It’s been more than two years since the announcement of Jackson’s death and the blitz of media coverage that followed.
While I was in college, a friend coaxed me into drawing a portrait of Michael for the wall above her bed. She had the specific dimensions in mind, having already purchased a frame that suited the sensibilities of her college student chic motif. She defined the medium (pen and ink) and chose the subject -- but allowed me the hallowed artistic license with regard to concept and composition.
I'd just painted the Queensryche's OPERATION: MINDCRIME logo on the back of a denim jacket (high-vogue, I know) for a buddy and was a little reticent to be on the hook again for someone else's artistic whimsy. But, hey, I was in college, too. A bag of potatoes and peanut butter sandwiches lose their tummy-tempting allure after so many weeks. And I figured some cash in the pocket could translate to food in the fridge.
So, after a brief period of hesitation, I set about the task. Soon after I began the piece, she left school, and I never heard from her again. I remained unpaid, so the piece consequently remained unresolved. Spurred by the tides of the 24-hour news cycle I recently unearthed the drawing, nearly two decades after I began it.
It wasn't like the man had not made music (and music videos) that peppered the years of my life. At the time, he had not descended into the tabloid fodder, courtroom circus, and plastic surgery mishap that now defines him to younger people. And by younger, I mean those who did not live through the infectiousness of Off the Wall, the omnipotence of Thriller, the tour de force of Bad.
"He was a dynamo," I tell these kids. "Hit after hit. He influenced what people wore and how they danced."
"He's a freak," they rejoin. A familiar chorus from those who know him only from the days he was topping Internet headlines and not Billboard charts.
He was a powerhouse of pop hits, a cultural event, a consummate showman, and the Fred Astaire of Motown. Even if you can't stand him, the facts (e.g., charts and sales) speak for themselves. Of course, all of that has since been tainted by allegations of pedophilia and the public transmutation to a racially vague androgyne. He was a monster to some, a deity to others, and a bank to many.
The exuberant and playful vocals of his Off The Wall tracks gave way to the visceral catcalls, verbal ticks, and syncopated grunts that marked the era of his affected sour-faced macho posturing, as if to plead: "I'm so vulgar that you have to be convinced of my manliness."
Thus, he was King of Pop and King of Paradox. It seemed as though he wanted to physically become Diana Ross -- maybe her alter ego, Dirty Diana. Later, he verged on a black-wigged Carol Channing or drug-addled, Glaaaadiatorrr-spewing Elizabeth Taylor. His famous Peter Pan Syndrome became less first-star-to-the-right-and-straight-on-'til-morning and more a darker fantasy of wealth and self-loathing.
In the end, for me, it seems healthiest to brush all those perceptions aside. Perhaps his greatest transformation was not his surgically altered physical appearance, or the frequent video theme of Michael-becomes-panther/Michael-becomes-giant-robot/Michael-becomes-werewolf/Michael-becomes-sand/Michael-becomes-theme-park/Michael-becomes-sexual-entity sequence. Perhaps his greatest transformation was via his influence on music and its byproduct, music videos...and possibly the single, sequined glove industry.
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