Ben Okri, writer
Every now and again a meteor streaks across our collective consciousness bringing unexpected blessings. And this little child from a steel town in the United States, who appeared in our world with a piercing voice and who achieved an almost blasphemous level of fame, might prove to be more than just a meteor. Michael Jackson managed the rare feat of being not only a child prodigy of popular music but also becoming a modern master.
To achieve classical stature is rare in any genre. He made some of the most distinctive, memorable and feet-intoxicating music of our times. As an entertainer he was a genius, marrying innovation in dance, brilliance in presentation and an extraordinary feel for the pulse of the time. He was also a genius in the art of fame. For he managed to make his voice and his face so much part of our popular culture and so much part of the parallel of our lives that he is as intimate to us as someone we have known for as long as we can remember.
But in the midst of all of this it is possible to miss the peculiar sweetness of his spirit. He came across as one of the gentlest, most sensitive and fragile of performers, and it is a testimony to the profound sweetness of him that he endured such monumental calumny and the persistent monstrosities of fame and still managed to radiate an essential kindness. He came across as someone almost cursed by too much good fortune. And there was often an air about him of an intolerable paradoxical loneliness.
His effect on people was almost unnatural. The Beatles at their best could sway huge crowds with great emotion but there were four of them. Michael Jackson could send a deep gasp, a frisson through a crowd of tens of thousands with just a discernible movement of his shoulder. His public appearances created hysteria. When he descended on cities, it had the effect of that strange power attributed to Pan in the mountains, a mixture of panic and ecstasy seizing the multitudes.
There were times when that fame bordered on the numinous. Was it a combination of his music, which had entered into almost every soul, with the increasing demonisation of his appearance by the mass media, combined with a kind of elfin beauty that radiated from him in almost inhuman confidence. We live in a world of uncertainties. We struggle with our anonymity. We are beset by fears and problems and we secretly long for something that would hint at some shining indestructible glory within.
Maybe that is what the rare superstars do. They are absorbent of our desire for a living image of immortality. Elvis Presley did that. And not even his death diminished that magnetism. Michael Jackson, magically transcending race and colour and nationality, did that. And in an odd way his death came at a fortunate cusp. He left in the midst of intense expectation. Reborn again in the hopes of his big comeback, not long after his redemption by being acquitted of all the charges against him, he leaves in a space of abundant potential. Maybe the most difficult thing is to achieve that monumental glory a second time. On the whole it is not given to mortals.
To achieve it once as he did with the world conquest of Thriller is astonishing by the highest standards of his industry. Only death at the right time can balance out the turbulent books of all the strange repercussions of such success. Allen Ginsberg said of the Beatles that they were angels sent down to cheer the world up with music. Michael Jackson was also one such angel. Now he will join the fixed stars in the firmament of popular culture. Now we can appreciate his beauty and his song.
© Ben Okri, 2009
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