A rethinking of "Disco Sucks!"

A few folks have responded to my post from Friday (viewable here) disagreeing with the overall thrust of it. I think it's actually an interesting debate worth having here. In particular, Krisna from the Democracy & Hip-Hop Project responded in a comment that makes some worthy points. Also, Jesse from General Your Tank... emailed me an article that was also sent out via Rock & Rap Confidential making a similar argument.

First of all, I will admit that Friday's post was way too glib. After all, it's my blog, and I reserve the right to make mistakes (including typoos and spelling errorrors). The overall thrust I was trying to get at was that the volatility witnessed that night was a result of the embryotic neoliberal economic scheme taking hold in the US (job flight, chipping away at the social safety net, etc). That is, the underlying outrage was based on class, not race or sexual/gender orientation.

On the assertion that Disco Demolition Night was sheerly a white thing, I beg to disagree. As a Cubs fan, I am often derided by my Chicago-based comrades and friends that while the Cubs' fan-base is typically middle class and white, Sox fans are much more of a blue-collar and multiracial, by virtue of the fact that the Sox are located on the South Side (though I withstand the slings and arrows with humor, and still love my Cubbies dammit!). Looking at wide shots of the riot that night in July will show it wasn't just white kids rushing the field.

I think there was a perception of disco that was somewhat valid back then. This was a perception that the music was an exclusive domain of the elite Studio 54 crowd. The shimmery sound and flashy look communicated to a great amount of people (and not just white, straight folks) that the virtues of a decaying middle-class lifestyle were worth celebrating. This was precisely why Kool Lady Blue's "Wheels of Steel" night--which was hosted at a roller-rink called the Roxy in New York's Chelsea neighborhood and brought together all the avant-gardes of punk, hip-hop and pop cultures--was seen as a breath of fresh air when it opened its doors in 1981.

Disco also needs to be viewed in its specific context within how the music business was using it at the time. American industry in general was reorganizing itself during this era: specifically seeking to restabilize itself in the wake of the recessions of the early and mid '70s and, in doing so, chipping away at the gains of the previous decade hand in hand with working-class living standards. In the case of the music industry, disco used very consciously and concertedly as a way for them to regain control from the musical upheavals of rock, soul and R&B, and after 1977, punk. In short, disco became the musico-ideological counterpart to the onslaught against working people.

Is this the whole story of disco? No. Krisna rightly points out that there were a great amount of working-class people of color and LGBT working-class people that appropriated disco culture for themselves as a forum for breaking down boundaries. My musical point, however, was that the aesthetics of the genre were leading to a dead-end. Its upscale aesthetics and increasing orientation toward exclusivity and '70s club culture meant a disconnect from reality and struggle.

There is no doubt that there would be no hip-hop without disco, whose recordings were prominently sampled by DJs in the former's early years. This, in and of itself, however, does not lend credence to disco. Music--especially music under capitalism--is in a constant state of innovation and revolution; as Simon Reynolds puts it "rip it up and start again." The musical vanguard of any era is likely to appropriate not just the creative high-points of eras past, but also the artistic chum floating at the bottom of the record industry cesspool to make something new and innovative.

Though hip-hop was the most obvious genre to do just this with disco, there were other alternate musical avenues that took disco's sound and made it more vital and subversive, most notably the short-lived "mutant disco" subgenre within the post-punk movement in early '80s New York. Mutant disco managed to both pay homage to disco and skewer it at the same time.

There is, however, an element of disco-hatred that I considered mentioning on Friday, but didn't for sake of brevity. This was a gross mis-step on my part. That was the homophobia that was peppered into it. This article in The Guardian quotes Steve Knopper, a participant in the riot, as saying "to make it with a lady a guy had to learn how to dance. And wear a fancy suit!"

I feel the piece doesn't lend enough attention to the class dynamic that was part of the anti-disco sentiment. However, I did not pay enough attention to the heterosexism of it. In other words, while the Guardian focuses on the "learn to dance" part, I focus mostly on the "wear a fancy suit" part.

