His was one of the strangest stories in American celebrity. Rocketed to stardom before he was old enough to tackle multiplication, Michael was the sweet kid with the golden voice who morphed into megastar only to sink into isolation, but never obscurity, as a middle-aged adult.
The 70s were turbulent. Watergate hearings droned and Vietnam ignited fiery debates among the adults, but we kids knew the recipe for fun. Close your eyes and conjure up the image of 5 pairs of matching polyester bell-bottoms swinging in flawless rhythm to Michael's sweet falsetto. Through the magic of t.v. we all danced and sang along in our living rooms. Every kid wanted to be Michael - even for a moment - to capture that exuberance and effortless joy.
The 80s carried these same kids into young adulthood and Michael came with us. He sang life's soundtrack for the first MTV generation. We moussed our hair, shortened our pants, and tried to spin. Billie Jean and the Thriller videos went into heavy rotation on the only channel worth watching on cable. Lovingly, we learned the lyrics and copied the dance moves. They were awesome not only for their immediate and absolute entertainment value, but also for the promise of so many more things to come.
And come they did ...
The 90s brought responsibility. With childhood recently passed, first jobs and serious loves dominated the emotional landscape. Michael was still Bad, but maybe we weren't. Grad school, babies, and mortgages replaced the passion for the King of Pop. Yet Michael stayed firmly fixed in Neverland. No one could make him grow up, and the island of lost boys became his peculiar obsession.
In the new millennium, Michael's star power shifted from icon to idiot. He still captured our attention but for the wrong reasons. His disturbing physical appearance and the accusations levied against him were routine tabloid pablum. We lapped it up all the while protesting that we had ever been fans.
Michael Jackson's untimely death seems an inevitable final chapter in a life lived too early in the glaring spotlight and too long away from reality.
Somewhere in a box in my basement is a pair of jeans that I refuse to give away. In 1986, they were perfectly snug, precisely short, and worn lovingly with sparkly socks and low-heeled black loafers. Years from now, my kids will wonder why I hung onto these, but I'll know. A glimpse of this evocative touchstone and "I'll be there ..."
Copyright 2009 by Karen Napolitano
"You and I must make a pact,
We must bring salvation back
Where there is love, I'll be there
I'll reach out my hand to you,
I'll have faith in all you do
Just call my name and I'll be there ..."
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
1 comment:
I must own up to having had the following exchange with a then soon to be dumped roommate freshman year in college.
"B. You have tickets to Michael Jackson's concert, front row....Awesome! You must be soooo psyched!"
B "Yeah, it's okay."
Me "Okay????" and I went on a rant about the gloved one's awesomeness that pretty much doomed the relationship in the first week of school.
But I also owned Thriller and could do all the moves. She's bad.
Post a Comment