The King of Pop was a broken man.
Fabulous entertainer, master musician, choreographer, divorcee, suspected pedophile, recluse: how to reconcile the extremes in this single extraordinary man?
James Hillman wrote in The Soul’s Code of the inhuman encased in the human—divine talent housed in a fragile shell. How does this fragile shell sustain the force of the talent? Youth helps, but over time the demands of life, the losses and the loneliness take their toll. Perhaps Michael’s body simply grew too tired to house, and be the instrument of, this talent any longer.
In his glory days, there were indications of this dilemma. Note his performance of Man in the Mirror at the 1988 Grammy Awards. There’s pain and urgency there which go deeper than the profound message of the song. The music flows through and consumes his body, every beat finding expression, while his reedy voice soars over the backing track and singers who join him on stage. After ferociously pleading with us to “make that change,” he slumps to his knees and appears unable to stand. One of his backing vocalists moves to him and helps him to his feet. He is not defeated; rather, the music and passion lift him to a stunning crescendo. He is simultaneously possessed by and in command of his music. As the crowd rises to its feet, his sweet gentle voice whispers into the microphone, “Thank you,” and implores us to “make that change.” He sinks his head in a deep bow and the lights fade to black.
Today, thankfully, Michael is free of the frail body that once housed his soul. Perhaps he’s now swapping stories with Judy Garland, one of his iconic peers, who also lived a life of incomparable talent and deep sadness. Judy Garland explained her dilemma this way: “Maybe it’s because I made a certain sound, a musical sound, a sound that seems to belong to the world. But it also belongs to me because it comes from within me.” Michael had a sound deeply his own, that millions around the world came to own, too. His music touched each of our experiences of life, love, loss, fear, and redemption, all packaged in images and moves that set the standard for artists to come. And, if he wasn’t singing of our experiences, his music was, at least, the soundtrack to them.
In recent years his life became a freak show, sadly eclipsing his artistic contribution to this world. His eccentricities, like Elvis’s, are legendary. Michael shares Elvis’s dichotomy of power and weakness—great talent and success that brings with it isolation and a sense of unreality that most of us don’t experience in our daily lives. This unreality leads to behaviors and actions that appear weak and unstable. The Soul’s Code suggests that these events are evidence of the larger-than-life talent seeking grounding in human experience. The talent seems to lift the artist up and yet drop him down in the arc of its expression.
This column was originally published in the St. Louis Post Dispatch on Tuesday, Feb. 05 2008
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