This kind of adherence to repressive gender roles (I would love to know how to dance, and don't see anything effeminate about it--this is thirty years later) is not to be discounted. After all, Disco Demolition Night took place less than a year after the assassination of Harvey Milk in San Francisco and the movement for LGBT rights had been reignited across the country, finding itself in opposition to anti-gay initiatives like Proposition 6 in California, which would have made it illegal for anyone of non-straight orientation to teach in public schools.

Prop 6 was defeated in 1978, but there was no doubt that views on gays, lesbians, bisexual and trans folk was volatile indeed. (On a tangent, I wonder what kind of music Milk and Cleve Jones listened to. Milk was a well-known opera fan, but he had to listen to more than just that. And sure, there were probably disco fans among the vast LGBT movement, but in the heavily working-class Castro district, there were probably myriad musical tastes.)

There were a lot of different, mixed emotions running high when thousands of kids rushed the diamond at Comiskey Park, some of them progressive, some of them not. What I asserted in my post was that the biggest ingredient was the feeling of dispossession and frustration rooted in the new assault on a working-class whose memories were still under the sway of a short-lived militancy that had taken hold in the early '70s.

On a personal level, I find disco to be turgid. However, I have also been known to get down in cringe-worthy white boy fashion to "The Hustle" and "I Will Survive" and have respect for the artists who undeniably influenced the path of music well past the genre's hey-day; perhaps this is the kind of subtlety I should have brought to my post a couple days ago.

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And stay dead!

This week's Chicago Reader has a great cover story on a little piece of Chi-town history not widely known: "The day disco died." Sweet!

"It's July 12th, 1979, and the White Sox, ten games behind the California Angels in the American League West, are playing the Detroit Tigers in a twilight doubleheader. It's not just Teen Night at Comiskey Park--it's also Disco Demolition Night."

Disco Demolition Night was the kind of idea that emanates from the brain of sports more--how shall we say?--"colorful" owners, and the Sox's Bill Veeck was certainly that. Done in conjunction with WLUP "the Loop," the local rock station, the concept originated from Veeck's son Mike, a former musician, and was intended to be little more than your typical ballgame gimmick--you know, like "free bat night," or "whiskey and revolver night," or "Flag Day."

The thousands of working-class teens who flocked to Comiskey that night were allowed in for the bargain price of 98 cents and a disco record, which was to be placed in a giant box on the field in between the two games. After Loop DJ Steve Dahl--who had been sacked from another local station after they switched formats to disco--lead his "anti-disco army" in a chant of "disco sucks," the box containing the thousands of records was to be ceremonially blown up.

Comiskey got a lot more than they bargained for, though. Photographer Diane Alexander White, who was present that evening (and has an exhibit this weekend of photos she snapped there), says "I didn't think it would be quite like what happened. It sounded like it was going to be a great time."

So what actually happened? Well, after the four by six by five box is blown up, sending vinyl rocketing 200 feet up into the air, the young crowd went absolutely ballistic:

"Burning vinyl litters the outfield, and over the chants of Disco Sucks! kids begin trickling onto the field. No--they're coming by the hundreds... the thousands. They're running the bases, literally stealing the bases, stealing bats, toppling batting cages, and dancing in circles around the flaming vinyl shards."

In short, it was a full-on riot on the baseball diamond--one that would last for almost an hour, result in 39 arrests and 6 injuries, and prevent the Sox from taking the field for the second game.

No legitimate history of disco can be told without mentioning the Demolition Night Riot. What happened took many a sports commentator by surprise. But the youthful chaos that unexpectedly took hold of the stadium that night was about a lot more than just a hatred of sequins.

White alludes to it in the Reader article, "To me, it wasn't about the disco records being blown up... [it was] blue collar kids, kids whose parents were Sox fans. We were still churning out products in this town. You could still get a job at the steel mill."

By '79, those were just the types of jobs that were starting to dwindle. The end of the post-war boom had provoked most employers to chip away at wages, benefits, pensions, unions, and ultimately the industries themselves. And though this shift was still in its infancy, working kids had already started to feel the pinch.

