Upon hearing of Michael Jackson’s death yesterday, one of the first things that popped into my head was: “Have you seen my childhood?” I say that as naïvely and as free from cynicism as I can. At its best, pop music both clarifies and enriches receptive souls’ personal experience. And the touchtone moments in pop culture exist as a simple purification of every individual’s life experience.
Speaking personally, the death of Michael Jackson will forever denote the moment that I left my 20s behind; it comes literally days before I turn 30. It’s a perfect parallel, in a sense. The arbitrary acknowledgement of my wonder years’ passing will be forever intertwined with the death of the man who was never allowed a proper childhood, and who subsequently raged with all his creative might against the onset of adulthood.
Jackson’s songs still serve as a crucible for our various compromises and self-imposed psychological barriers. It sounds carefree, but it’s impossible to listen to his music without assessing its creator’s hidden torment. Even the smoothest, catchiest, most disco-tastic singles in MJ’s back catalog are a little obsessed. (Don’t stop ‘til you get enough? Got me working day and night?) Which is my own tortured way of saying it sounded great then, and it sounds great now.
In the mid-’80s, I always thought of Michael Jackson and Prince as a perfect yin and yang of pop and R&B, the former representing good and the latter evil—or close to it. In retrospect, both were never more compelling (and downright terrifying) than when they confounded that syllogism. (Prince’s “God” is as chillingly direct as Jackson’s “In the Closet” is hauntingly abstruse.)
Time’s cruel joke: Now that I’m old enough to appreciate Jackson’s artistic persona on its deeper levels, I only want back the simplicity of his showmanship. I want back the days when it wasn’t the Eagles sitting atop the all-time list of best-selling albums. I want the Michael Jackson who somehow nailed flawless, effortless quadruple turns easing down the road in The Wiz while wearing size 37 scarecrow slippers. I want him back. Eric Henderson
Since 2001, we've brought you uncompromising, candid takes on the world of film, music, television, video games, theater, and more. Independently owned and operated publications like Slant have been hit hard in recent years, but we’re committed to keeping our content free and accessible—meaning no paywalls or fees.
If you like what we do, please consider subscribing to our Patreon or making a donation.
