Separating the Art from the Artist
Whacko Jacko Tarnishing Our Thriller Memories

One of my favorite bits by the late great Rodney Dangerfield goes something like, “Frank Sinatra saved my life one night. These two big guys dragged me down an alley and were beating the stuffing out of me. Then Frank comes over and says, ‘Okay boys, that’s enough.’”

I mention that story because it has become part and parcel of Sinatra’s legend as a tough guy, boozehound and misogynist. The question, of course, is should Sinatra’s reputation as thuggish oaf with mob ties influence the way we perceive his music?

The debate on artists’ works versus artists’ lives comes up every time an artist (these days usually a musician) behaves in a manner that disgusts us. The media feeding frenzy that has been the Michael Jackson molestation trial is a perfect case in point. Earlier this week, Jackson was found not guilty of ten crimes involving an underage boy spending the night at his Neverland bizarre-o world and daycare facility. You can argue, as the defense team did, that the victim’s mother was a less than credible witness with a history of fraud and extortion. You can also argue that the district attorney in that California county seemed to have it in for Jackson for several years.

What you can’t argue is the fact that Jackson sat in front of television cameras during an interview in England last year and stated with a straight face (or the closest he comes to a straight face these days) that there is nothing more natural and loving than having a boy in his bed.

I think I speak for the majority of Americans when I say “Eeeuuuww!”

Even with his not guilty verdict, Mr. Jackson has managed to alienate and disgust most of the people in this country and polls this week indicate that most of us think he was guilty of at least some of these latest accusations.

But the question remains: Do we have to change our opinion about Thriller, probably the biggest selling album of all time? Do we go back even further and throw away our copies of The Jackson Five’s Greatest Hits? When do we decide that an artist’s personal demons are repugnant enough that we wash our hands of his or her artwork entirely?

Personally, I think Michael Jackson stopped being a great musician and started heading down the crooked road to Freaktown about two decades ago. But if I hear “I’ll Be There” or “Rock With You” or even “Ben” on the radio, I have to smile because those songs fill me with memories from my past. I was in college when Thriller came out. My friends and I were into The Clash, Elvis Costello, Talking Heads and Frank Zappa. We didn’t even listen to so-called dance music. But the girls in our lives did. For a solid year, you couldn’t go to a party without one of these girls (and some guys) putting Thriller on the stereo at some point during the evening. And it was, well, thrilling, because as soon as the needle on the turntable touched the first few beats of “Wanna Be Startin’ Something,” the girls would start to dance. And as we all know, if the girls want to dance, you’d better start dancing.

Whereas Jackson is an extreme example, I also have a problem with the veneration of musicians who suffer from acute self-destructive tendencies. The list of great musicians who died by their own hand, self abuse or self-neglect is incredibly long and includes some of my favorites including Jimi Hendrix, Karen Carpenter, Kurt Cobain, Sid Vicious, Nick Drake, Keith Moon, Lowell George and Jim Morrison, to name a few. The latest sad story in the world of music is that of Elliott Smith who committed suicide in October 2003 by actually stabbing himself to death. A talented songwriter with a penchant for the morose, Smith’s career took off after his death, largely due to the way the media enthusiastically embraced the news of his suicide (he could’ve used some of that same enthusiasm while he was alive). In fact, there are a lot of dead musicians out there whose best career move ever was to kick the bucket at an early age. It gave their reputations a certain tragic quality and certainly made it easier for us to buy their entire catalog (except for Hendrix who seems to put out a new album every year).

If there’s a point to all of this it is this: We, as music lovers appreciate it when you, as musicians, touch us (not physically, Michael). We love music so much that we are willing to forgive a lot of your shortcomings in order to hear you sing or play.

But if you end up dead or in jail, that’s your problem.