Disco's decadent sound and glitzy clothes were the antithesis to the hard edge of rock 'n' roll--an affirmation of affluence, and a soundtrack to the full-on assault on the gains of the '60s. When those records went up in smoke, it was like a starter pistol had been fired, a primal invitation for these kids to take the night for their own--if only temporarily.

This little bit of (mostly) forgotten history serves as a humorous reminder of a few things. First, that in times when our livelihoods are under attack, you can never quite tell how the youth are going to express themselves. Second, that while music itself is little more than sounds, it ends up being an art-form that millions take very seriously and even hang their hopes on. And third, that disco does indeed suck.

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Revolutionary Party Jams

If this bad-ass photo didn't clue you in, Street Sweeper Social Club are the shit! Principally comprised of Tom Morello and Boots Riley, SSSC's sound has these two revolutionary artists' fingerprints all over it, but the collision of the two creates something that is definitely its own. Though Morello's searing guitar work and Boots' trademark humor are both still intact, the funk is much more prominent here, lending itself to the description of "revolutionary party jams."

Their first album (self-titled) was released last month, and the group have been touring with Nine Inch Nails since (I swear, Reznor's becoming more of a red as time goes on). Given the current economic crisis that is pushing folks toward all sorts of new ideas, and the draw that Riley and Morello bring, there is reason to believe that SSSC could definitely become a big act (though it also bears mentioning that neither the Coup nor Rage Against the Machine should plan on going anywhere).

A recent interview with Okayplayer.com, Riley dives into some of the reasons behind the formation of the group and the role of music in politics, as well as what struggles may be on the horizon. It's a pretty good interview, well worth checking out.

And if you are still a bit skeptical that this group are the shit--and I mean the shit--then bathe your eyes and ears in this:



(and yes, that is Breckin Meyer playing the rich prick)

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With Arms Closed: Why We Should Hate Creed

WARNING: the following sentence may cause you to vomit a little bit in your mouth.

Creed have reunited and are releasing a new album.

When these four "good Christian lads" rocketed to the top in the late '90s, it was because there was damn little happening in rock 'n' roll. Grunge, which had shaken the very foundations of popular music earlier in the decade, had receded. Rock returned remarkably fast to a plain, unassuming status quo.

Nickelback. Three Doors Down. Limp Bizkit. This was the company Creed was in (and I apologize if I just made you upchuck for the second time in this article). All of a sudden it seemed as if making it in rock required little more than meat-headed guitars, a vague machismo, and a garbled, throaty singing voice that sounded like you had a dead ferret stuck in your throat.

These were strange years--the transition between Clintonian pseudo-liberalism and Dubya-style conservatism. And even before Bush geared up to steal the 2000 election, Slick Willy managed to find a place at the table for the Christian Right.

And Creed were the kind of group that could only find such a wide audience in a country where these knuckle-draggers still held social and political sway. Sure, Creed were never officially a "Christian rock" band; they were never signed to an Evangelical label or played at Christian venues. But singer Scott Stapp, the son of a Florida preacher, has been open about the band's message of "faith," and their own brand of fundamentalism was barely veiled within their lyrics.

If you haven't noticed this Bible tapping (it's not quite overt enough to call "thumping"), then go back and listen again. It's there. The imagery invoked in songs like "Torn" and "Higher" is taken directly from the rhetoric of the "born again" crew. The lyrics of "My Own Prison" directly "cry out to God, seeking only his decision."

All of this might be harmless enough. Atheist though I might be, I hold nothing against anyone's personal faith. Their songs take on a more insidious form, however, especially when viewed in a bigger context.

The band's 1997 hit "One," went out of its way to lambast affirmative action, calling it "discrimination now on both sides." This kind of reverse racism rhetoric dominated political debate on both sides of the aisle during that year, opening the door for Bush and company to come out on the side of white applicants to the University of Michigan who felt "discriminated against" in 2003.

