In a Sense, Abroad Part Trois: Some Final Mutterings on the American Media's Michael Jackson Multi-Network Thanatothon

Some title, huh?

I say "American media" because in true elitist fashion, I am on holiday with my family outside of the states -- in the south of France, to be exact -- where my mother-in-law lives. We visit her every year at about this time and immerse ourselves in the region's culture, delightful political incorrectness and its relatively unspoiled beauty.

And along with drinking copious amounts of rosé and pretending not to look at the topless women scampering along the beaches of the cote d' Azur (which may put some of the less gracious in mind of ogling a variety of speckled meats swaying in a delicatessen window) it's also an occasion to observe the country of my birth from an edifying distance.

And sometimes it's like watching a psychotic ranting on a street corner.

Descriptions of the extravaganza of Michael Jackson's funeral have been leaked to us courtesy of emails from friends as well as news reports from the papers and Sky TV, all of which place the event in a more seemly context, rather than the 24 hour in-your-face saturation at home. And it begs several questions:

1) What the fuck is going on with the mainstream media in America?

2) Is there no indignity heaped upon the late entertainer -- and the American public -- who, like it or not, must have their optic nerves burnt to a frazzle in the contrived glow of this mercilessly inane spectacle?

3) Why does the wine back home give me a throbbing headache, while over here it's like drinking gallons of colored happy-water?

You gotta see it from where I'm standing to understand. Because it's times like these when it's all too apparent that the US of A has had its soul hijacked by interests who see it only as a platform for consumerism. Because it seems like Michael Jackson's life has been one long fire sale.

From my Frenchified perspective, I saw something of this tortured person's life in a different context, away from the controversies and eccentricities which consumed his later years, away from the obvious damage wrought upon his physical and psychological being and away from the bazaar-like spectacle of his death. From this distance, it is fairly placed among the myriad sociopolitical events occurring around the globe and given, perhaps, a more fitting presentation.

Having digested the grosses of the Dead Elvis industry and processed the ratings gains wrung from Lady Di's sensational departure, the media -- no dopes they -- are pulling out all the stops to make this a red-white-and-blue banner event among all the black bunting. That's what they do best. Eschewing thoughtful content for knee-jerk saccharine schmaltz, the media has been commandeered by the men who brought you "Headless Body in Topless Bar" and made it The Only Thing You Can See TV simply because it shoots grappling hooks into eyeballs in the hope that it sells. Not informs. Not enlightens. Not moves. Sells.

And don't get me wrong -- there is a place for exploitation. It's called The Side Show. Tragically, that side has slithered to the center and only the saddest of the freaks seem to matter to the media, who have made their living of late with cheaply manufactured versions of reality, lauding the mediocre and exiling expertise to the fringes.

Over here, as his music emanates from the car radio or his videos play on the television screen free from the distraction of glitzy accompanying commentary, one is treated to a rich, aural biography. It is impossible to ignore this young man's truly unique gifts, seeing him give as much as he could, move in ways most people wished they were able, lose himself in a song the way we all should be able to lose ourselves in life's wonder; his plaintive, honey voice singing "Got To Be There" still innocent, before any deviant behavior was beaten into him, before the time that digital harmonizers could make any cheerleader or aerobics instructor into a pop idol. He was once natural, rare, real.

But instead of nurturing artists, modern pop culture discards them, seeming to prefer exploitation to preservation. We ignore the lessons our elders seek to teach us; we trivialize the life and death experiences of the dwindling corps of World War II veterans needs to pass onto us; we marginalize our struggling public school teachers by paying them low wages and paying them little mind. Instead, we devise garish celebrations around people whose stardom was bred into them like a prize winning Pekingese.

Not everything should be for sale. The passing on of knowledge shouldn't. Love shouldn't. Mercy shouldn't. The market place has breached our personal sanctums, it's in our living rooms now, in our brains, in our blood.

We mistake commerce for culture, fanaticism for reverence. And having witnessed as much as I could take of Michael Jackson's star-studded memorial LIVE from the Staple's Center I am now certain there is an afterlife: it's called marketing.

The first two questions about the media and the indignities heaped upon blah blah blah, hopefully, were addressed in the rambling dissertation above. I mean, if you've come this far, even whether or not they have you might actually think so, such is the power of the media (of which I am, at this moment, a part of).

As to the final query: "Why does the wine back home give me a throbbing headache while over here it's like drinking gallons of colored happy-water?" that I fear is another corporate conspiracy rant for another time.

Right now, I'm putting up my sabots, popping in a J5 greatest hits CD, upturning my gourd and watching the show from a safe distance. Vive la vie! (They make thesauruses here, too!).

Comments

[otiswaynehale]

Thank you, Steven, for articulately expressing the revulsion I feel for this tasteless media excess.

[BethS]

RIP MJ. Have a peaceful rest SW!