[img]139|left|Jessica Gadsden||no_popup[/img] The reactions to Michael Jackson’s death have perplexed me. As did people’s reactions to Farrah Fawcett and Ed McMahon’s deaths. But the endless coverage of Jackson’s death is in a realm all its own.
By no means am I a celebrity hound. I’m still trying to understand America’s fascination with all things fame-oriented. It seems that in just a few years, the newsstands went from a couple of glossy celebrity-focused magazines to an endless number of new magazines that seem to pop up on the newsstand almost daily. I’m still floored that TV Guide went from a miniature channel guide to a full-sized celebrity rag, joining People and OK!, and all the other fashion magazines that seem to have ditched models in favor of the actor of the moment. It’s in this vein, I suppose, that the world has gone ga-ga over the death of Jackson.
I was never a big fan of Jackson’s music. When I was a small child, during the burgeoning days of his career, the music in my house was of the angsty political kind. Singers wailed about the struggles of everyday people in an unfair world. In contrast, Jackson’s bubble-gum sound was merely background fodder in Brooklyn – long before the days of personalized playlists and iPods kept everyone’s music tastes to themselves.
I mainly remember Jackson for his Jackie Robinson-like integration of MTV. We had just gotten cable television when MTV debuted in 1981. I was a pre-teen fascinated with the idea of watching music to which I had only ever listened. That early fascination led to profound disappointment. In the beginning, MTV was as whitewashed as network television. Despite the multicultural sound of radio, MTV remained stubbornly white (VJ J.J. Jackson excepted), and lacking in diversity. Early rap, R&B and black artists—whom I’d grown up hearing blasted from cars and neighbors’ radios—were absent from MTV. Instead, it was a steady diet of heavy metal, rock and European imports. Even with moving pictures to accompany music, radio was better. And I flipped the channel to something else while I continued to get my music from the radio.
Look Who Is Coming
Then, in about 1983, I heard that Michael Jackson was going to be on MTV. “Really!” my friends explained – they were going to play a black artist’s video. The very idea of it was shocking enough to be whispered and debated among us. Then we heard that Jackson’s “Billie Jean” was on the network. My friends and I, during long phone conversations over which we multi-tasked homework and gossip, watched endless hours of MTV waiting for a glimpse of Jackson, the black artist who broke the color barrier. Then, one day, he appeared somewhere in between Van Halen and David Bowie’s heavy rotation.
It wasn’t quite like my family’s recollections of African-Americans appearing on the Ed Sullivan Show, but it was my generation’s moment. Before long, the endless “Thriller” video was also in heavy rotation. And though I didn’t like the song—or the video—particularly, I’d watch the nearly 15-minute movie short every time it came on, amazed that any black person could get that much screen time.
While Jackson has an interesting legacy, I’m not sure it’s deserving of this much of an intense media focus. Every newspaper I browse online is updated hourly with the latest information surrounding the artist’s death. Even my normally sane Facebook friends are whiling away their days writing mini-tributes to Jackson. Though I swear, I can’t remember a single one of these people buying his music, humming his songs, or even talking about Jackson (except to speculate on his possible pedophilia).
Surrounded by Jackson Sounds
Yet, as I walked my dogs through the neighborhood early Sunday morning, Jackson’s music blasted from more than one house in my normally very quiet neighborhood.
What is it about the death of the famous (or even semi-famous) that brings out public sympathy? When a friend mentioned the death of Farrah Fawcett early last week, I could think of no greater contribution to America Fawcett had made than her feathered hairstyle and temporary reign as the quintessential 1970s pinup girl. And Ed McMahon’s notable role as a sidekick (on a show that’s never featured many people of color) didn’t quite merit more than a mention in the newspaper.
Admittedly, I’m probably not the best gauge of the importance of celebrity. I remember my childhood best friend being obsessed with one star after another during our teenage years. Every week, my friend would insist on being called by a new surname. One week, she was Tara Kilmer (during her obsession with Val Kilmer – who I don’t think I could pick out in a crowd). The next week, she was Tara Sutherland (during her obsession with the movie “Lost Boys”). She was the only person I know who forked over her meager allowance to buy Teen Beat or Tiger Beat at the drugstore during our weekly forays. I even went with her once to meet Johnny Depp (during the week she was Tara Depp). Despite meeting Depp, I still didn’t get it. He was human; I was human. He was an actor; I was a high school student. I could never see what made “those people” any more special or deserving than anyone else.
A Baffling Love Affair
Despite this early friendship with a celebrity-obsessed girl, and meeting various “stars” along the way, I have never understood America’s love for celebrities – especially the dead ones. Who are all these people now purchasing Michael Jackson’s music and paraphernalia in such numbers that many stores are sold out? And who is driving the massive sales at iTunes and Amazon’s digital music stores?
It boggles the mind that a little fame, notoriety and death can converge into a perfect purchasing environment. Will Jackson join Elvis and Marilyn Monroe as a celebrity commodity – of sorts – that lives on long after the star’s death? Can we expect an amusement park (one open to the public – not just sick children) at Neverland – in a modern day twist on Graceland? Can I expect to see impersonators on every Hollywood or Las Vegas corner?
I suspect the answer is a resounding yes. It’s too bad Jackson couldn’t earn this money before his death. Maybe he could have foregone the arduous concert preparations and demanding schedule orchestrated to pay down his debts, and lived a longer life instead – albeit with far less notoriety.
Jessica Gadsden has been controversial since the day she discovered her inner soapbox. She excoriated the cheerleaders on the editorial page of her high school paper, transferred from a co-educational university to a women's college to protest the gender-biased curfew policy, published a newspaper in law school that raked the dean over the coals with (among other things) the headline, “Law School Supports Drug Use”—and that was before she got serious about speaking out. Progressive doesn't begin to define her political views. A reformed lawyer, she is a fulltime novelist who writes under a pseudonym, of course. A Brooklyn native, she divided her college years between Hampton University and Smith.
Ms. Gadsden’s essays appear every other Tuesday. She may be contacted at www.pennermag.com
