An American tragedy

I don’t own the “Thriller” album. I’ve never gone to a party in black high-waters and white socks. And, much to my infinite frustration, I still haven’t mastered the moonwalk.  

The point is, I’ve just never been that into Michael Jackson. I came of age in the era after Jacksonian hegemony, when economics and technology splintered American pop culture and prevented anyone from achieving the level of ubiquitous global presence that Jackson had possessed at one time.

Perhaps that’s why, even a week after his passing, I’m still grappling with the magnitude of what a black boy from Gary came to represent. I must have read two dozen essays by now, each examining different facets of his career: how he toppled racial barriers in the early years of desegregation, how his musical genius transformed an industry forever and how his elevation to “King of Pop” signifies a unique historical moment.

But what’s most intriguing is how every analysis inevitably turns to the dark, mysterious tale of Jackson’s fall from glory. Their titles alone indicate America’s fascination with the intense weirdness of Jackson’s life: “The Death of Peter Pan,” “Finding Neverland,” “The Man and the Mirror.” No matter what he accomplished or whom he once was, it’s the whole spectrum of his life – the grandiose rise and bizarre fall – that grabs people’s attention. It’s the tortured soul, the tragic hero, who really pulls us in.

This conclusion shouldn’t come as a surprise. Throughout the pantheon of great American celebrities, one would be hard-pressed to find a figure whose life didn’t contain a series of dark chapters. Celebrity-obsessed Americans love the fallen and imperfect hero, an archetype journalists this past week have crafted once more.

Reading their essays, one senses that the sub-narrative of Jackson’s demise develops not as an anomaly in the narrative of his greatness, but as a natural part of its unfolding. These stories suggest Jackson, like all individuals endowed with extraordinary talent, was destined also to live with extraordinary pain and loneliness. Perhaps extreme elements of human existence – musical genius and profound depravity – are bound to coexist within those individuals blessed, or cursed.

In one sense, the interwoven narratives of celebrity glory and despair provide a bitter reassurance: They testify to the inescapable bonds of human nature accented when our idols fall. And the immensity of their falls furthermore suggests fame and fortune are bought at a tremendous personal cost, perhaps offering many people greater contentment with their middling life station.

Even as these narratives advance a strange form of social utility, however, Jackson’s story issues a troubling referendum on American culture.

“With fame and celebrity as its core values, with money as its sole motive,” Andrew Sullivan of the Atlantic wrote after Jackson’s death, “(American culture) chewed this child up and spat him out.”

But in the wake of Jackson’s death, one must determine that great segments of American culture derived as much fascination and pleasure from Jackson’s degeneration as they did from his rise.

Which naturally leads me to wonder: Who ended up more disturbed: Jackson or the culture that adored him?