Then, of course, there was Creed's most recognized single: "With Arms Wide Open." Far be it from any family-hating lefty to begrudge Stapp's elation at his impending fatherhood, but "Arms" is once again laced with Christian references. Not a problem, until one thinks about how those images are applied to the topic of pregnancy:

"I close my eyes, begin to pray
Then tears of joy stream down my face...

"I'll take a breath, take her by my side
We stand in awe, we've created life."

Ugh.

Aside from the sickeningly sappy-sweet words, there is something seriously alarming about this song being so popular. Stapp is free to write the songs he wants to, but it's worth noting that not once does he mention what his wife thinks about being pregnant (she is, after all, the one actually having the baby--maybe this is why she divorced him a few years later?).

In the visual sense, "Arms" was a bit more overt. The cover art for the single--a baby's hand reaching for an adult's--looks like it was taken straight from a billboard for one of those fake "pregnancy counseling centers" that the anti-choice crowd use as a front for their cause.

That this song didn't cause outrage--or at least a few raised eyebrows--from the pro-choice movement speaks to how much ground they had given to the right in recent years. Nobody seemed offended that the music industry was cramming a man's take on pregnancy down countless teenage throats several times a day on the radio.

By the time Bush was to take office (about eighteen months after the release of "Arms"), almost 90 percent of counties in America would have no abortion provider. Even nominally pro-choice politicians would talk about decreasing the number of abortions each year. It's certainly impossible to measure the effect that songs like this had on teenage opinions on a woman's right to choose, but in this climate, to say there wasn't one would be simply naive.

It might have been hard for the industry to market this kind of otherwise controversial material if Creed's music hadn't been what it was: safe, slick, bereft of any kind of jagged edge or artistic risk. In short, it was the perfect formula for marketing to privileged frat-boys (you know, the kind that are everywhere at modern music festivals), sheltered high school students and suburban parents looking for ways to bond with their kids. And like a test patient who's had the placebo switched with the real meds, these demographics swallowed the pill without any argument.

Never underestimate the ability for good frames to save bad paintings. After all, the music industry has made an art-form out of it.

When Creed announced their break-up five years ago, thousands of real music fans most likely shrugged and then went to the kitchen to make themselves a sandwich. Now, they have inexplicably decided that 2009 is the perfect time to make a comeback. And any notion that this new Creed might be any better was dashed from the get-go. Stapp couldn't wait to lay the Christianity on as thick as possible, calling the reunion "a rebirth."

Stapp and company may not find today's audience as "reborn" as they are, however. The political and musical landscape have shifted drastically over the past few years. Falwell is dead. The Christian Right, whose "morality platform" has held a stranglehold over politics for the past thirty years, was dealt a powerful blow in the 2008 elections, and ordinary Americans' views have swung to the left.

Hand in hand with this is the way in which popular music has changed. By now, Creed's "post-grunge" sound is yesterday's news, thankfully dethroned by the sounds of indie and garage rock. Hip-hop is also the most influential it has ever been. And in all genres, a spirit of experimentation and pushing the boundaries is beginning to take form, from the unexpected popularity of of acts like M.I.A. to the ever-presence of the White Stripes.

Whether Creed manages to sell out stadiums and go platinum with their next release isn't really the issue--because they very well may. The point, though, is that the times, they do a-change, and the ones that have taken place in recent years have not only re-focused the way folks look at music, but have made the possibility of substantial, even fundamental change very real.

When that change comes, it will make our music a lot more rewarding--and our gag reflexes can finally relax.

This article first appeared at The Society of Cinema and Arts.

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Just a reminder...

Okay, this is the last Jackson post, I promise. There have been a few readers who have contacted me wondering why I've been drawn in by the "hype." One commenter has said the while "he wrote some catchy tunes," but his contribution wasn't really that great.

Yeah, right. Tell me, dear reader, how do you manage to breathe if you live in a vacuum?

First of all, saying that Jackson wrote some catchy tunes is like saying Einstein solved a few math problems. This man changed popular music's entire trajectory. It's easy to think of him in broad strokes strongly colored by the almost constant controversy that surrounded him. But looking at his work, piece by piece, in context, reveals a contribution of real substance.

