The First Book of Michael

by Syl Mortilla

  And in this is where the most significant answer to the conundrum of the world’s sense of grief at his death lies: simply, that the world is mourning en masse at the instinctive tragedy of our losing an opportunity for peace. As the musician Erykah Badu said: "He's in our DNA".

  What kind of man inspires such depth of devotion where, in the absence of any official Mecca for their martyred hero, fans organise pilgrimages to the impenetrable gates of his house? What kind of man generates a loyalty entirely unfazed, infinite and unwavering, despite daily ad hominem attacks on him and his supporters? What kind of man invokes rapture at the slightest sight of his twitching a curtain? What kind of man enkindles vigils?

  It is the kind of man who transformed the curse of a disease into a totem of equality; who - singlehandedly, using his unparalleled level of fame - attempted to undo centuries of blackface minstrel mockery of his race, yet not with a sense of vengeance, but with a motive for human unity; it is the kind of man who made a concerted effort to be Christ-like, who poured his wealth on the poor and emulated the children; it is the kind of man that taught us that perception is merely a reflection of oneself, that love is truth, and that sacrifice is something to aspire to.

  Michael’s mission stalled when, after perceived provocations, he was arrested, and his character assassinated. How Michael’s message is interpreted is vitally important to humanity, considering the unique stature that lends itself to the totemic.

  Michael always said it was his stature that made him such an easy target for the sheer volume and size of rocks that were thrown at him. But it is also this stature that enables his utilisation as a global symbol for love and peace. The attacks continue, of course. They will never let him rest in peace, which is why the fan community is so important. He rescued so many of our childhoods, and it’s our duty to protect and defend him in his death. It is us, the fans, who must defend against the apparently compulsory attacks undertaken by those happy to be pseudo-educated by sensationalist tabloid headlines and Internet links.

  Now. Wouldn’t it be great if we could all get along in the fight against that?

  The press are now more vulnerable in the wake of the Leveson enquiry. We will not stand idly by and watch Michael Jackson slandered. We will make a noise; we will raise our voice as one.

  ***

  The loyalty of Michael’s fans is akin to that within a family. A family such as the Jacksons themselves. Any large community is not only a reflection, but a macrocosm of the family condition, with the identifiable stereotypes that that contains: stoic matriarchs, scapegoated sons, reliable aunts, reclusive uncles, embarrassing patriarchs and vulnerable teenagers.

  Out of this quagmire of inextricably linked characters and personality disorders emerges the ubiquitous backstabbing, name-calling and oneupmanship of human beings that know precisely which buttons to press in order to garner a reaction from their kin. What also emerges, however, is the unparalleled capacity for forgiveness, understanding and unwavering support in the face of cruel adversity. Such as being at your brother’s side throughout a gruelling trial in which he is accused of molesting children.

  The Jackson family, however, must not only deal with their own family dynamics, but also with being the projection screen for every angst-ridden fan with family rage as well; with online social networking meaning that they now have front row seats in their very own cinema of abuse. (And that’s before you even consider the traditional buzz of irrational hatred aimed at the family that is stirred and perpetuated by tabloid press and television. But then, they’re used to that.)

  The Michael Jackson fan community is much less divided, as it is obliterated into smithereens; comprised, as it is, of as many factions as to rival the Christian church, with each cohort manipulating the belief system in a way to suit their specific requirements. And within a fanbase as vast as an artist such as Michael’s is, it is right and inevitable that these variations will exist.

  However, the proposed sale of Neverland is a rare opportunity for a united stance amongst Michael’s fans, whose capacity for bickering amongst themselves is tantamount to self-sabotage. There has been enough rock-throwing. The philosopher Confucius contemplated that, at the point where one faction of a battle appears to be in control, the wisest thing to do is allow the opposition to retreat across their bridge, thus allowing them the opportunity of distance to reconsider their perspective. Certain factions of Michael’s fan community have arrived at such a juncture.

