultural history of the pre-digital age: simultaneity, mass worship, millions sitting in front of their TVs at the exact same moment. (The closest analogue now: millions around the world, sitting in front of their computers, carefully recomposing Michael's Wikipedia entry the moments after his death was made official.)
Emphasis mine, clarity his. Finally, winding up at Von to hear Sammy and Joe play Michael records, Hsu writes:
A few hours later, walking down Mott Street. A disheveled older man, curled up in a doorway blurts out: "Excuse me...is Michael Jackson really dead?" Yes, he is. We walk on, wondering whether he has been asking everyone who passes the same question. Maybe we have ruined his life.
I want to have one more drink and listen to some Michael Jackson. And so we end up at Von, the glee of the Jackson 5 beckoning us past the doorman. Downstairs, DJ Eleven and Sammy Bananas refuse to play Michael too early, but by midnight, the night's will is too strong. "Blame it on the Boogie," "Enjoy Yourself," "Smooth Criminal," "So Glad to Be Here," "Billie Jean," so many more, all necessary in a life-or-death way...
For twenty or so minutes, everything is cool. The songs remind us of ourselves--this is why they are important. Studying my parents' copy of Thriller, wondering for some reason if this guy was a family friend. Wondering, too, why there was a tiger in the centerfold. A night spent in front of the TV in anticipation of "Black and White." The next morning's recess and the blitz of crotch-grab demos. Dubbing cassettes. Jeff Koons' sculpture. Weird Al. Suddenly Janet seemed way cooler. Pulling records for a gig and remembering that the bar staff always loves to hear "Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough" while we count tips. That YouTube clip of Michael, Prince and James Brown. That time he showed up at the VMAs with Presley's daughter. Hours spent moonwalking in front of a mirror, never quite improving. And now this: a bar, strangers, "Human Nature," Macallan neat, getting older, a profound feeling of disappointment.
Posted by caps at June 26, 2009 02:32 PM