Last night, after finishing up an interview at Backstretch Tap Room and Terrace in Saratoga Springs, I decided to stick around and catch Troy singer-songwriter Sean Rowe’s first set at the venue. As he was setting up outside for his 6 p.m. performance, a man and woman walked by and saw Rowe with his guitar. After asking Rowe if he was performing that night, the man dropped a bombshell.
“You know Michael Jackson just died?”
He suggested that Rowe play a song in Jackson’s honor, and then the couple walked off. Rowe promptly turned to me. “Have you heard anything about that?” I shrugged; I’d left the office in Schenectady at about 3:45 p.m. and didn’t know a thing about it. He then looked it up online via his phone and confirmed the news: Michael Jackson, dead at 50 from a suspected cardiac arrest.
All through Rowe’s set, though, in the back of my mind I was thinking it must be a joke. It had to be. Maybe it was just that Michael Jackson seemed more like a character to me than an actual flesh-and-blood human, an immortal presence draped in controversy and odd eccentricities. Michael Jackson can’t die! You can’t kill him!
It wasn’t until I got home and switched on the laptop, going directly to the Gazette’s Web site and the BBC, that I actually believed his death to be true.
I don’t really have any stories about being a huge fan of Jackson’s when I was younger, because I wasn’t. I only discovered the joys of “Thriller” and the Jackson 5 in college, after shedding my self-conscious punk/metal identification that I held onto with ridiculous desperation during my high school years. Back then, I was completely against almost anything that got played on top 40 radio, through some ridiculous elitist indie snob mentality that made it not OK to like anything that was popular. Although the Beatles were OK. I was a weird kid (I’m probably an even weirder adult — and yes, I still have spasms of self-righteous music snobbery every now and then).
But back to Jackson, who, let’s face it, might have been the weirdest adult to ever become a multi-national superstar. But really, what musician isn’t? Artists generally are a tad imbalanced, prone to odd behavior, with even odder personal stories to go with it. Really, how many “normal” people have ever made truly spectacular music? Talent, by its very nature, is unusual — you can’t expect it to be wrapped in the usual package.
People make such a big deal out of “Wacko Jacko” and his odd personal life and behavior. He’s the butt of jokes (I’ve heard and seen some bad ones even just minutes after news of his death broke out). Is this wrong? Who’s to say.
Jackson’s story in my eyes was always just incredibly sad. He joined the Jackson 5 in 1966 before he was even 8 years old. He’s grown up in the public’s eye, with every move scrutinized. Coupled with an abusive father and some deep seated issues stemming from his lack of a childhood by any conventional sense, is it really any wonder that he buckled under the pressure?
I hope people will remember him for what we know is true about him: He was an immense talent. His music transcends any superfluous hype about being the “King of Pop.” Like him or hate him, you can’t deny his abilities as a singer, a dancer, an all-around performer and a businessman.
All of my friends that I’ve spoken to about his death have reacted pretty much the same way I did — with utter shock. This shock, I think, may have something to do with his planned comeback. It really did seem like he was going to pull it off. And I think he had at least one more great album left in him. It’s one of the saddest and most unsatisfying endings that could happen in an already sad story.