Case in point:



This is the video for the 1996 single "They Don't Care About Us." The song was surrounded by its own controversy, when the lyrics "Jew me, sue me, everybody do me/Kick me, kike me, don't you black or white me" came to public attention. Jackson insisted that the lyrics were meant to criticize any kind of discrimination, but the fact that they backfired may speak to how out of touch he had become, no matter how much he might have cared.

Still, the song and video are quite stunning in their relevancy. Jackson references police brutality, hate crimes, and myriad other injustices suffered by young Americans, especially those of color. Though it's debatable whether Jackson's own personal barometer of these crimes, that he took them up is admirable and poignant. The clip was directed by none other than Spike Lee, in the heart of Rio de Janeiro's shantytowns.

There's an almost militant simplicity to this song. It's a straightforward hip-hop beat, driven by the up front, pounding drums. Little else is included instrumentally other than piano and guitar. Jackson's voice is at its most snarly and grunting. Despite the disconnect he may have had a result of his position as part of the pop aristocracy, there is a shocking degree of outrage in this song. That's impressive.

This wasn't the first Michael Jackson video that attempted to take up an anti-racist message. The video for "Black or White" was originally slated to include Black Panther imagery, as well as footage of hate crimes. Jackson knew his role well, but it was a multi-faceted role. Though years of being lavished by the music industry no doubt cut him off from the real world, he was also aware that, as one of the most famous African-Americans ever, there were countless like him who had never really gotten that chance.

Hype? Watch the video again. Then say that with a straight face.

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A few thoughts one week on...

Michael Jackson's death has overtaken every news story in the world right now. It speaks to the vast contradictions and inequities in our society that the passing of a pop star (great though he may have been) is more "news-worthy" than a democratic uprising in Iran or a coup in Honduras.

And so, it bears saying that though three our of this blog's last four posts have been related to the King of Pop, I recognize the irony and inequity at play here.

That being said, the way in which the mainstream media have dedicated themselves to the story of MJ's death have done something truly rare: they have turned a mirror on American society. The slick talking heads of corporate news normally thrive on a cool separation in American society. Criminals, terrorists and drug addicts are presented as "others," those who have eschewed the normalities of society and should be viewed as anomalies--in short, less than human.

But the story of Jackson's death has forced the media to present his own demons not as perversions but as human contradictions profoundly rooted in the world around him. Stories on MSN have speculated that the abuse at the hands of his father may explain his own reclusiveness and eccentricities--something that was never done when Michael was called into court for sexual abuse. His addiction to pain killers has become the subject of debate on nightly talk shows.

It would be naive to think that the investigation of Jackson's life and death might lead to more widespread public debates over addiction, abuse, and alienation. That surely won't be happening. The circumstances and point in time of Jackson's demise, however, may make him more of a symbol--maybe even a martyr--than he would have been otherwise.

During the '80s, Jackson became the music industry's demi-godhead. While the singer blazed trails that had never been before, he without a doubt got caught up in all of that. He was, and I've said before, a contradiction. He brought a legitimacy to pop music the way few had before, but he also provided a cool, flashy cover for the industry big-wigs looking to restabilize their position in the wake of punk.

This was the decade where, as Gordon Gekko quipped, greed became good. More than that, it became cool. And so, the man who changed pop music did so by embodying the decadence and money worship that dominated in his act.

Jackson dies in debt at a time when most Americans are strapped themselves. The notion that getting ahead means earning as much money as possible has been exposed as hollow. Jackson hadn't known the kind of strife that most Americans deal with for almost four decades, but the current state of his finances proves that even the biggest pop star isn't immune to the ups and downs of big money (and at least he didn't bring down thousands of people's livelihoods with his irresponsibility).

Ultimately, though, the real legacy he is leaving behind is illustrated by the fact that nine out of the top ten Billboard spots are taken by Jackson's albums--some of which are more than twenty years old. That is influence that simply can't be bought, no matter how much money surrounds it.

