Humor by John Christmann
All Michael All The Time
Over the weekend I showed my kids how to Moon Walk. We were at an outside barbeque and a Michael Jackson song had just started pulsing from the outdoor speakers. I perched on my left toe, listed forward, and pulled my right foot back along the ground. Then I quickly reversed my balance to the opposite foot, pulled my left foot back, tripped, and fell into the pool.
If I had been singing I probably would have drowned.
As billions of people around the world mourn the The King of Pop and publically celebrate his legacy, which ever one they choose to acknowledge, I am faced with a peculiar sense of isolation. Because the truth is, I was never a big Michael Jackson fan. Never mind his peculiarities as an adult; I never liked his singing all that much.
And while I am making frank admissions, I have never thought that much of Harry Potter either.
The problem I had with Michael Jackson was this: I was never inspired to sing along. He is certainly not the only artist to strike me this way, but generally speaking this is an area where I am pretty vulnerable—I once lost control in a Karaoke bar and sang a heart felt rendition of (You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman to my business clients. It was all in the music. OK, and maybe the beer.
But the early Jackson Five music, as bouncy and catchy as it is, I have always thought of as Bubblegum Music. And Michael Jackson completely lost me when he bonded to a killer rat in the song Ben. Then, when he first went solo, I found his falsetto forced and unnatural—especially when I tried to duplicate it.
When Thriller piqued the world I found the music compelling, but I had difficulty connecting to the themes. His breathy vocals had me wondering exactly why Da Da Da Da Billy Jean was threatening him with paternity and what was so thrilling about monsters disrupting a perfectly good hormone fueled date. The lyrics just never spoke to me.
But if the words didn’t reach me, the dancing sure did. I may not have been inspired to sing, but I was certainly inspired to move. Unfortunately I have two left feet, something my clients also discovered that night at the Karaoke bar when I fell off the stage and broke both a bar stool and my right toe. But when Beat It pounded out of the speakers I wanted to dance just like Michael Jackson. I couldn’t help myself.
The night he passed away I scoured YouTube to show my kids his dance moves. They had never seen Michael Jackson before. “Just watch this”, I told them pulling up his performance at the Motown 25th Anniversary Special. Twenty years later his moves are still powerful, unearthly, inspired. We all tried his spins and leg shakes on the hard kitchen floor until I accidentally sent a flower pot hurtling off the counter and it almost hit the cat.
“How does he do that?” the kids wanted to know as he moon walked across the stage. I showed them a few days later at the pool party.
Legacies are a strange thing. However they are crafted in life, they are only really secured in death. And the contradictions surrounding Michael Jackson now that he is gone are great fodder for shaping posterity.
But whether he becomes a revered performer and artist, or whether his aging fans will be making campy pilgrimages to The Neverland Ranch while newer generations dress irreverently for costume parties as the Young Michael or the Old Michael remains to be seen. Regardless, it is clear that the great media steam roller is already preparing his road into history and carefully filling in the potholes for the self-proclaimed King of Pop.
Michael Jackson’s death has left me with an uncomfortable feeling of guilt. I know how I came to feel about him in life. The question is, what do I feel about him in death? And what, exactly, do I tell my children about Michael Jackson during this intense media scrutiny?
As humans we have a great capacity to forgive and even a greater capacity to forget, especially when remembering serves no obvious purpose. As strange as it feels now, I think I am comfortable with that. I am willing to let the sad parts of Michael Jackson fade away, to discard the man in the mirror and look instead at the reflection of his talent.
So when my kids ask me about Michael Jackson I tell them the truth:
Personally I was not a big fan . . . But boy, could he dance!
© 2009 Dadinthebox.com