The upside of MJ’s death: the music
It’s a little uncomfortable for me to “remember” Michael Jackson because, no, white gloves were never incorporated into my afternoon jazz dance classes and I didn’t play Thriller on my Disneyland record player. (Confession: I BitTorrented it only a couple years ago.) It’s a generational thing, ya know? It’s always been hard for me—and I’m sure, to whatever degree, for everyone—to separate Jackson the music artist from Jackson the embodiment of American perversion. And besides, I was busy jamming to Basement Jaxx.
So perhaps the best thing (the only truly good thing?) to come out of his untimely death is what we’re already starting to see in the blaring car-stereo tributes and exasperated radio call-ins: A rediscovery of Michael Jackson’s music, divorced from its subject, its owner, even its context. The upshot of Jackon’s fantastical delusions was their ability to will songs that transcended the realities of his own life. Off the Wall is still purely disco. “Billie Jean” is the essence of pop cool. Dangerous is earnest, idealistic, even a little embarrassing. I’ve been listening to those records (on YouTube, natch) off and on all day, and really, I can’t get enough. Where has this shit been all my life? Oh, right. More than Prince and Madonna, MJ allowed a generation to escape. The generation before mine.
