I was shocked to hear about the death of Michael Jackson, but quite a few thoughts about the effect of his passing on the world also entered my head at the same time. I could prattle on about his songs, his moonwalking, his videos, the controversy; because he was a world celebrity, everybody else will flog his life story to death anyway. Therefore, I won’t do that.
As I saw news footage of empty Michael Jackson CD and video racks at the stores, I thought it ironic that, in a world where the general public usually cheats their favorite artists out of their sales commissions (either on purpose or by accident) by downloading everything by computer, within minutes of the announcement that the star died everybody turned to the tangible sources of entertainment to soothe their upset spirits.
Does that sudden surge in record store sales mean all the remaining brick and mortar chains (FYE, for example) are still doomed to close eventually unless all the singers in the world die? I came from the world of vinyl, cassettes and CDs, and I don’t own an IPod. I prefer buying a music source that I know pays the artist his or her due, so I hope the stores don’t have to wait for the infamy of death to make their registers ring.
Which brings me to another thought I had: that Michael Jackson never really got to be a regular person. He worked for a living, but it wasn’t a job in an office or a construction site or hospital (though he probably visited all of them at one time or another). He was an entertainer. He submitted to the glam personification of his being that made him something beyond the ordinary human. He gave up such basics as driving to the store, going to a high school basketball game, even using a public restroom without bodyguards. He went to lavish parties at which he had to watch what little he was allowed to eat (imagine if he tried to moonwalk at 300 lbs), and had all his clothes picked out for him to meet the demands of a prefabricated image. Can you imagine wanting to hang around in a tee shirt and sweat pants when you’re Michael Jackson? It would be like spotting a priest in a Speedo: it’s perfectly okay for 90 percent of humanity, but not for those we balance on pedestals of status.
He was denied a regular childhood, yet people wonder why he craved the chance to enjoy those things he didn’t have in youth, like a theme park all to himself (imagine him trying to have a fun day at Six Flags), or a bunch of kids at a sleepover. True, once a person crosses a numerical threshold such behavior is frowned upon, and some of the stories about children at Neverland ranch were a bit hinky, but we as worshippers of that image of Michael Jackson are somewhat to blame. Sure we wanted to see him perform for our ticket money, but he also had the fundamental right to be a child when he was one and not have to wait for a belated childhood once he could afford one.
We do cruel and hateful things to our celebrities and don’t expect them to be hurt. When they die we speak highly of them, but we should really treat them better while they are with us.
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