“Of course Neverland had been make-believe in those days; but it was real now, and there were no night-lights, and it was getting darker every moment…”
– J.M. Barrie “Peter Pan”
“And mother always told me be careful of who you love,
And be careful of what you do ’cause the lie becomes the truth”
– Michael Jackson “Billie Jean”
Weird? Angry? Upsetting? Creepy? Flippant? A bad joke? Until a couple of weeks ago, that line from the number 58 song on Rolling Stone’s list of 500 greatest songs of all time would’ve evoked none of those emotions. Until then, it was considered to be a masterfully written account about one woman’s attempt at extorting Michael Jackson by claiming he had fathered her son, all beautifully delivered over one of the richest, sonorous bass lines ever conceived. The late Chris Cornell even recorded a haunting live acoustic version of the early 80’s hit, and is heard saying, “I guess that’s a true story” during the applause at the end of the performance. The story was in fact untrue, but as Jackson put it, was more of a generalized representation of what some of his brothers were dealing with in the wake of their fame with the Jackson 5. But now, in the aftermath of HBO’s scathing documentary “Leaving Neverland”, the lyrics take on a whole new meaning for many, depending on the context in which they’re heard and by whom.
From here on in, Michael Jackson’s music will be interpreted in multiple ways. Some will feel disgust and will do all they can to avoid listening to it, some will make distasteful cracks at it like a Bill Cosby Pudding Pop meme, but for many the listening experience will not change at all, as they choose to ignore allegations of pedophilia and child molestation and continue to enjoy the music in ignorant bliss. Several radio stations have already banned his entire library, others continue to play it in prideful defiance, as millions who worshiped this larger than life icon continue to swear by his innocence, despite the credible accounts of the featured accusers in the film.
So where does this leave us now, as we attempt to separate a disgraced artist and the quality of his craft? This is a new form of cognitive dissonance that we’ve been forced to confront in the revelations brought about by the information age, as more and more of our artists and public icons continue to fall from grace because of their exposed misdeeds and in some cases, horrible crimes. Unlike a situation like this past holiday season’s brouhaha surrounding the song “Baby it’s Cold Outside”, Michael Jackson’s circumstances cannot be so easily explained away with historical context or a logical breakdown of the questionable lyrics of a song that has no specific artist attached to it. Indeed Michael Jackson’s work is synonymous with his identity. He existed as a phenomenon which not only can be circumscribed to his musical genius, but is inherently attached to the soul of the man himself.
We’ve dealt with situations like this on numerous occasions already, and each occurrence of attempting to separate a shamed artist from the viability of his or her craft, has always been met with push back from those who could not be swayed into ignoring the work based on the station of the creative voice. Roman Polanski was an early example of this. A man who was convicted of raping a 13 year old girl and avoided punishment by fleeing to France, but who was still receiving standing ovations by the Hollywood elite at awards ceremonies. Yet Bill Cosby, convicted of a similar crime, albeit with dozens of other accusers, and who seems to have been a serial rapist, has been relegated to the very scum of society and who deservedly rots in a jail cell with his legacy in shambles. Was it easier to publicly lynch Bill Cosby because of his brazen self-righteousness or even the colour of his skin? Perhaps. But I think there’s something deeper at work here, and it has to do with how much of the artists’ singularity is reflected in his work. When you watch Polanski’s 1974 masterpiece “Chinatown”, there’s nothing to indicate that the film has anything to do with Polanski at all. Obviously it’s directed by him, and his footprint is undeniably the very essence of the film, but he has to share that essence with Robert Towne’s script, and Jack Nicholson and Faye Dunaway’s performances, so the movie itself is viewed as his, if only in the abstract. He even has a cameo in the film (he slashes the shit out Jack Nicholson’s nose which is why he wears that ridiculous, yet iconic bandage throughout the film) but no one seems to realize that it’s Polanski making that appearance and he passes through almost anonymously. So it becomes naturally easier to separate Polanski from his work, although this does not excuse him by any means, nor does he merit a free pass for what he’s done. The problem is, his art is simply more palatable because he doesn’t figure prominently in it, as you get swept away and distracted by the unrelated story line.
In contrast, The Cosby Show is The COSBY Show. The very premise of the show surrounds and is a direct manifestation of Cosby himself, which can also be said for his stand up comedy, commercials and Fat Albert cartoons. Thus making it easier for people to turn away in revulsion when seeing him distinctly featured, and in constant view.
Michael Jackson is a whole different animal. Unlike Cosby’s work, Jackson’s has withstood the test of time, and is not seen as outdated or obsolete. Even decades later, his music is played at weddings, clubs and parties all over the world, and sits comfortably on the private playlists of tens of millions. It’s simply not as easily dismissible as let’s say the work of R. Kelly, who to the layperson, is known for only one song, or Gary Glitter, whose song “Rock and Roll Part 2” was efficiently eliminated without prejudice from arenas all over the professional sporting domain. Not a single person has ever uttered the words, “It’s too bad about Gary Glitter, I really enjoyed his music.” They simply accepted the loss of yelling out the word “Hey!” at hockey games. However Michael Jackson’s music permeates the zeitgeist not only for its harmonic and addictive hooks, but also because of his unique fashion style, mimicable dance moves, revolutionary music videos, and his reputation for being arguably the greatest live performer of the 20th century. This makes it extremely psychologically burdensome for those in their 40’s and 50’s to let go of him, as much as it is for any 11 year old to process the revelation that there is no Santa Claus. His legacy has left an indelible imprint on Generation X, and is not helped by the constant abuse he took from the media and tabloids that have left that generation formidably sympathetic towards him as a perceived victim of constant slander.
As an Xennial who grew up practically worshiping the man, I also have had great difficulty in processing what I’ve absorbed from that nauseating documentary. But also as a self-professed skeptic, I must be aware of the fact that Michael Jackson has never been convicted of a crime, all of the allegations are only backed up by verbal claims and that I must presume that he is innocent until proven guilty. I am constantly reminded of this by Jackson’s staunch defenders. The problem with these would be guardians is that vast majority of those I’ve come across so far have had one thing in common, they haven’t watched “Leaving Neverland”, and some even refuse to. Notwithstanding my attempt to stay on the narrow path of critical thinking, I have always abided by the philosophical principle of “Occam’s Razor”, in that the fewer assumptions I have to make about the aspects of a certain quandary, the more likely that it is true. So in a scenario where someone with a gun came along who knew the truth, asked me what I thought and told me he’d shoot me in the face if I gave the wrong answer, I know what I’d say.
Even though I’m not 100% convinced of his absolute guilt, I’ll never be able to listen to Michael Jackson in quite the same frame of mind as I did before, if I ever bring myself to listen to him again at all. That’s a personal choice, as we are all emotionally affected by the heinous acts of our blemished heroes subjectively. That being said, I also could never be so presumptuous as to call for a ban, or sanctimoniously dictate how someone else should interpret art. Regardless of who the craftsperson may be, art should always be considered, processed and studied, but is never under any necessary obligation to be enjoyed. So like Louis CK, Charlie Rose, Roman Polanski, Woody Allen, Kevin Spacey and Bill Cosby before him, I have learned that our fellow homo sapiens like Michael Jackson, should never be held in a blind spectrum of idolatry. Our complicity in canonizing flawed humans as deities could have a damning effect on potential victims around us. And as humbling a reality check as it may be, eventually we must all accept the hard hitting fact that there is no Santa Claus.
