Michael Jackson's death initially felt like a distant event. A happening outside my immediate sphere. It didn't quite register the same way with me as, say, Nagesh's or Shivaji Ganesan's did. The passing away of the latter two hit me closer. I grew up watching them perform and were a much bigger part of my childhood than MJ. Yet, it didn't feel right.
While being a kid, against my staple diet of Tamil music (MSV, Ilayaraja and AR Rahman, in that order), the only source of "Western music" that I was ever aware of, was Michael Jackson's. He visited India in 1996. Pepsi (It was Lehar Pepsi then, I think) was offering a free audio cassette of his Dangerous album with the purchase of some quantity of their products. And, as was the case back then, my cousins were among the first citizens of Chennai to get that cassette (as with any other freebie that came out with just about any product in the market) which was playing non-stop. That was the first time ever that I listened to his songs. I quickly caught on to "Black or White" and "Remember the time". Just those words, mind you, for I absolutely couldn't understand the lyrics. But the music was something out of the world and I was truly blown away.
When I was in college, I was bothering my parents to get me a music system. So much that we would have visited a half a dozen showrooms atleast 6 times each, and still managed to not buy one. Anyways, everytime we were there, the sales man would almost always play a MJ CD to demonstrate the capabilities of a system. As the clear beats flowed through the giant speakers, I would get goose bumps. 1200W PMPO was one thing to read on a brochure but a Jackson song gave it a different meaning altogether. Through the 90s, I caught glimpses of his stunning videos on MTV. While I can never claim to be his "fan" in the real sense of the word, he was always on the periphery. I was a long distance fan, if you will.
When trying to make sense of the MJ phenomenon, the first word that springs to mind is style. This man had tons of it and some more. The dance (although his crotch grab made me squirm), the walk, the costumes, the looks, everything had style about it. Style of the kind that was never seen before. It confirmed his status as the King of Pop. And the King had colonized the world. One could love him or hate him but nearly everyone had to have some opinion about him and that was proof of the influence he had over everyone out there.
Then yesterday, at a music store, they were playing a montage of his live performances with video clippings from his tours. Two words: mass hysteria. Be it Europe, the US or Asia, his mere presence on the stage could work the crowds into a mad frenzy. Colossal stadia were filled with people in tears, tearing away at their clothes. Women, and men, had to be helped away as they passed out. I don't know if it was the music or the musician behind such scenes of crowd adulation. This man possessed something that could touch the lives of millions. He was an entertainer. But in the eyes of the masses, he was a messiah. He was special, residing well beyond the realms of mere mortality. Whatever the case, it would be very easy for a person to be carried away at being worshipped by all races across the world. And what is stardom, anyways, without that touch of eccentricity or a streak of self destruction? He was in the news for all the wrong reasons, proven or not, and was getting good at living up to the "Whacko Jacko" label, what with his pale complexion, the weird nose job and financial troubles. The all too familiar tale of sublime talent gone wrong. But I continued to be a long distance fan: of his music and entertainment. As me and my wife stood transfixed, watching the probably 3-minute-long video, I had a lump in my throat. It finally sunk in that the pop icon, the performer, the prodigy, the entertainer that could rally mankind is no more. Somehow, it still doesn't feel right. RIP.
(Image courtesy: www.soulwalking.co.uk)
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