I say this without a pinch of cynicism or sarcasm: I’m pretty broken up about the death of Michael Jackson. Say what you want about him, whether you liked him or not, thought he did all the horrible things he was accused of, or was just downright stranger than a summer squash.
Forget it all. The pure and simple fact of the matter is this: He may have been weird, but for my generation — the MTV generation — he was part of our childhood, not to mention our cultural identity.
And you would be hard-pressed to find a single one of us who didn’t try to be a little like him. Especially to dance like him, which is why my generation will need an extraordinary number of hip replacements. (I alone dislocated my shoulder, a knee and even a kidney trying to imitate him.)
We were all Michael Jackson in one way or another in the 80s. Music videos were new and groundbreaking, giving us these marvelously absurd glimpses of performers like him who followed two fashion rules of pop stardom: No. 1 – Raid your mother’s closet and jewelry box; and No. 2 – Only wear clothes that look like the fabric has melted onto your skin.
Jackson had a style like nothing we had ever seen before. He wore a glove — just one! — and it shined like it was made out of sequins. His pants were too short and he wore white, sparkly socks that peeked out and introduced themselves. His hair looked like someone had mis-cut it and then doused it in motor oil. He wore tight white T-shirts and often ripped them open to expose a body that looked like a partially devoured string bean.
But we ate it up. WE ATE IT UP!
Because the guy could move. Daggone the guy could move! Like nothing we had ever seen before. He floated and glided — just hovered above the ground like he was skating on ice, unbound by the common laws of gravity and friction. He grabbed his crotch. He did toe stands. He shook his foot about like he was trying to dislodge a colony of ants.
And he moonwalked! How awesome was that? If you’ve never moonwalked then you haven’t really lived. You have to try it. It’s liberating and I do it at least twice a week.
He would shriek and howl and wail “HOOOO!” like someone was ripping his toenails off. He made popping noises like a fat guy banging on an electric base, and would say things like “Jam on” and “choo-ka-CHA.”
We never had cable at my house as a kid — in fact there were certain species of Albino cave rats in the Amazon who had cable before we did — so my brother and I had to get our fix of MTV, and Michael Jackson, at friends’ houses.
I saw “Billy Jean” when it first aired in 1983 at a neighbor’s just across the street. Funny how I can remember so vividly staring wide-eyed at the screen while this crazy dude in a shiny tux with highwaters and a red bow tie spun about squares that lit up.
What was this? What forces of darkness had he conjured up to dance like that?
I had no idea what he was singing about — “Billy Jean is not my lover. She’s just a girl who claims that I am the one. But the kid is not my son …” What the hell was he talking about? We didn’t know. We didn’t care.
There was Thriller — such a ridiculous song with a goofy video that ripped off horror movies. But how we sat glued to the TV screen watching it over and over again. Who would have thunk dancing zombies could be so cool?
Or “Beat It.” Or “Rock with You.” Or “Smooth Criminal.” Or “Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’.”
He was mesmerizing and ridiculous at the same time. You couldn’t help but watch him. You couldn’t help but be a little intoxicated by his moves — by the theatrics.
He was over the top, and in many ways personified the era I grew up in — those glorious 80s. People went out — they actually went out! — in parachute pants, sparkly white socks, red leather jackets and white gloves. How awesome could a decade be!?!
He helped define a whole generation, and love him or hate him, he left a mark on almost all of us growing up. So moonwalk in peace, you King of Pop. When we all start getting our hip replacements, we’ll owe it all to you.