The newspapers have been full of tributes. I read a great quote by a so-called journalist who wrote "Everyone loves Michael Jackson's music." Everyone? I don't. Not that I count, seeing as I still think Then Jerico were underrated and T'Pau were one of the greatest bands ever. But I can't think of a Jackson track I really like. Even "Smooth Criminal" wouldn't make it onto my iPod, although the deliciously ironic "Black or White" never ceases to raise a smile.
Michael Jackson was, admittedly, the man who sold about five billion records in the 80s and released an album as recently as eight years ago. But if he hadn't become a walking freakshow he would long since be old news. It's fair to say I don't feel a great sense of personal loss at his passing. If there's any sadness it's for his children. But then I wonder how good a father he was to them - he claimed to love children yet dangled a baby off a balcony and made the others wear masks in public. And looking at the pictures of his older two children, Prince Michael and Michael Princess or whatever they're called, they are even whiter and less negroid than his recent persona, which causes me to doubt their father died this week.
Seems to me, Michael Jackson's life could be encompassed in a single word: sad. In both the conventional and colloquial senses of the word. From childhood exploitation and alleged physical abuse by his father, through years of disfiguring cosmetic surgery, trying to be best friends with sick children, spending money he didn't have on things he didn't need and couldn't value, deriving children from unconventional relationships, and settling lawsuits, it seemed his talent and success brought him nothing but chaos and misery. He was clearly deeply unhappy in his own skin - and whatever replaced it over the years. According to his autopsy he died chronically underweight, bald and with a stomach containing nothing but pills. (Kind of the opposite to Elvis.)
Try telling me he should be hailed as hero to a generation.