  One of the reasons it’s so hard to consider the idea that fans in the opposing corner might be motivated by love, is because that would suggest that their opinions must therefore have credence. Yet, those two issues are entirely unrelated. A great deal of arguing just assumes the hate-based motivations of the other side as standard. The strategy in such opining is rarely to change enemies’ perceptions. A project for change would surely be better advantaged by accepting the idea that those fans with opposing views also think of themselves as decent, loving people. When you believe your enemies are also galvanised by love, it must be more likely that a compromise can be reached. You don’t need to like your opponent - let alone acquiesce to their argument - in order to understand that they really like themselves, and that this liking of themselves probably means more to them than does their disliking of you.

  Progress in resolving conflicts within the fan community will only come about when we all understand that the love each and every one of has for Michael is sincere, regardless of which pane of the prism we peer at him through. Michael effortlessly inspires sincerity.

  As Michael sang, “This is our mission, to see it through / This is our planet, you’re one of us / “You’re just another part of me” – we’re just another part of each other, with Michael as a conduit.

  Michael holds up a mirror to humanity. His fans were given the opportunity to perceive the world through his own particular pane of the prism: one painful, yet privileged. Each of us fans as individuals is in some way a reflection of the man himself, with his common goal: to help heal the world. Those who project themselves onto Michael and see a monster are merely construing themselves. The only monster is the one interpreted. There is no evidential basis whatsoever for a belief in Michael as a monster. It was envy and extortionists that did that. As Michael sang, “The heart reveals the proof / Like a mirror reveals the truth.”

  If I could wish for anything, it would be that everyone could perceive Michael the way we do, regardless of our political stance.

  The Estate of Michael Jackson is being sued for their attempted deceit of fans. This is a prime opportunity for the millions of fans seduced by the capitalist mutation offered by the Estate as a replacement idol, to evolve in the same way that Michael did: from the man obsessed with having the world’s biggest selling record, to the man obsessed with building the world’s biggest children’s hospital; from materialism to spiritualism. Our peaceful protest in defending the legacy and name of Michael Jackson is gathering pace. Our numbers are amassing. Recruits are being educated with the knowledge that a life of the magnitude of Michael Jackson’s cannot be frittered away by those motivated by mindless greed and vacuous consumerism. Michael Jackson’s life is a chance for the people of the planet to reflect upon what is actually important for each and every one of us. And I don’t imagine media-driven malice is high up there on that list.

  The perpetuation of the lie of Michael being a child molester undermines his life’s work, his message and his mission. This is the single issue, above all others, which is the most crucial with regards Michael’s legacy. To fight against this, we can disregard our other differences. This is the true cause that unites the Michael Jackson fan community.

  Indeed, if the success of a leader is measured by the loyalty of his followers, there is none stronger than Michael, regardless of which faction of fans you might represent. Michael refused to change direction with his beliefs. And we must remain just as unwavering in our defence of him. We must remain fortitudinous in the
fulfilling of his mission: each of us taking pride in our position as a requisite speck of light on the peacock’s coalescent coat, in order that we contribute to its immortality. And that we do so – in triumph.

  ‘Murmuration’ is the word given to the spectacle of flocking starlings (the avian visual antithesis to the peacock) as they pulsate in unified splendour. As the starlings chirp and whistle, as they coalesce in open skies, they bring to mind the words of our artist - that “there’s nothing that can’t be done, if we raise our voice as one.” Murmuration is a phenomenon observed at dusk, as starlings prepare to roost.

  Conversely, however - as one UK tabloid recently noted in response to a fan anti-defamation campaign - “the Michael Jackson fans are just waking up.”

  ***

  Michael performed to hundreds of millions of people during his life. Every crowd he played to was comprised of an adoring ocean of people, in which each individual had fallen as a nuanced raindrop, forming a harmonious sea of love: a form that was fluid, yet entire – like the dancer and the dance that had summoned them all to be together. And Michael gleefully received this love. More than that: he was energised by it. Arms outstretched, awash in the pulsing warmth of the love of a hundred-thousand people, he absorbed the adoration the way a butterfly imbues heat – in order to generate enough strength to fly.

  When on tour, Michael would scream to the sound engineers, “Hurt me!” in a request for them to increase the volume and intensity of the music. And indeed there was a sense of the masochist in his work ethic. The global events that were Michael Jackson World Tours caused him renewed suffering from various medical conditions. The poor state of his lungs – likely a consequence of the merciless schedule thrust upon him as a child that involved singing nightly in the smoky venues the Jackson 5 played (oh the irony of that word!).

