The Thriller's Gone

  

   Back in late 1968, early 1969, I wrote a really bad futuristic  short story -- blessedly long since forgotten -- entitled Hello Goodbye.  Taking place in London in the year 2033, the story was in the form of a long newspaper article reporting on the funeral of Lord Paul McCartney, the last surviving member of the Beatles, who had passed away at age 91.  The scene was a cold, darkly-cloudy-drizzly late November morning at London's Bunhill  Fields Cemetery, the final resting place of such immortals as Daniel Defoe, Thomas Hardy, John Bunyan, William Blake and now, Lord McCartney. Peopling the   story were hundreds -- perhaps thousands -- of extremely elderly men and women.  Most were decked out in ancient, ill-fitting Levis, moldy navy pea coats, bandannas and beads.  Nearly all were leaning on canes, tearfully daubing their eyes with large red railroad handkerchiefs. Under the canopy at the front of the crowd, a foursome of aged gray-haired musicians was playing a trio of Beatle classics: I Will from "The White Album," There's a Place, from "Please Please Me;" and Hello Goodbye from "Magical Mystery Tour."  Between these pieces, the minister, an elderly Church of England Deacon (who strangely looked an awful lot like an octogenarian Mick Jagger) attempted to deliver the eulogy.  Being nearly as disconsolate as the throngs he was addressing, his voice could barely be heard anywhere but under the canopy.  Other speakers included the 86-year old Peter Noone ("Herman's Hermits"), Marianne Faithful (age 87) and the "Who's" Roger Daltry (age 89).          

   As I recall, the three spoke of Lord Paul's lyric brilliance, his long-lasting partnership with the late John Lennon (who had passed away seven years earlier at age 85) and of the tremendous impact he had made on an entire generation in terms of fad, fashion and passion.  

   And of how an era had definitely come to an end. . .

  

   I had not thought about this long-forgotten "literary" travesty for nearly a quarter of a century . . . until yesterday when word came over the Internet that Michael Jackson, the "King of Pop," had died at the unbelievably young age of 50.  For with his all too real passing -- much like the fictional demise of "Lord" McCartney -- an era has definitely come to an end.  And just as Paul McCartney and the Beatles exercised tremendous influence over the tastes, ideas and passions of a generation, so too did Michael.  In fact, the two both overlapped and intertwined in several eerie ways.  First, up until the time of his death, Michael Jackson owned the rights to much of the Beatle musical catalog.  Second, he and Sir Paul [to give him his real title] did collaborate on at least two pieces --- Say, Say, Say and Ebony and Ivory.  And third, it is likely that Jacko, who in one of his last incarnations took to wearing colorfully embellished satin jackets festooned with gold braiding and brass buttons, took the idea from Sir Paul and the Fab Four -- just look at what the boys are wearing on the cover of Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. McCartney was knighted by the Queen of England; Michael -- the "King of Pop" -- was enthroned by the public.

    Whether or not one was a fan of Jackson's music, there is no denying that he is was and always shall be an electrifying performer.  The moon-walking Jackson was probably the most imaginative and influential dancer since Fred Astaire first took the stage in the early 1920s. With the 1983 release of his zombie-themed album "Thriller," he all but single-handedly invented the music video and quickly made it an art form. In terms of his artistic longevity and the ability to reinvent both his style and onstage persona, Jackson was sui generis; a performer without peer.

    However, beyond Michael Jackson the performer -- the singer/lyricist/dancer/actor/"King of Pop"/"Gloved One" -- there is, of course, Michael Jackson, the human train wreck.  For more than a generation, both public and press alike have been mesmerized by the ever-changing, eccentric-to-the-point-of-absurdity, "Wacko Jacko."  Whether it be his ever-evolving facial features and pigmentation, his retrogression from adorable, immensely talented 8-year old to preposterous middle-aged quasi-hermaphrodite, or the many peaks and valleys of his personal, financial and sexual life, we haven't been able to take our eyes off him for a long, long time.  To my way of thinking, this says far more about ourselves and the times we inhabit than about Michael Jackson.  Having grown up in and around the world of celebrity -- indeed, the Jackson Family compound was just up the hill from my parents' home -- I know how difficult it is to remain sane when the spotlight is always on; how much more difficult -- and terrifying -- when that spotlight dims or is extinguished.

   Although the cult of personality and celebrity likely goes back to the time of the Greeks, it took the 20th century to make of it an immensely successful cottage industry.  The lionization  and adulation afforded the likes of a Mary Pickford, Douglas Fairbanks, Rudolph Valentino or Charles Chaplin [who absolutely fascinated Jackson] in the 'teens and 'twenties; a Clark Gable, Cary Grant or Russ Columbo in the 'thirties; or a Frank Sinatra in the 'forties, is but a brief candle flicker compared to the perpetual blaze  surrounding a James Dean, Marilyn Monroe, Elvis Presley or Michael Jackson.  One huge difference is that in days of yore, what we "knew" about our idols was precisely what their publicists wanted us to know: that they were good, high-minded folks who loved their mothers, were passionate about puppies, and were almost too good to be true.  Over the past generation or generation-and-a-half, we have become addicted to "knowing" (or having exposed for our own enjoyment and entertainment) every blemish, foible, phobia or prosecutable offense of those in the public eye.  The media's glare is, of course, far far more intense today than yesterday.  And we, the public are far far more addicted and insatiable today than yesterday.  The sad fact is that today, we "know" far far more about folks in the public glare than we do about the people who live next door. 

