The King of Pop is Dead: Long Live the King

“I don’t think he’s a pedophile,” I said to my friend, Mike, a few years ago, when we were discussing the 2003 trial of Michael Jackson and the charges that were laid against him for molesting a young boy.

“Of course he is,” he retorted. “I hope they chuck him in jail and throw away the key.”

Of course Mike had an ulterior motive for wanting this to happen. He hated everything Michael Jackson stood for musically.

“Pedophiles are very covert in their behavior,” I told him. “Jackson has openly admitted to sleeping in the same bed with children. It’s not exactly normal, but there is no way he would admit to that if he was actually molesting them.”

Mike wouldn’t have a bar of it. If his wife hadn’t told us to give it a rest, the heated exchange could have gotten out of hand. When I got in my car and said goodbye to him, Mike said to me, “I didn’t realize you were such a big Michael Jackson fan.”

The truth is I wasn’t. Sure, I admired his immense musical talent and spectacular dancing style, but what made me so passionate about defending his honor came from the deep injustice that I felt had befallen him. Jackson was acquitted of any wrong doing after the trial, although the gloved one’s reputation would now be further tarred by the self righteous mainstream media. On the flipside, his die hard fans always believed him, no matter what. In their eyes he could do no wrong and in a perverse kind of way their blind adulation of him, was as much to blame for his physical demise as was the scorn of his rabid detractors.

Michael Jackson was the seventh child of the Jackson family and the most famous. At five-years-old he became the leader of the group, ‘The Jackson 5’ and never looked back. His ability to perform was inbred, and ruthlessly hustled along by tyrannical father and manager, Joseph Jackson. Michael admitted in an interview with Oprah Winfrey in 1993 that he would regurgitate just at the sight of his overbearing father. When confronted with the charge, Joseph Jackson joked that his son had regurgitated all the way to the bank.

The 1980’s would be the decade where Jackson would well and truly supersede his father’s and brothers’ financial and creative ambitions. The era of gross excess and the ‘greed is good’ mantra would become synonymous with Michael Jackson and his music. His 1982 album, ‘Thriller’ would become the most successful album of all time, selling in excess of fifty million copies. Seven hits would be spawned from it, including ‘Billy Jean’, ‘Beat it’ and the title track, which was cleverly based on the horror genre.  Alongside the groundbreaking songs would be innovative rock videos that would become the staple diet of the MTV generation. Jackson also succeeded in becoming a crossover artist and would make black music accepted for all ages and races. By 1989 legendary actress and friend, Elizabeth Taylor dubbed the androgynous dynamo, ‘The King of Pop’ when she presented him with an ‘Artist of the Decade’ award in 1989. The name stuck, but unfortunately so would the mud thrown at him for his unconventional behavior.

Two mornings ago I woke up to the news of his death at the age of fifty. I can only recall three other mornings that had the same kind of affect on me. They were when I heard the announcements of Elvis Presley’s, John Lennon’s and Princess Dianna’s deaths. Like the three mentioned above, Jackson’s death was sudden and unexpected, and like them, he was relatively young and an icon of his age. I watched with a sickened heart as the media lamented his passing and started presenting loving tributes. Too little too late, I thought.

Was this the same guy they relentlessly lambasted when it suited them? He had been accused of being a child molester by two muckraking families, who repaid Jackson’s hospitality of their children by suing him for all they could get. At the time, the media didn’t really seem too interested in the truth because his bizarre public behavior was justification enough to indict him. Was he nuts? No, just incredibly eccentric. Was he fit to be a father? He certainly had more to offer than trailer trash. Was he an egomaniac? I’d say more of a perfectionist. Was he his own worst enemy? Absolutely!

Michael Jackson never saw himself as a man, but only as a wide eyed boy, like his favorite fictional hero, the forever youthful, Peter Pan. He even built a seventeen million dollar theme park called, ‘Never Land,’ which was named after the magical place depicted in J.M. Barry’s famous children’s novel. His career was forced upon him at a tender age by a paternal tyrant who would not tolerate any insubordination. Michael had a gentle disposition and would escape into his own fertile imagination, particularly when being pushed into the lurid world of show business. The very young Michael had to share a bed with his older brothers, who after performing on stage, would sneak in groupies for sex. This is hardly the perfect upbringing for a child.

