I don’t kow what aspect of MJ I am sad about
A week ago tomorrow, the famous American pop star Michael Jackson died in Los Angeles. I was attending our annual year-end staff party when I learned of Jackson’s untimely demise.
Opiyo Oloya
PERSPECTIVE OF A UGANDAN IN CANADA
A week ago tomorrow, the famous American pop star Michael Jackson died in Los Angeles. I was attending our annual year-end staff party when I learned of Jackson’s untimely demise.
My mobile phone vibrated in my pocket, and when I answered it, my son Oceng was on the other side, “Daddy, Michael Jackson is dead,†he said simply. I asked what else he knew about the death, and he responded that the singer seemed to have died from heart attack. I told him to follow the news, and that I would catch up with him later.
I am still not sure what to think about the news of Michael Jackson’s death. It is sad because he seemed to work so hard to make everyone happy, and yet happiness seemed to elude him. The story emanating since his death speaks of a very lonely child who resided in the body of a 50-year old man. He never knew childhood because he was busy working the music scene. Now, I must confess I was never a Michael Jackson fan.
Though I arrived on the shores of North America in the spring of 1981 at the time when his solo career was on the cusp of becoming airborne, I never bought a single album from his sizable collection. In Uganda in the 1970s, I had heard snippets of music by the Jackson Five, but never thought much about it.
I was too much into African music when I arrived in Canada that spring. My attitude did not change about American pop music which I did not like all that much. But at Queen’s University in Kingston, the absence of African music made life difficult.
To help me adapt, my new Canadian friends introduced me to the music of Joe Jackson (a British musician not related to Michael Jackson), listening for hours to the 1982 album Night and Day especially the song’ Breaking us into two. There was also the music of Linda Ronstadt, Carole King, Air Supply, David Bowie, and, of course, the crazy music of David Byrne with Talking Heads.
I loved Talking Heads perhaps because it was heavily influenced by the Afrobeat music of the late Fela Kuti, and to this day occasionally listen to the hit song Once in a Lifetime. The song was accompanied by a crazy video of David Byrne dancing.
Byrne’s twitchy disconnected movements could not compare to the smooth, highly choreographed mega-hit of Jackson’s Thriller video, but it seemed to connect to my own life in exile, living in an alien culture, going through all sorts of existential angst.
All through my own acculturation into the North American lifestyle of the 1980s, I watched Michael Jackson become a phenomenon, a powerhouse in the music industry, winning many Grammy and other awards. His 1982 best-selling album Thriller did not catch my attention, but a year later in December 1983, I took note when the video Thriller was released. It was the best video ever produced with an interesting storyline featuring all these dancing zombies and skeletons and Michael Jackson. It was fresh, it was rich, and Michael Jackson seemed to float on air.
Yet, though fascinated by Thriller, and by Jackson’s own story of overcoming racial stereotype to become a crossover artiste that appealed to all people, I never bought any of his music. For me, buying an album was a testimony of my deep love of the music.
I grew up on the music of Miriam Makeba, Rochereau Tabu Ley and Luambo Makiadi Franco, Fela Kuti and Mangelepa. I could talk about the music of Bella Bella, Bela Mambo, Zaiko Langa Langa, and Lipua Lipua. Those were my kind of music. But I understood what Michael Jackson was doing. He was more than a musical genius; he was also clearly creating space for blacks everywhere with his music.
By appealing to people of all races, and by becoming well accepted by mainstream North America (that’s to say white), he was niftily allowing the idea of blackness to seep into mainstream consciousness. His success elevated him beyond the label of being the African- American singer, or the black singer.
He became just Michael Jackson. Of course, after Jackson, there would be other talented African American artistes, media and sports personalities who would transcend race and become known only by their names—think basket ball stars Magic Johnson, Michael Jordan, Shaquille O’Neal and Kobe Bryant, footballer OJ Simpson, golf phenomenon Tiger Woods, TV personality Oprah Winfrey, and singers 50 Cent, Snoop Dogg and so forth. But it was Michael Jackson who broke that colour barrier to become just Michael Jackson.
Whether this phenomenal success had something to do with his eventual fall from grace, or the fact that he seemed frozen in adolescence, never able to break free from the boy who wowed his audience when he was only 13 years old, Michael Jackson had achieved within the span of a decade what many African Americans had worked their entire lifetime trying to achieve, namely, to be judged for who they are without being pegged to colour. Therein lies my own dilemma.
I don’t know whether I am sad about his untimely death or because he was a trailblazer who did not quite enjoy his fame. I suspect that Michael Jackson died of heartbreak. I don’t mean this in the medical sense, but in the social sense.
He yearned so much to be free, yet in the end he was free for others, but not for himself. He was the bright meteorite that lit the night sky only to fizzle out while the little stars twinkled on.
As he prepared for his comeback this summer, he must have realized that he could never again touch the very nadir of musical greatness that he reached in the 1980s. He must have realized that he was a washed up former singer who could no longer sing or dance.
He was living in the shadow of his own legend, and any attempted comeback was doomed. His was a sad story when you consider the doors he opened for so many artistes, for so many people including the election of Barack Obama two decades later.
