July 7th, 2009 by Larry Bellinger | Posted in Current Events, News, Politics | 4 Comments »
Michael Jackson and I were nearly the same age; both of us were to turn fifty-one this summer. I made it.
From age ten through twenty-one years old, Michael Jackson was an integral part of my life: much to my dismay for a good portion of that time.
At that tender young age, Michael seemed older than his years. His stage presence was polished, his dance moves professional and his voice stirring – think of those high notes on “Got to Be There.” All that to say Michael made my teen years miserable.
My step-dad was adamantly opposed to long hair of any kind and my older brother’s Afro drove him to distraction. Bill kept his hair long mostly because Jim couldn’t stand it. I was three years younger than Bill and I was short, fat, (at least, that was what everyone told me!), and wore thick glasses. I wasn’t secure enough, or rebellious enough to stand up and fight for my afro… a hairstyle I really didn’t want but Michael and his brothers all had big afros and if you didn’t have at least the beginnings of a ‘fro what girl in sixth grade was gonna look at you even once?
Yep, sixth grade. 1969-70. The season the Jets, Mets and Knicks won championships for New York. The year after the Jackson 5 broke out on the national scene. From then on, my adolescence would be gauged by where Michael Jackson stood in the world.
Michael became the symbol for African-American teens throughout the 1970’s and I was not one who could live up to the image. His fashions were the bell-bottomed pants, the fringed vests, the great hair, etc. I wore clothes from the Sears “Husky” collection and Robert Hall. Having to wear “Huskies” was bad enough, but my greatest dismay came when my parents purchased a “leisure suit” for my ninth grade graduation. Urrrgh.
The Jackson 5 faded a bit toward the second half of the decade and as I grew older I developed an “anti-style” to fit my more rebellious nature. Army fatigues and hospital scrubs made up the bulk of my wardrobe by the time I hit fashion conscious Hampton Institute in the fall of 1976.
As a fat kid I was always pretty self-conscious about hitting the dance floor in those days. About that time a guy named Fred Berry played a fat guy character called “Rerun” on a popular TV show. His claim to fame was his dancing ability despite his weight and girth; he danced in the “locker” style of dancing that had been popularized on “Soul Train.”
Meanwhile Michael was a “Dancin’ Machine. ” Oh baby! Groovy, baby!
In 1971 I had pins placed in both hips and as a consequence walked with a gait that resembled a duck’s. Not the “duck walk” of Chuck Berry or early ‘80s hip-hop MC’s, but a waddle that used to elicit “Quack, quack, quack” calls as I moved through the hallways of Amityville Junior High. Despite the pain and effort of walking, I joined the marching band in school and continued with band through my freshman year of college.
I thought I was determined to be “Me” all those years, but it was a front; being “outrageous” was a shield to hide my own insecurities. By the end of my college years I was no longer so self-conscious about dancing. I was very “contained” and tended to look around to see if anyone was watching, (laughing and pointing, actually) but soon realized that no one really cared. I developed the old, safe “two step” style of dancing until the greatest dance sensation EVER came to pass. Once we started “Freaking” it didn’t matter, just grab a willing babe and go!
Soon after, I came back to Michael Jackson when he released “Off the Wall.” Now this was a grown up MJ I could relate to!
My frat threw a dance and when the DJ played, “Don’t Stop ‘til You Get Enough” a friend of mine, (this really hot babe named Nicole), yelled, “I wanna dance to this, come on, Bellinger!” and literally pulled me out on the floor.
I was in a panic! This wasn’t a “two step” tempo and “The Freak” had become passé. Nicole was having a great time and I thought to myself, “Aw what the hell!” and just cut loose. Next thing I knew I was totally into it; slides, claps and spins! Unbridled joy. I just didn’t care! The DJ segued into Rick James and we just kept going. After a Brothers Johnson cut, Nicole had had enough and wanted to get a drink. Breathless and glistening with perspiration, she exclaimed, “Damn, Bellinger! I didn’t know you could dance!” Hell, I didn’t know, either!
After graduation I went home to Amityville and the clubs of NYC. Throughout the ‘80s I loved hitting places such as Kamikaze (where I got free drinks from the bar tender because I could out “snap” him – everyone called him Bruno, we now know him as Bruce Willis), 4D and the Tunnel.
But for those three years between 1979 and 1982 I declared a truce with Michael Jackson. He had opened the door he had figuratively locked, (in my head) in 1969. I was my own guy, no longer defined by any dictates of fashion or style set by Michael Jackson.
However, after “Thriller” something began to change. I admit I loved the album, didn’t buy it, but I dug it. In those days I was only spending money on Miles Davis, Earth Wind and Fire, Steely Dan, Coltrane, Return to Forever and such. But something about Michael was bothering me.
It wasn’t the hair; brothers were getting Jeri Curls left and right. Didn’t bother me, but it wasn’t for me – guys with hair like that reminded me of the those who got their hair “processed” back in the day. That didn’t bother me, either… except when they wore the bandanas with the knot in the front. To me, that was a “thug” look.
Sorry, didn’t dig the thugs then, didn’t dig the thugs in hip-hop and don’t like the thug image now.