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How Michael Jackson's Music Changed the World

The last fifteen years of Michael Jackson's life are almost enough to obscure the true greatness of this artist. During those last fifteen years we saw the handsome, charming Pop star go through myriad plastic surgeries that made him look more like a latter-day Peter Pan. We saw the trappings of unprecedented fame manifested in beyond bizarre behavior--the kind for which "eccentric" seems a mild term. And then, there are the child molestation scandals. Media were ready to somehow link his strange persona with his alleged sexual abuse of minors--few were willing to draw the same link to his own father's abuse.

It's almost enough to overshadow his legacy. Almost, but not quite.

None of these are what Jackson is being remembered for as millions mourn his sudden passing the world over. They aren't the reasons that we see footage of people breaking down in sobs of grief at news of his death. We are hearing condolences coming not just from musical icons like Madonna and Paul McCartney, but world leaders like Nelson Mandela and Hugo Chavez. Influence like that can't be rubbed out.

Over forty years, Michael Jackson's voice and performance style reached a level of universality that nobody--and I mean nobody--has ever reached in music. One would be hard pressed to find a single soul who hasn't been touched by his recordings. That a video of Filipino prisoners performing the "Thriller" dance can become a web phenomena is but one small testament to this. Thirteen number one singles, 750 million albums sold worldwide. And if you're still skeptical, still searching for proof of Jackson's greatness, let me ask you: is there anyone out there who hasn't attempted the moonwalk? I rest my case.

Soul, Disco, Rock, Pop, R&B, even Hip-Hop--Jackson left his mark on all of them. As his four decade career progressed and evolved, Jackson frequently found himself setting the tone for popular music--even as he embodied its worst contradictions.

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In 1970, Motown Records was on top. The Jackson 5's first four singles cemented that status; all would reach number one on the Billboard Pop singles. Though the African-American group's massive success among listeners of all races revealed the growing maturity of a country under the sway of a vibrant Black Power movement (and label CEO Berry Gordy's cutthroat marketing), it was Jackson 5's youthful, almost bubblegum-innocence that attracted throngs of listeners.

At the center of that sound was young Michael. Barely eleven years old, the label nonetheless stated his age as eight in an attempt to up the cuteness factor. Michael was recognized as a prodigy early on, his shining, scampish voice still somehow able to convey the depths of emotion that made songs like "I Want You Back" and "I'll Be There" more than dime-a-dozen love songs.

As the Jackson 5 rocketed up the charts and exposed the young quintet to overnight fame, Michael was being exposed to the first traumatic swipes of music industry tailoring. In 1993, he spoke frankly about his father Joe's emotional and physical abuse. Joe, himself a former musician, had guided the group in their early days and was so intent on the young group making it big that he would sit in a chair with a belt in his hand during rehearsals. According to Michael, "if you didn't do it the right way, he would tear you up, really get you." Busy recording and touring schedules meant that in essence, Jackson had no youth of his own.

Years later, Smokey Robinson would describe him as "an old soul in a boy's body." Did Michael Jackson have his childhood stolen from him? Or did he just never grow up? Perhaps both? In any event, it's clear that the troubled man he was to become had its roots in his early grooming as a musical icon.

The Jackson 5's influence waned as the 70's progressed amid label troubles and a changing musical landscape. Even as the group declined, however, Michael's star continued to rise. His 1979 solo album Off The Wall indicated an uncanny savvy on the part of Jackson and his songwriting team. The glitzy Disco beats were underlaid with a Pop sensibility that seemed to recognize the sound of the 70's was on the way out.

Off The Wall made history by becoming the first album to generate four top ten hits, and sold 20 million copies world-wide. However, Jackson felt the album hadn't made the impact he had hoped for, and aimed to go above and beyond on his next effort.

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There is no doubt that his next album achieved this new level of impact. What can be said about Thriller that hasn't been already? To date, it has sold over 100 million copies--a sheerly staggering amount. Listening to it today, it's still a magnificent piece of work, incorporating Rock, Soul, Funk and R&B into a seamless pastiche of musical perfection.