Yet, he could not walk through the very door he opened. His heart broke because he could not be that Michael Jackson ever again. So he lay down and died.
Opiyo.oloya@sympatico.ca
PERSPECTIVE OF A UGANDAN IN CANADA
A week ago tomorrow, the famous American pop star Michael Jackson died in Los Angeles. I was attending our annual year-end staff party when I learned of Jackson’s untimely demise.
My mobile phone vibrated in my pocket, and when I answered it, my son Oceng was on the other side, “Daddy, Michael Jackson is dead,†he said simply. I asked what else he knew about the death, and he responded that the singer seemed to have died from heart attack. I told him to follow the news, and that I would catch up with him later.
I am still not sure what to think about the news of Michael Jackson’s death. It is sad because he seemed to work so hard to make everyone happy, and yet happiness seemed to elude him. The story emanating since his death speaks of a very lonely child who resided in the body of a 50-year old man. He never knew childhood because he was busy working the music scene. Now, I must confess I was never a Michael Jackson fan.
Though I arrived on the shores of North America in the spring of 1981 at the time when his solo career was on the cusp of becoming airborne, I never bought a single album from his sizable collection. In Uganda in the 1970s, I had heard snippets of music by the Jackson Five, but never thought much about it.
I was too much into African music when I arrived in Canada that spring. My attitude did not change about American pop music which I did not like all that much. But at Queen’s University in Kingston, the absence of African music made life difficult.
To help me adapt, my new Canadian friends introduced me to the music of Joe Jackson (a British musician not related to Michael Jackson), listening for hours to the 1982 album Night and Day especially the song’ Breaking us into two. There was also the music of Linda Ronstadt, Carole King, Air Supply, David Bowie, and, of course, the crazy music of David Byrne with Talking Heads.
I loved Talking Heads perhaps because it was heavily influenced by the Afrobeat music of the late Fela Kuti, and to this day occasionally listen to the hit song Once in a Lifetime. The song was accompanied by a crazy video of David Byrne dancing.
Byrne’s twitchy disconnected movements could not compare to the smooth, highly choreographed mega-hit of Jackson’s Thriller video, but it seemed to connect to my own life in exile, living in an alien culture, going through all sorts of existential angst.
All through my own acculturation into the North American lifestyle of the 1980s, I watched Michael Jackson become a phenomenon, a powerhouse in the music industry, winning many Grammy and other awards. His 1982 best-selling album Thriller did not catch my attention, but a year later in December 1983, I took note when the video Thriller was released. It was the best video ever produced with an interesting storyline featuring all these dancing zombies and skeletons and Michael Jackson. It was fresh, it was rich, and Michael Jackson seemed to float on air.
Yet, though fascinated by Thriller, and by Jackson’s own story of overcoming racial stereotype to become a crossover artiste that appealed to all people, I never bought any of his music. For me, buying an album was a testimony of my deep love of the music.
I grew up on the music of Miriam Makeba, Rochereau Tabu Ley and Luambo Makiadi Franco, Fela Kuti and Mangelepa. I could talk about the music of Bella Bella, Bela Mambo, Zaiko Langa Langa, and Lipua Lipua. Those were my kind of music. But I understood what Michael Jackson was doing. He was more than a musical genius; he was also clearly creating space for blacks everywhere with his music.
By appealing to people of all races, and by becoming well accepted by mainstream North America (that’s to say white), he was niftily allowing the idea of blackness to seep into mainstream consciousness. His success elevated him beyond the label of being the African- American singer, or the black singer.
He became just Michael Jackson. Of course, after Jackson, there would be other talented African American artistes, media and sports personalities who would transcend race and become known only by their names—think basket ball stars Magic Johnson, Michael Jordan, Shaquille O’Neal and Kobe Bryant, footballer OJ Simpson, golf phenomenon Tiger Woods, TV personality Oprah Winfrey, and singers 50 Cent, Snoop Dogg and so forth. But it was Michael Jackson who broke that colour barrier to become just Michael Jackson.
Whether this phenomenal success had something to do with his eventual fall from grace, or the fact that he seemed frozen in adolescence, never able to break free from the boy who wowed his audience when he was only 13 years old, Michael Jackson had achieved within the span of a decade what many African Americans had worked their entire lifetime trying to achieve, namely, to be judged for who they are without being pegged to colour. Therein lies my own dilemma.
I don’t know whether I am sad about his untimely death or because he was a trailblazer who did not quite enjoy his fame. I suspect that Michael Jackson died of heartbreak. I don’t mean this in the medical sense, but in the social sense.
He yearned so much to be free, yet in the end he was free for others, but not for himself. He was the bright meteorite that lit the night sky only to fizzle out while the little stars twinkled on.
As he prepared for his comeback this summer, he must have realized that he could never again touch the very nadir of musical greatness that he reached in the 1980s. He must have realized that he was a washed up former singer who could no longer sing or dance.
He was living in the shadow of his own legend, and any attempted comeback was doomed. His was a sad story when you consider the doors he opened for so many artistes, for so many people including the election of Barack Obama two decades later.
Yet, he could not walk through the very door he opened. His heart broke because he could not be that Michael Jackson ever again. So he lay down and died.
Opiyo.oloya@sympatico.ca