A Word about the Man

I feel the need to say a word or two about the man who spawned my first-ever musical obsession and my first memory: watching Captain Eo at Disneyland: Mr. Jackson.

I have felt a little saddened since Thursday, not because of the loss of someone who made such an impact in popular music as we know it—in that regard, I think what he gave was sufficient—but more about us as a society, and our willingness to accept powerful art often with little regard or tolerance for its price: mainly, the cost to the artist who brought it to us.

I don’t know why I feel as strongly about this as I do, particularly about Michael Jackson. This has happened to nearly every generation—the tragic demise of a greatly influential artist: Judy Garland, Elvis Presley, Marilyn Monroe. Perhaps I feel more for this case because his life as an artist began as a child, and this time, it’s my generation.

The thing about artists, the ones you never hear about, is that they struggle and struggle all their lives to give something that will mean something to the population. They struggle financially, their marriages often fail, and they live lives frequently laden with rejection and loneliness in order to do it. When you look at it, they are among the most selfless and devoted people on the earth.

The thing about artists, the ones you do hear about, is that they are the “lucky ones.” They are the ones whose art is accepted and reciprocated with living means. The more “lucky” the artist, the more of a fortune they receive: the more fame, the more attention, and the more scrutiny.

I’m not excusing eccentric and bizarre behavior of the famous or those considered to be great artists, and there is certainly enough of it to go around. What I am saying is that we play a greater part in it than we realize or likely care to admit. We, through what is considered acceptable in our society and through our media, enable the creation of these great artists, and then abandon them when they show unfavorable signs of the inevitable toll it takes on them. They, like all of us, are human, after all. What would I do under the amount of pressure that is placed on them professionally with every film, every new record, every nation-wide or international tour? What would I do if added to that were people scrutinizing every last move in my personal life? What would I do if added to that, as was in the case of Michael Jackson, the entirety of the life I knew consisted of the great and terrible world of entertainment, the world that in his case, fed him and spit him out? I might resort to pain-killers. I might want to create a place where I never had to grow up. I might want to surround myself with children and animals, the only creatures of which I knew that maintained their innocence and practiced real, unconditional love. I might do all of that, and I wouldn’t have the absence of a happy childhood or abuse to blame.

I realize that showing compassion for seemingly very fortunate individuals in circumstances that appear to be desirable or sought after is not the obvious thing to do, but being as they too are human beings, it also doesn’t disqualify their merit of some benevolence. It is my hope that after all is said and done, the prevailing view of Michael Jackson’s life and music will be through eyes of understanding.