Jackson’s prodigious talent, charisma, and sweeping vision of his own place on the planet would send him into a world of unreality. His colossal success and obsessive worship from fans engendered in his own mind that he had become a messiah and almost God-like. His intentions were pure, but at times terribly misguided. I remember being irked when watching his HIStory video in 1995, which showed him heading a march of thousands of military personnel, as if he was some kind of modern Napoleon. He even shipped large statues of himself on boats to be placed in certain cities in Europe. At the BRIT Awards Jackson was honored with an ‘Artist of a Generation’ award. During the ceremony he performed an extravagant and overblown stage show, singing a turgid number called, ‘Earth Song’ meanwhile portraying himself as a Christ-like figure surrounded by adoring children. Jarvis Cocker, lead singer of the band, ‘Pulp’ showed his distaste by mounting the stage, lifting his shirt tale up and flashing his bottom at the self-obsessed singer. This time, Michael Jackson had really lost the plot, I thought.

Of course, his sanity had been questioned many times before this, which inspired the infamous nickname, ‘Whacko Jacko’. The tabloid press ate him up, publishing outrageous stories, one of which claimed that he slept in a hyperbaric oxygen chamber in order to slow down the aging process. A purported picture of him lying in a glass box was shown along side the article. Even though the claim wasn’t true, Jackson perpetuated the myth to enhance his ‘other worldliness’ to the public. One bizarre story that Michael happily admitted to, which really made me laugh, is that he shared his toilet with his pet chimpanzee, Bubbles. Jackson’s mental faculties aside, the strangest aspect to the entertainer’s life was the obvious physical changes in his appearance. His facial features deteriorated over the years as did his dark skin color, which eventually turned to a bleached white. Many people cynically thought Jackson was deliberately trying to turn himself into a white man. It was later ascertained that he was suffering from an unusual skin disease called, vitiligo and lupus, which made him sensitive to sunlight. The singer also underwent numerous facelifts. Several surgeons speculated that Jackson had undergone multiple nasal surgeries, a forehead lift, thinned lips and a cheekbone surgery. Coupled with this the singer also suffered bouts of massive weight loss that fluctuated drastically over the years.

On the morning of his death I watched a replay of Michael Jackson announcing a 50 date tour to be performed in London. The Press went totally nuts, screaming and cheering, especially when he told them he loved them from the bottom of his heart. The public fascination for Michael Jackson had not waned, if anything it had intensified. Close friend and confidant, Uri Geller, thought these current high expectations of Jackson finally led to his death.

“It was the pressure of these concerts,” said Geller to a reporter. “He was a perfectionist. That could have been what did it. But that’s just my opinion.”

Now that his physical life has expired, friends, fans, journalists, pundits and detractors alike have naturally all thrown in their five cents worth as to who he was and what he meant to the world.

“He was a great entertainer, but not a great man,” said one reporter.

This mediocre journalist was obviously unaware that Jackson held the Guinness World Record for supporting 39 charities, more than any other entertainer or celebrity. Jackson might not have been great in all facets of his life, but his generosity knew no bounds when it came to giving his time and money to those less privileged than himself. For what it’s worth, in my book, that makes him pretty great. And as far as the sex allegations go, his friend, Uri Geller shared this story.

“I did something unethical,” Geller admitted, “I asked Michael under hypnosis if he had molested any children. He said no.”

When Geller pressed the singer on why he paid a settlement in the 1993 charge of molestation of 13-year-old Jordan Chandler, Jackson said he just couldn’t take the pressure anymore.

Another tragic aspect of the moon walker’s sad demise will be the fight over his assets and his three young children, Prince Michael, 12, Paris, 11, and 7-year-old, Prince Michael the 2nd. Already his body has undergone two autopsies to establish the cause of death. His personal doctor has now been accused of over prescribing drugs to which Jackson had become addicted. No doubt a shadow of mystery will surround his death, as it did in his life.

Michael Jackson’s story could only be true, because if it was written as a fictional tale the reader wouldn’t believe it. For instance, who would have believed that the ‘King of Pop’ would marry and divorce the ‘King of Rock’s daughter, Lisa Marie Presley? Like Elvis, Jackson fell under the weight of his own legend and was unable to deal with his own inner demons. The little boy inside never truly understood why certain people wanted to see him fail. I was reminded of this last night while shooting some pool and drinking some beers with some friends.

“Did you hear,” one of my mates quipped, “they are melting down Michael Jackson’s body and making it into a toy so the children can play with him.”

We all laughed despite ourselves. Then something strange happened. My mate’s wife started playing one of the King of Pop’s songs. Before we all knew it, our hips started moving involuntarily and we started singing out the words to my favorite Michael Jackson song, ‘Billy Jean.’ And that’s when it finally occurred to me. Maybe I was a big Michael Jackson fan after all.