What bothered me about Michael was his face. I remember a line from an O. Henry short story about how a man’s nose didn’t change from a “roman to a pug” even after twenty years. Michael’s face had definitely changed, but his nose changed from the cute little button nose of 1969 to a sleeker, longer, and thinner version. What the hell, who cares? Besides, maybe he did it for his singing.
Or maybe it was make-up for the video? He sure looked a lot different in “Thriller” than he did for “Billie Jean.” By the way, his dancing in “Billie Jean” was freaking fantastic! I watched the “Motown 25” special and was amazed not so much by the “moonwalk” but by the audience’s reaction to it. The performance that moved me the most that night was Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Going On?”
Throughout the ‘80s, Michael dominated the airwaves and the charts… and his face continued to evolve. By the time we were thirty years old, Michael’s nose had become impossibly thin and his skin tone had noticeably lightened. I remember scoffing at a friend of mine, (a HUGE fan of Jackson’s) about Michael’s icon status, “This guy has been held up as the standard and here he is rejecting himself!” To which she replied, “You just jealous of Michael!”
All of the oddities; Bubbles, Emanuel Lewis as a best friend, rumors about sleeping in a hyperbaric chamber, trying to buy the Elephant Man remains, etc., all just served to fuel his celebrity. The fact that his music was still breathtaking was only a minor detail. His “Leave Me Alone” track addressed many of these issues but that song always sounded a hollow tone for me. If you want to be left alone, take your money and go chill. However, Michael’s friendship with Ryan White was inspiring, even if Michael had begun to resemble Diana Ross.
By the early ‘90s I had my own kids and they clamored for the “Dangerous” album. I can’t count the number of times they screamed, “It doesn’t matter if you’re black or white!” at the top of their lungs from the back seat of my car. But boy! Were they disappointed that “Will You Be There” was only featured at the very end of “Free Willy” as the credits rolled.
It was around this time I had an opportunity to capitalize on Jackson’s fame, and I took it, unreservedly.
In January 1993, we had moved to Washington, DC and a friend and business associate of my wife’s cousin approached me and asked if I would enter a business venture with him. Joseph Jackson would be coming to D.C. to promote his new soft drink, “JoeCola” and the guy wanted to know if I would join with him in a business venture surrounding the product. I really tried not laugh out loud and failed. He then told me it wasn’t about investing any money… he had a friend, a Russian, who wanted to sell the soda in the former Soviet Union where Michael Jackson had achieved godlike status. Surely, they reasoned, Michael Jackson’s fans would be eager to buy Michael Jackson’s father’s soda.
You know something? I didn’t care if folks wanted his father’s soda product or not. I was basically looking to get some, “Money for Nothing.” The problem was the official distributors of JoeCola wanted anyone who did business with the company to pony up $75,000.00 to buy a local distributorship. The hell with that! I didn’t even like the stuff, considering it was basically Shasta Cola in a very generic container; but money is money and I agreed to join the effort and then led negotiations.
Our position was this, “We don’t want to sell JoeCola, we want to help YOU sell JoeCola. We have access to a market you really, really want and we are ready, willing and able to help you get that access.”
We met with several local distributors who had formed a coalition specifically for this potential deal. After hours of negotiation we tentatively agreed that they would sell their product to our exporter client for $5 per case. My friend, and now business partner, protested throughout the negotiations that the distributors were trying to gouge our “client.” Of course they were and why not? Who knew how long this product would be on the shelves and these knuckleheads had to try and recoup the $75K they were dumb enough to have invested in the first place. I told my pal, “Let the Russian reject the offer but from what I have gathered from his plan, he’ll probably sell this stuff for $5 a can!” Sure enough, the Russian liked the deal.
He worked for an export company and his side business was exporting consumer stuff from the USA and jacking up the price on the merchandise once it got to Mother Russia. Knock off products and seconds, (even used blue jeans picked up in bulk from Goodwill!), ended up on ships heading east. Since his company operated the ships, the extra cargo he moved cost him nothing. After the purchase price and transportation costs to Port of Baltimore, everything else was pure profit.
We went to contract and everything was set. JoeCola would sell the soda to our client and we would get a percentage of each unit sold. We would also get a percentage of each unit sold in Russia. We were going to get paid for essentially saying, “Joe, meet Ivan!”
Joe Jackson came to town to do publicity for his product and posed with kids for photos at La Perla restaurant in Adams Morgan. My children were among the youngster posing for publicity stills with the Jackson patriarch and they weren’t impressed by Mr. Jackson or his soda.
The first order was set for the summer of that year and everything seemed solid… for a few weeks.
In February 1993 Michael appeared on the Oprah Winfrey special from Neverland Ranch and answered many questions concerning his quirky peculiarities. He then said in response to Oprah’s query concerning his self-identity, “I’m a proud black American… I’m proud of my race!” He also patted his right hand on his chest for emphasis.
My stomach fell as if I were on the first big drop of the Cyclone Roller Coaster at Coney Island’s Astroland. My wife, Francel, asked me what was wrong and I replied I had just seen the JoeCola deal fall to pieces. She didn’t understand what I was talking about and I told her that Michael, despite the fact that he now looked a like a deeply tanned white woman had just identified himself as a Proud Black man… so to speak.
