By DJ Boolix
The hypocrisy line starts behind me.
As I sit here, only 12 or so hours away from the airing of Leaving Neverland, the HBO documentary that apparently goes into extremely explicit details about Michael Jackson’s rape and molestation of at least two children, I'm realizing that the days of writing Michael Jackson off as an amiable weirdo for whom pedophilia was beyond his gloved reach are coming to an end.
Brooke Shields, Michael Jackson, and Emmanuel Lewis
When it came to Michael I bestowed upon myself a deniability, however implausible, given the utter, ever-increasing weirdness he thrust in our faces with each and every appearance, from showing up at the Grammy's in '84, carrying 13-year-old child actor Emmanuel Lewis as an accessory, to his '05 performance atop an SUV outside the courtroom where he was on trial for criminal sexual abuse, and all of the questionable moments in between.
The days of reckoning have seemingly come all at once for a celebrity class who, insulated by fame and fortune, have gotten away with God knows what for who knows how long. While I could care less about R. Kelly, it was tough to dismiss other icons from my childhood when they revealed themselves to be despicable — Bill Cosby, serial rapist; Hulk Hogan, racist. But those were people whose work I only casually encountered through the TV. Nevertheless, the exorcism of The Cosby Show, A Different World, and Fat Albert from my entertainment options was tough.
But Michael was different.
And I’m not talking about the doing the most, extra helping of lunatic, dangling a baby over a balcony, going to court in pajamas, and fixing your prosthetic nose on the witness stand Michael Jackson. I’m talking about the Michael Jackson who created the soundtrack that has been playing in the background of my life since, well, forever. The Michael Jackson who had every kid on the playground trying to perfect the moonwalk the day after the Motown 25 special.
Michael provided my first foray into fandom. I had the pins, the posters (the one with him in the yellow sweater vest with the gaudy diamond broach on the lapel; the one of Mike looking casual in a brown leather jacket leaned to the side). I sang the songs, I knew the dance moves, I used my dad's pallbearer glove to lend authenticity to my Billie Jean performance. I daydreamed about having enough money to go into Chess King and buy the black Beat-it jacket that was chained high on the wall, far out of the reach of us mere mortals.
Once I watch the documentary, Michael's criminal deviance, which I can now not look away from, will be inextricably linked to the music. The only question left to wrestle with at this point is how to deal with my intimate, lifelong relationship with his catalog — Not to mention the fact that professionally, when I'm called to DJ a party, I'll have to check with the host to see if MJ is on the "approved-to-play" list and then hope a protest doesn't erupt on the dance floor when I drop "Working Day and Night."
I'd be lying if I said I'm not going to close my eyes and snap my fingers the next time "Baby Be Mine" comes on The Groove, or that I'm going to press skip instead of chanting "mama-say-mama-sa-mama-coosa" at the end of "Wanna Be Startin' Somethin'", because quite simply, I doubt I have the will or the willingness to confer a muted status on art that has personal resonance far beyond the music.
However, there will now be an unavoidable uneasiness about enjoying something that has brought me pleasure for the past three and a half decades when I now know and can't un-know.
The hypocrisy line starts behind me.
