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An American werewolf
in Neverland
Michael Jackson warps his
legacy with each passing day
 Neal Preston / Corbis file Michael Jackson performs in Los Angeles during the 1984 Victory tour. He gave us such fond memories as an '80s pop legend, so why did he have to go and ruin everything? |
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My sister Janice has this memory of the night the “Thriller” video premiered on MTV. “Thriller” — the 13-minute Michael Jackson moviette, directed by John Landis, that changed the nature of music videos. The one that made a decent pop song seem better than it was.
Janice and our older sister, Sheryl, watched, jaws agape, as the story unfolded — an innocent date gone horribly awry: Exiting a werewolf flick, a young couple walks home (through the woods, of course). The girl clings nervously to the boy (Jackson), who delights in playing off her nerves. Suddenly they’re surrounded by the funky living dead. Turning to Jackson, the girl sees that … Oh no! He’s a zombie, too!
The music starts, and the rotting horde pops, locks and rolls its way after the screaming girl, all under the middle-eight narration of horror-movie staple Vincent Price.
The video ends and my sisters shriek with delight. Like me, they love the Jackson 5 of our childhood, though by this time they are more metalheads than pop connoisseurs. Still, they agree: The “Thriller” video is the most amazing thing they’ve ever seen. They babble about the make-up and costumes, the dancing, Vincent Price and the “the funk of 40,000 years.”
They get about one minute into their review when our father, previously silent on the couch nursing one of his regular cluster migraines, starts to shout. Something about stupid million-dollar videos and idiot pop stars and shut the hell up! Shut the hell up!
Twenty-two years later, Janice can’t hear “Thriller,” or see or talk about the video, without remembering our father’s absurd outburst. This is her memory. I wasn’t there. But I didn’t need to be.
Michael Jackson, with his nonstop freak show, has damaged my best memories of him all by his own dang self, without the help of our cranky dad.
Aside from that memory, Janice made it through the “Thriller” incident unscathed. She likes to e-mail Michael Jackson jokes. The last one featured an image-manipulated Jackson, sinus cavity exposed, choosing from a selection of noses, deciding on the right one to wear to court. I opened it once and deleted it.
Once upon a time ...
Janice thinks this stuff is funny, but it creeps me out — no more so, however, than current unaltered photos of Jackson, his pasty, mutilated face pulled death-mask tight.
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I’m pissed at Michael. Not for maybe/maybe not being a pedophile (though don’t get me wrong: If he is, that’s bad). I’m angry for selfish reasons.
He’s shredded childhood memories. The “Jackson 5” cartoon, kicking butt on those wimpy Osmonds' own Saturday-morning show. My respect and awe for a boy who could moonwalk, move and make music like no living being. Make me, a punk-rock adolescent, respect disco with “Off the Wall.”
The Michael Jackson story is so totally American. This is what happens when you have so much money that people let you do whatever the hell you want. Like fat, sweaty, drug-addled Elvis, dead on the toilet. Genius gone to pot. Except when Presley was Jackson’s age, he’d been dead five years.
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