The Paradoxical Genius Of Michael Jackson

I never understood all the fuss about Elvis Presley’s death in 1977.  I was just 20 years old and he was outdated, puffy, garishly fashioned and old.   He was desperately trying to remain relevant by appearing in Las Vegas concert halls with an audience that was as old and outdated as he was.  He was a sickening caricature; himself, only more so.  Back then, I liked Michael Jackson.  Now that was music!  And he was young and cool, the way I saw myself and my whole generation.

Not yet 24 hours after he was rushed to the hospital in cardiac arrest,  Micheal Jackson is described exactly the way Elvis Presley was; a brilliant freak with issues.  The King of Rock and the King of Pop gave their genius to the world and then died prematurely, a victim of their demons and of prescription drugs.

Micheal Jackson never had a childhood, but as an adult he surrounded himself with boys and zoo animals and a mawkish interpretation of Disney Land, his Neverland Ranch.

If pop fashion in the 1970s was John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever, fashion in the 1980s was Michael Jackson; the black sequined suit with glittering bunched socks and a single white glove, the black and red channeled stitched leather bomber jacket.   He and Madonna defined the edgy look of the last part of the last century.  Underwear as outerwear is still in the stores and we have another 50 year old to thank for that, and that was Madonna.

For all his novelty of dress which was exciting and sophisticated and desirable, he altered his appearance until he didn’t even resemble himself.  He was a fun house wax figure, not a pop icon.  Magnetic and repulsive all rolled into one.

These last ten years have focused on Michael Jackson’s odd lifestyle, his debt, his penchant for children especially young boys.  But I believe history will treat him kindly.  The ability to compose, to pen lyrics and on top of that, to choreograph difficult numbers and perform them.  The only other pop genius of our time of that level is Paul McCartney, and he can’t dance.

Like other tortured, brilliant artists in history; Vincent Van Gogh,  Sylvia Path, Elvis Presley, we pity the pain and appreciate the contribution.  My generation of 50-somethings laments the loss of our brilliant contemporary, the one we grew up with who showed the world what someone our age group could accomplish.  Had he not literally cut off his nose to spite his fame, we could have enjoyed his music for decades to come.

Michael Jackson is in death the way he was in life, a paradox.  We are shocked, but not surprised he died.  How can you be both shocked and not surprised by something?  For the way he conducted his life, could we respond any other way?