Schoultz’s Lo-Fi Motel

There are a number of opinions about the passing of Michael Jackson.  I admit was trolling the Internet today more out of curiosity of reactions than the life and death of the entertainer.  I mean no disrespect to MJ as I hope to illustrate.  I’m honestly not sure if it is possible to go from youth to adulthood in the 1980’s and hate Michael Jackson regardless of your musical sway.  The most common reaction from the truly honest of even hardcore fans is that the last 15 or so years of the man’s life was a spectacular oft cringe-inducing multi-train collision.  And it shouldn’t have had to be that way. But let’s face it, Jackson was doomed to lead a less than normal happy life by the first time he had yet to hit puberty.  Too much too soon.  Too young an age to achieve that level of success, no matter the talent.  Too much talent for his own good at so young an age.  Too many records sold at once at still such a young age.  Just way too goddamn much in a decade where excess was celebrated as the American ideal.

I’m not going to try to convey my notions of Michael Jackson, either the artist or the phenomena, because way too many others have already, and probably better than I.  I will say that I owned Thriller on cassette back in 1983 though I do not currently own a CD copy, that “Billie Jean” still holds up, that “The Girl is Mine” doesn’t and never did, that I have a die-hard metal friend who loves the music of the Jackson 5, and that those hypocrites at that pox of moron culture, MTV, will be playing his videos and paying weeping tributes to him probably all weekend while last week the only mention Jackson might have garnered would have been as the punchline of some gutter/toilet joke.  Nevermind that he put them on the map.  Some are likening the death of the King of Pop to the passing of the King of Rock’n'Roll.  The “Pop” crown is appropriate, as MJ was never, ever dangerous enough to come close to being rock’n'roll.  He was primarily an entertainer.  There for the audience. No risk, no real rebellion, though many of his song titles were darker than anything the grunge movement could come up with (Scream, Blood on the Dancefloor, Leave Me Alone, Wanna Be Starting something, etc.).  Something,  however, against my punkish, garagey, R’n'R nature, I’m emotional and intellectually drawn to, is to point out that Elvis never wrote his own songs.  But MJ did.  That said, here are some Michael Jackson memories.  And you know damn well you have some too.

1983 or so.  The video for “Billie Jean” on what must’ve been NBC’s Friday Night Video’s.    My black and white Sampo T.V. in my bedroom.  No cable.  Those street tiles that would light up as Michael stepped on them.  Even at age 13 or so I had a gut feeling I was watching something different that would change a few rules.  Of course I felt the same way about Quiet Riot’s “Cum on Feel the Noize” and ZZ Top’s “Sharp Dressed Man” videos.  Time to revisit the importance of the early ’80’s, perhaps.

1984.  The cusp of the reunited Jackson’s “Victory” world tour.  A somewhat shady endeavour by Tito, Jermaine and the others to cash in on their little bro’s massive success.  A doomed venture in marketing and promotion (Don King?!!), it nonetheless paired up MJ and the Bros. Jackson with Pepsi.  My Dad and I were working on the basement, putting up ready-dated fake oak panelling in what was to be my new bedroom/brooding area.  We were swilling Pepsi out of the just released commemorative Victory tour cans.  As a last minute time capsule, my old man stuck one of the cans behind the panelling, nailing it shut.  My Dad and Stepmom have since moved twice since then.  I would love to imagine a current owner at 642 Gertrude Avenue remodeling and coming across this minor, minor odd little treasure.

 It was right before the Dangerous album came out (91′ or ‘92?  Too lazy and sleepy to look it up).  I was living and attending school as an undergrad in Oshkosh, WI.  I was out with a friend and his soon to be wife at this small house gathering.  We were all watching the Simpson’s because afterwards was the world debut of Michael Jackson’s “Black or White” video.  MJ was the last of the collective, communal experiences as far as media goes.  Anyways, the song was catchy enough, the video was kind of trend-setting (the face morph technology) and irritating at the same time.  Suddenly the song ended and MJ morphed into a black jungle cat and prowled behind what was supposedly the video’s backstage and a dark city backstreet.  Then he morphed back into MJ.  Then he climbed on top of a luxury car with a crowbar, hollered, grabbed his balls often, and proceeded to beat the shit out of the car.  I remember the small yet animated, alcohol-lubricated crew in the living room got quiet and slackjawed for the first time that evening.  A truly WTF? moment.  The media and parental outcry the next day was spectacular, and for a short time in a very long time MJ seemed rather…um…I dunno…cool, maybe.  Nirvana would shortly there after knock him off the charts.  A stake driven into the bloated, gold-plated heart of the 1980’s (for better or worse).

Remember him this way…

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