The King is Dead, Boys

The realest dude, gold lamé and all.

Michael Jackson is dead but I am not. This should be enough to make me happy about life, and I am. But plenty of people are not happy about life in the week following the King of Pop’s death, and analyzing the cultural impact of his passing is more interesting to me than being torn up about the death of a man I didn’t know who hadn’t put out any artistic material in almost a decade. It’s certainly sad that Michael Jackson the Man died, as sad as it is when any father of three passes because of unfortunate circumstances, but more uniquely profound is the death of Michael Jackson the Idea, the Cultural Entity, because he was wholly singular – you could argue that he’s the most notable pop culture death of all-time, depending on how strongly you feel about Elvis and John Lennon’s reach in non-English-speaking countries. At the very least he’s the most significant death since Lennon 1980, and there we find profundity: It’s the biggest event in twenty-eight years. (Addendum: It’s gauche to compare deaths, but it’s a quick measure of scale of impact, because I think this will be one of Those Days that everyone refers to in the future, whether or not recounting their own personal history ["I remember where I was when MJ passed..."] or featured on VH1’s I Love the New Millennium Again).

I know a lot of people who profess to be genuinely torn about his death, and watching the news coverage of bystanders milling around his Los Angeles hospital or mourners decorating the outside of his Gary, IN, childhood home, it’s clear that real tears are being shed. On the other hand, a lot of people I know find this stupid: One friend was cracking jokes about the situation the day after he died, bemoaning that anyone would take offense to them or even care about his passing, and another friend took the moral high road and excoriated those moved (or at least, those who appeared to be moved) by his death, saying that he hadn’t done anything creative in years and that crying over the death of someone you’ve never met is idiotic.

It’s very easy to be glib about stuff like this, to say that being a fan doesn’t entitle you to any real empathy or sadness over your idol’s death, and that any shed tears are excessive. But I don’t think this is true, because it minimizes the personal connection that can be forged in relation to a work of art, especially something as awesome as Thriller. For many people, an album like Thriller or a song like “Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough” is related to a moment of their childhood, or their teenhood, or their adulthood, even; that Jackson was a pop star means millions of people had this experience. It’s not a unique experience, but a personally worthwhile one–while many people may in fact be overreacting to Jackson’s death, his material provided an important component of their lives. It doesn’t seem like a coincidence that many of the people I know nay-saying any reaction to his death are the emotionally detached alternative milieu, who scoff at pop pablum designed for “the mob”; of course, if Stephen Malkmus or Connor Oberst were to die tomorrow, they would be aghast. The death of an artist matters depending on your relation to the artist; for people who never grew up loving Jackson’s songs, or never had any experience with his music outside of just listening to it, the reaction isn’t as intense. This doesn’t mean more serious reactions aren’t worth having, if you believe in celebrating the artists as much as the art.

My own experiences with MJ: Singing along to “I Want You Back” and “Billie Jean” with my friends in London nightclubs, laughing at Chris Tucker singing “Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough” in a Japanese Yazuba bar in Rush Hour 2 as a grade-schooler, doing a freshman-year high school health class presentation on vitiligo (the condition that discolors your skin’s pigmentation) and using Jackson’s photo as an example in at least three slides (my teacher was amused), bumping Thriller while studying for exams in my sophomore year of college even though it prevented me from concentrating, rediscovering the over-dramatic video to “Black or White” last year after seeing it as a kid and thinking, “Ha ha ha, this video is hilarious, hey wait a minute, this song is kind of great.” Experiences that millions of other people had in some way or another, more muted or more serious than my own. That these experiences aren’t singular doesn’t bother me; what I find profound is that (deep breath, eulogy time) his music served as a common cultural tether for millions across the world. He may have been better at this than any other entertainer in history, especially that his music has translated so well to modern audiences.

Above all this, I think comments like “I can finally listen to Jackson’s music without the stigma” are totally worthless, and I know people who have said things like this, which is just beyond me. If someone’s death and subsequent eulogizing enables you to enjoy something, then grow up and learn to separate an artist’s output from his personal life. Just about every creative mind in the world has been into some fucked up shit at one point or another; Kurt Cobain was a gun enthusiast, Jason Kidd beat his wife (if you don’t think he’s creative, how do you explain this?), Craig Finn is a huge Springsteen fan, etc., etc., etc. That O.J. Simpson killed his wife doesn’t mean he wasn’t one of the best college running backs ever, you know? And while one’s artistic contributions don’t cover up their personal life, they have to be viewed in separate lights, unless you believe in extreme authorial intent where the artist’s life always crosses over in the work (if so, how do you explain “Bad”?). A similar reaction to scoff at is, “He was weird and I made fun of him, but I still loved him!” Puh-lease. Own up to your own shameless bashing of a man you had never met for entertainment’s sake. I mean, I’m not going to cry when Scott Stapp kicks the bucket, but I’m definitely not going to pretend I haven’t spent hours and hours making fun of Creed (because I have!).

So what does all of this mean? Well, something has happened, and the myriad ways in which Jackson influenced culture (whether through the bold synthesis of pop, rock, R&B, and funk in his music, breaking racial lines on MTV, making a studded glove look good, etc.) will take a while to parse through because he was the King of Pop and now the King is dead, boys. It was so lonely on a limb out there, and now he’ll be buried or burned, away from all the naysayers and leeches who poked at him in the latter days of his life, draining him until the world’s once-best dancer was confined to a wheelchair, unable to move. Pop music may never see a similar titan of culture ever again.