On Michael, a Prelude

On the Michael Jackson news, I’ve been watching nonstop coverage of his death, and two things stick out.

One, the outpouring of plaudits for MJ from other musicians, calling him an inspiration and great and all those true things. Beautiful sentiment, all of it, and totally true — the man has all four faces on the Mount Rushmore of pop (quite literally and figuratively). His talent is what some would call otherworldly, and sometimes, listening and watching, I think perhaps it really did come from another planet, so grand was its scope.

But my question is, where were they through the years when he was being dragged through the mud? Not that some of it wasn’t his own doing (ignoring for a moment the unavoidable context of his childhood et al), but for all the praise and hyperbole, none of these musicians who claim Michael as an inspiration were anywhere to be found over the last few years. You know, when it mattered, when the loneliest man in the world could have used some friends.

Believe me, I know why they did, or didn’t, do it. There would be nothing to gain, and, let’s be honest, MJ’s stock had fallen further than GM’s. And I’m not a sycophantish and blind fan — I know what he most likely did with children, and know that he was bizarre and troubled. I just can’t help but believe he was so messed up mentally, though, that I see him as a victim, too, and so the lack of celebrity help when he needed it disturbs me.

On a lighter note: watch those old videos. Yeah, his voice was perfect, but even more impressive? His dancing. The way that his legs moved was in no way human.

I’m meditating on this, and will have more to say tomorrow.