Fran said, “So?”
“So,” I shot back, “as long as Michael was a supremely talented but lovable freak, all his, shall we say, peccadilloes? could be overlooked.” Now, I fretted, as a “Proud Black” all the crazy shit he does is going get true scrutiny. I feared that any dismissed hanger-on or fired “Yes Man” who ever had the temerity to say, “That might not be a good idea, Michael” was going to come out of the woodwork with law suits soon to follow.
The rest is history. Michael was accused of sexually abusing a child. His ranch was searched and Michael was strip- searched and photographed. A description of his genitalia, (leaked by law enforcement), while not a complete match to the description provided by his accuser, was close enough to indicate there was fire behind the smoke. In his Oprah interview Michael had alluded to his father, Joe, being a child-abuser. Now Michael was accused of the same, but worse.
Michael paid a huge sum of money to the accuser’s family and the case was settled out of court.
The damage to his reputation was heavy; even the folks in Russia didn’t want Michael Jackson’s father’s soda anymore. Goodbye deal!
Over the last 16 years the world watched the slow decline of Michael Jackson. The insinuations of insolvency, the continued allegations of child abuse, the 2005 trial/circus, a “Law and Order” episode with parents pimping their kids to a celebrity, etc.
In the early part of this decade there was a “tribute” to Michael at Madison Square Garden in New York. That concert should have put the Jackson family back on the map; for the show, (where some of his brothers groused onstage about another band using their hit “A-B-C” for the bottom of the hit “OPP” and Whitney Houston looked like a singing skeleton), was actually very well done and probably would have been very successful had it not taken place in New York City on September 10, 2001.
Timing, as they say, is everything.
A couple of years ago, amid the news of Jackson’s most recent fiscal difficulties, I said to friends, “The boy should do a show in Vegas; it would be the hottest show in town and probably the toughest ticket to get for years to come.” Then came word of a fifty-date engagement in London… a full-blown Michael Jackson arena extravaganza! “Never happen,” I thought, “this guy is my age and this isn’t gonna be him on stage with a stool and a glass of water!”
People think of Michael Jackson as a fantastic entertainer, yet I always saw him as a superior athlete. The stresses of dancing, especially at the very high level of a Michael Jackson has to put enormous stresses on a body.
Heck, having NEVER performed at any level even remotely comparable to a Michael Jackson or a Michael Jordan, I am a walking mass of arthritis. I’m fortunate enough to have become inured to a certain level of pain having suffered through constant pain in my left hip from September 1971 until the joint was replaced in November 1998. No need for bigger and better pain-killers for me!
To reach this age and still think he could perform at the level at which he was accustomed over an extended period of time was fantasyland… but then again, where else had Michael Jackson resided for the majority of his life?
When the word first broke of Michael being rushed to a hospital in an unresponsive state, I said a prayer. I prayed he would recover and dial his life back a bit. “Get well, Michael,” I thought, but knew better. When word broke on TMZ of his passing, I was saddened but not surprised.
When we were young, Michael was old beyond his years and as we got older he tried to be forever young. In between he went from being a role model in how a young black man should look to the victim of plastic surgeons who should have been ethical enough to say, “No, Mr. Jackson, you have to stop!”
Who am I to judge? I tried my best to capitalize on his fame, too. So I understand the parents who let their children hang out with the mega-star. However, I wouldn’t have left my kids alone with that guy for a second! What I cannot find within myself is an explanation for his rationale to manufacture and raise white children as his own. That aspect of him, I just don’t get. Is that a racist assumption for me to make? I don’t know. Maybe it was his way of forming a totally new family devoid of any blood ties to his own. Again, I don’t know and I don’t get it.
I do get the drug abuse, though.
I have also had to deal with a family member who has battled addiction to prescription drugs and that person didn’t have anywhere near the power and influence Michael Jackson had. I know how hard it was to help that person who only knew they wanted relief from their pain… physical and psychological. It has been one of the most daunting tasks I have ever undertaken and for the most part, I have failed miserably. I can imagine the hurt and self-recrimination many of his family members must feel… except for Joe “Let me announce the launch of my new record label before I pretend to grieve for my dead money machine - I mean son” Jackson.
Bastard.
Michael, you had it all and I fear you never really enjoyed it. The things that happen to us in childhood are very hard to overcome and those who say, “It never affected me!” are usually the ones who are the most screwed up and also the ones that screw up their own kids. I don’t think Michael ever had what most of us would consider a “normal” childhood, but as I told my kids when they complained during their upbringing, “I’m helping you get opportunities to be successful in life. If you’re still pissed when you’re grown, you should have the wherewithal to afford good therapy!” Michael, I wish you had spent more money on therapy and less on plastic surgery, but I can’t blame you for your choices.
Michael Jackson was a tremendously talented, superiorly gifted and extraordinarily complicated man and now he has gone to the land of legends.
For a long time he truly was the King of Pop… but time passes and so do pop stars.
Michael Jackson is dead.
Long Live the King of Pop.
