Head to Head does Michael

This week’s topic: That Michael Jackson was an over-rated paedophile with a messiah complex

Andrew Woodhouse

What’s the difference between Michael Jackson and a grocery bag? One is white, made out of plastic and dangerous for kids to play with. The other holds groceries.

When MJ died of a drug overdose I yawned. Hardly novel. Surely an under-performance? His reputation-laundry world tour depended on better. Ask for better lighting and digital enhancing I thought.

MJ was half boy/man with a father, left nothing in MJ’s will, whom he detested. He longed to be loved yet loved only himself. He believed his own narcissism, was anorexic and enjoyed sleeping with little boys. His very best mate was a 26-year-old chimp named Bubbles. Well yank my chain, but is this normal? On my 1-10 scale of hero-worship MJ comes in at 0. He lacked integrity, maturity and any adamantine meaning to be a real man.

And so, just what is Bubbles’ fate, after the Supreme Court of Appeal decides who gets what and whom? Is it true, according to rumours from zoologists now installing new chimp gym gear, Bubbles will inherit the lot? Will the Court appoint a Zoo to administer his millions? Will Bubbles’ legal counsel be Tarzan, from Chimpanzee Legal Aid? These are real questions.

The media tsunami over his death is merely money-motivated hype to boost record sales, now going through the roof. They need louche loot to defray MJ’s massive debts. Renting a A$75 million Bel-air mansion can’t be cheap, affordable housing crisis or not.

Even the Sydney Powerhouse museum has opened a condolence book! Is his memory our most prized heritage possession? No.

His music, however, is different. Quirky, yes, but its 1980s-dated, beat-funk lacked the hocketing, modulation, melisma or counterpoint to be timeless. It was driven by visuals, instead of the visuals reflecting the music. Dancing for his so-called ‘moonwalk’ was pure theft, blatantly stolen from French mime artist, Marcel Marceau. He looked like he was walking on margarine. I wasn’t thrilled.

And please – if he’d had any more facelifts he’d be wearing a moustache!

‘He wasn’t the Messiah, he was just a naughty boy,’ as Monty Python correctly noted in their movie about The Life of Brian.
RIP MJ.

Peter Whitehead
Some time last century God was declared dead. Mortally wounded by world wars He was put down mercilessly by the cynics of the Scientific Age. The Ten Commandments toppled like dominoes as organized religion became a disorganized smorgasbord of tabloid scandals. With God gone, Western Civilization collapsed into a rubble of relativist ruins where the unread run riot in pursuit of meaninglessness.

Symptomatic of this catastrophe is our post-modern pagan pluralism making everyone a tinpot god for fifteen minutes – or torturously much longer for unfortunates like Michael Jackson – as the paparazzi replace the papacy in pointing the way to Paradise [now a parking lot – paved].

Young Michael became famous as the Jackson Five’s precocious lead singer piping out 70s hits for the waning Tamla Motown Records. “I was so little when we began to work on our music that I don’t remember much about it. When you’re a show-business child people make a lot of decisions concerning your life when you’re out of the room”.

Now the kid who never got to grow up has really left the room and every pop expert, fan or fanatic is making ill-informed decisions concerning his life. The truth is no-one knew the truth about the reclusive alleged eccentric.

Hard-pressed by the press from cradle to grave and, now, beyond, the boy nicknamed Big Nose by his father, became a bewildering blur of fact and fiction.

World-record album sales in the 80s crowned the adorable manchild King of Pop. In the 90s much-publicised celebrity friendships and collaborations culminated in marriage to Lisa Marie Presley, daughter of the King of Rock’n’Roll. That lasted twenty months. Apparently his bride never saw him without his make-up.

The next marriage, to his dermatologist nurse, Deborah Jeanne Rowe, was even curiouser. His third child, Prince Michael Jackson II, aka Blanket, was carried and delivered by a surrogate.

A perfectionist kid freaked out by unprecedented popular expectation, he became the zombie he played in his Thriller video triumph. He died preparing for fifty concerts reaffirming the legend of his talent.

May he, please,
Rest In Peace?