Thriller has become a touchstone of popular music. Any trend that took hold in the 1980's owes its existence to this album. The signature Eddie Van Halen riff on "Beat It" has become one of the most recognizable guitar parts in the world. And as the 80's drew Pop into synthesized, syrupy waters, songs like "Billie Jean" showed that the music could still be gritty, muscular, even sinful.

And then, there was the title track itself. The fourteen-minute video for "Thriller" was more of a short film than anything else, and helped legitimize the nascent art-form of the music video. At its height, MTV aired "Thriller" twice an hour just to meet viewer demand, and the still-fledgling cable station was viewed in a whole new light. It seems no exaggeration to say that without Michael Jackson, MTV might not have survived.

In broadening the scope of videos, Jackson also helped pave the way for other artists of color. Prior to Thriller's release, many had publicly criticized MTV for not playing enough Black artists. When Jackson himself voiced concern, it provoked CBS Records President Walter Yetnikoff to call the executives of MTV personally and declare "I'm not going to give you any more videos and I'm going to go public and fucking tell them about the fact that you don't want to play music by a Black guy." MTV caved, and the rest is history.

That a Black artist could become one of the most popular at the height of the Reagan 80's is truly something to behold. In one of the most surreal moments in music history, Reagan even invited Jackson to the White House in 1984. There is a deeper contradiction at play, though. While Jackson blazed trails musically and socially, he was also being shaped into the ultimate cash-cow. The music industry went through a massive expansion in the 1980's, and for much of that time, Jackson became its main figurehead.

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It's no coincidence then, that the 80's were the decade that saw the first public glimpses of Jackson's eccentric and weird behavior. Thriller had launched him into the exclusive realm of superstardom. His lawyer, John Branca, bragged that he had secured the highest royalty rate ever for Jackson, at approximately $2 per album.

This not only meant that the artist was now a multimillionaire, but that he lived in an un-poppable bubble. Jackson started surrounding himself with people who, as some have said, "wouldn't say no to him." He went on million-dollar shopping sprees. He bought a chimp named Bubbles. Rumors circulated of him sleeping in a hyperbaric chamber and attempting to buy the Elephant Man's bones. Both were untrue, but the fact that he circulated these rumors himself highlighted his increasing disconnect from any kind of reality.

It was also at this time that Jackson's skin tone started noticeably lightening. Up until the 80's, his skin had been a medium-brown hue. Some have speculated that he was bleaching his skin, the result of a deeply internalized racism. The actual reason for this, according to spokespeople, was Jackson's diagnosis of vitiligo, and he needed to balance out his splotchy skin-tone with lighter makeup.

Regardless, one can't deny that the singer was undergoing significant physical changes. Jackson began to express desire for a "dancer's body," and began noticeably losing weight. Medical professionals publicly stated that he was suffering from anorexia and body dysmorphic disorder.

As Pop was dethroned by Grunge and Hip-Hop in the 90's, and as Jackson's own life became increasingly mired in scandal, he struggled to stay on the cutting edge of music. This didn't stop him from selling millions of albums or booking the biggest stadiums world-wide. It did, however, highlight his growing reclusiveness and exhaustion. As the 21st century dawned, his weakened voice was increasingly manipulated by autotune, his performances became more infrequent to spare his exhausted body. By the time Jackson was called into court for a second child molestation case in 2003, many former fans had tossed in the towel on him.

It's eerily symbolic that Jackson passes away amidst crushing debt as the world descends deeper into the worst economic crisis in several decades. It's also tragic, given that Pop music is finally becoming interesting again for the first time in a decade. Whether the long string of shows he had recently booked in London would have helped catapult Jackson back to the top is a question that will never be answered.

There is one thing that is indisputable however: there will never be another artist who changes the path of music quite the way that Michael Jackson did. He widened the horizons of popular music to an immeasurable degree, and changed its trajectory forever. No matter what we may think of him as a person, we cannot separate him from the sick world that brought him up. We also cannot ignore that through his music, he changed that world for the better--if only a little bit.

This article originally appeared at The Society of Cinema and Arts.

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