Poor Michael Jackson, he never had a chance. Today he’s regarded (politely) as a casualty of the very celebrity that was heaped upon him and helped take his family out of the slums of middle America and into wealth and privilege. Impolitely, he’s been accused of child molestation twice (though never convicted), and the common perception is that he’s a freak who really, really, really likes young boys.
But something that gets forgotten (especially among those too young to remember a time when Michael wasn’t famous for “sleepovers”) is the talent that he obviously has, or at least had when Berry Gordy first signed the Jackson 5 to Motown. Listen to any of the early records, especially for Michael (his was the showcase voice of the group, nevermind Tito’s bass-playing and Jheri-curl funkiness), and you hear a young kid who can sing his little heart out and not miss a beat.
I was reminded of this recently when I was cruising through Clemson’s downtown, blasting “ABC” off of a mix CD I had made (it was sandwiched between Regina Spektor’s “Fidelity” and “Enter Sandman” by Metallica, in order to provide proper context). When you hear Michael take lead and implore the girl he’s supposedly teaching to “shake it”, all snickers that you might have that he’s really talking about Macaulay Culkin wither away because of the sheer virtuosity of the performance. It’s hard to imagine that the little black kid singing these lines would grow up to be an anorexic version of Elizabeth Taylor and Diana Ross, with Sgt. Pepper’s wardrobe and your Uncle Cooter’s penchant for Boy Scouts.
I blame the parents. Thanks to VH-1, I’ve seen “The Jacksons: An American Dream” on more lazy Sundays than one man should, and I’m fully qualified to state that Joe Jackson was definitely a badass father (and I don’t mean that in the good way). It’s amazing, considering this is the family-approved biopic of the group, that Joe comes off like he does. My one problem with the film is they cast the part wrong (the one black guy from “Welcome Back, Kotter” as Joe). Trust me, Samuel L. Jackson would have tore Marlon and Michael a new one for leaving wet towels by the pool if he’d been cast.
In all seriousness (something I’m not known for in this column), I grew up during the period where Michael was everywhere, but not for his music. His trial in 1993 on sexual molestation charges forever changed my view of him, as it did many of my peers. Yesterday’s idol became today’s punchline. And the parties responsible for that (whether it’s his parents or his own inner demons) will never be held accountable, but neither will Wacko Jacko himself. The sweet-voiced kid who sang with such grace became the owner of the Beatles’ back cataloge and the Elephant Man’s bones, and he’s had to sell off most of those to keep the legal team circling his fake-nose, one-gloved self. That’s a crying shame no matter what you believe about Michael Jackson.