   Although I have long recognized Michael Jackson's immense talent, I can't say that I was much of a fan after the breakup of the Jackson Five.  My tastes in rock or popular music have always been more attuned to Crosby, Still, Nash and Young, the Byrds or the Beatles; I am the sort who will pick "Tommy" over "Thriller" eight days a week. And yet, I daresay that like most, I have paid more than my fair share of attention to Michael Jackson's train wreck of a life. It has been buoyant.  It has been sad. It has been maddening.  It has also been a thriller.

   Like Paul McCartney and the Beatles, he has exercised tremendous influence over an entire generation of newer musical artists like Justin Timberlake and the "Backstreet Boys."  Like the real Sir Paul, his work has been "covered" by a diverse group of artists such as "Soundgarden's" Chris Cornell, "Fall Out Boy", and James Chance and the "Contortions." 

   But just as with the fictional "Lord Paul" from Hello Goodbye, the "Thriller's" gone.

  May he rest in peace.  

©2009 Kurt F. Stone

Comments

[Martin toKFS]

Thanks for the "fun" reply. Actually, I was unclear in my note to you about responses. I thought your comment posted to the comments of your readers might be of interest to them. I've been involved with some newspaper people who do that.
Anyway, thanks too for the "age" remark. At least you avoided the cliche word "nostalgia." However, we'll leave that for another day. With respect to the age thing, I must tell you a bit that drives me crazy-not literally.
I'm 79. I live in two compounds- one down yonder and one in NJ. I meet men who ask me if I am a vet of (re Archie Bunker) "the big one." "No," I say, "I'm a Korean vet." Response: "Oh, you're a kid ." Retort: "No, I'm an old man; you're just older." End of conversation.

[KFS to Martin]

Dear Martin:
I agree that things were one whale of a lot easier when publicists handed out the press releases. They, of course, were keenly aware that they worked primarily for Mayer, Goldwyn or Zukor and only then for Monroe, Gable or Stewart. It was relatively easy in the day to keep public knowledge of private foibles, screw-ups and tribulations out of the press and thus away from the public. And for some reason, I believe that the public really wanted to believe that these people were pretty much what and who the press releases said they were. Goodness knows the studios had a lot of investment to protect. They weren't always successful of course, but the times when they failed to protect a "name" and had to let them go stand out because it was generally the exception, and not the rule.
Today, publicists are just part of the mix. With so many hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands of media outlets -- not to even mention the Internet -- it is more akin to mortal, hand-to-hand combat than creative shadow boxing. And we, the public, although occasionally offended and in disbelief, are like those who can't help but slow down and observe the carnage of a ten-car pileup on the Interstate.
You are also correct in stating that Walter, Louella, Hedda, Cholly and the gang were pallid librarians in comparison to today's sharks and Tasmanian Devils, and other assorted carnivores.
You aren't getting old . . . just appreciating the past.

[D.B.B.]

Great piece. Great assessment of the facts. Sad, but c'est la vrai!

[Louis]

Maybe it is my age, but I did not I appreciated "Jocko" the way the world wide masses have all these years. I never appreciated Elvis or The Beatles for their contributions to music. I realized their greatness, but I was not moved by their music or lyrics.

Michael was perhaps naive and an emotional wreck, but he was damn smart and creative. Anne Nichole Smith appeared child like and dumb, but she had a touch of brilliance and know how. Both these characters came from humble beginnings. Michael from Indiana, and Nichole from Texas I believe.

Both lives ended tragically and pathetically. They were so different, and yet so alike. The public became enamored with both of them for different reasons. At the end, each had lost control of his/her wellness. Other people had taken over their lives.

It's fascinating how involved strangers allow themselves to become in lives of which they have no part. Would you stand outside the UCLA Medical Center in a vigil for Michael? Would you stand outside the West Palm Beach Courthouse waiting for a glimpse of some personality or a judge's order?

[Alan Weiss]

I loved Michael. My wholle family did. At Robin's 6th (now 30) birthday party we had a Michael look-alike show up and perform. I will never forget how all of those children reacted to him. Of course we never told them it was a look-alike. He has been a regular acoustic guest in our home for more than a quarter of a century. We will miss his "what's next with Michael personna". Yes, rest in peace, Michael!

[L.B.]

Last night and this morning, I was complaining about the all encompassing news coverage of Michael Jackson's untimely death. I said to Sherri, "I know he was considered awesome by many, but this is blocking out some other important news. What's going on in Iran? Is Gov. Sanders going to step down? Anything new with the economy?

Michael's death put everything on hold while ALL the talking heads discussed this "train wreck"!

Even my professor is consumed by the moment as shown in his below blog! But, after reading "rolling Stone's" words, I realize I underestimated the importance of "Jocko" to the citizens of the world. Thank you Professor Stone for so insightfully relieving my misdirected pain. I am beginning to understand we really have a lost one in a generation type talent.

[Martin]

Hey, KF, curious why you don't comment re comments. Many bloggers do. Should be interesting to catch your reactions to what people say about what you have to say.

PS-My old Brooklyn neighbor JT is doing right by your team, and he was a Giants fan.

[Martin]

Russ Columbo! RUSS COLUMBO!!! I love it.

Anyway, I worked with some big name celebrities who had laundry that needed some detergent. Also worked for one of the major studios. Y'know it was better when the publicists (NOT pr) handed out the press releases to Hedda, Louella and the fanzines. Of course, even scandals were simpler then.

There's a price to pay for progress and the crap we now have to endure on reality shows (if you choose to watch) with 8 children, tabloid tv (I puked,
in a figurative sense as I watched a bit of Barbwa Wawa and Ryan O. re FF's death), and the bloggers. Walter W. was an amateur in comparison to what is leveled at us now.

I'm getting old; no, I am old.