  During parts of the Dangerous tour, Michael was so ill he was sometimes having to exit the stage mid-song in order to take oxygen. With this borne in mind, then, the efforts exerted in his planetary crisscrossing - as courageous as they would be even for someone in their physical prime - become viewed as being nothing short of superhuman.

  As Michael’s health deteriorated, so conversely increased the intensification of his efforts to relay, promote and safeguard his message of peace.

  The ecstasy Michael experiences during the Wembley Bad tour performance of ‘I Just Can't Stop Loving You’, as the crowd sings those very words to him, is starkly evident. The Bad album was conceived from the very first as a stadium record, with the songs intended to be brought to life on stages across the world. And it's no coincidence that Michael hands the microphone over to the audience for the chorus in ‘I Just Can't Stop Loving You’, before explicitly, passionately imploring the crowd to, “Tell me! Tell me!”

  There are many instances that showboat Michael’s capacity for generalising songs from his personal experience into a broader theme. In ‘I Just Can’t Stop Loving You’, Michael sings that “Love is the answer… / This thing can’t go wrong…/ We can change all the world tomorrow.” Whilst in ‘Give in to Me’, his covert message to the world was, “It seems you get your kicks from hurting me…You and your friends were laughing at me in town… You won’t be laughing, when I’m not around”.

  And truly, we are not.

  Michael had been conditioned from a very young age to believe in a correlation between the volume of the ovation he received from an audience and the amount of love he deserved. During the twenty years between the record-breaking Bad Tour of 1988 and the ill-fated swansong of 2009, the set-list of his concerts and its choreography rarely strayed from the iconic hits of Thriller and Bad. These were the songs of his hey-day, and so, naturally, were also the songs in which he received the loudest ovations. Michael needed to feel our love. Visitors to Neverland speak of the ranch as brimming with gifts from fans - a veritable hoarder’s paradise. Each cherished by Michael as a token of love for him.

  And he needs that now more than ever.

  ***

  When I was sixteen, I boarded a coach, upon which I sat for thirty hours, before disembarking in Prague in the Czech Republic. As a painfully shy teenager, I wasn’t confident enough to be forthright enough to make friends on the journey, so the trip was undertaken alone. Besides, I wasn’t travelling to make friends. I was going to see Michael. I hadn’t seen him for four years, since that soul-altering night on the Dangerous tour. I was nauseous with excitement.

  It was so cold. But I was determined to get a position close to the front of the following day’s concert, so, after being stood a short while at the feet of the specially erected Stalin-esque HIStory statue - staring up at it, both bewildered and awestruck - I left the coach party. After mindlessly navigating the streets of the alien city for a number of hours, I eventually managed to stumble across the stadium, Letna Park; where I joined a throng of similarly single-minded diehards who were also gathering to queue overnight before the concert. But it was so cold.

  The concert happened. I had managed to hold my own in the downright dangerous race to the front, once the gates finally opened. And - devoid of food and sleep - had also, somehow, managed to stay vertical all day, in spite of the intermittent tidal surges created by the momentum transfer of one-hundred-and-thirty-thousand people (the largest live crowd Michael ever performed to) standing behind me.

  As well as when we all jumped and joined along together in singing, “Tom Sneddon is a cold man.”

  I filled my pockets with the confetti that had burst from cannons signalling the end of the show, then – very, very slowly – shuffled my way to a merchandise tent. My understanding of the Czech currency was limited at best, and my adrenaline was sky-high: a combination ripe for disaster. The kind of disaster where you find yourself lost and alone, at night, in the middle of a mid-nineties, recently Eastern Bloc capital city wearing the three Michael Jackson T-shirts you’ve just spent all your money on, whilst also clutching the tour programme as close to your torso as possible, in an attempt to achieve that extra microtherm of warmth.

  I had a ticket with the name of the hotel I was supposed to be staying in, but I couldn’t pronounce its name, and the odd person that walked past who I summoned the courage to engage and show the ticket to, just shrugged at me and continued walking. After the roar of the concert, everything seemed more silent than was possible.

  Penniless on the deserted streets of Prague, I sat down and cried. Then a car pulled up.

  A woman wound down the window and garbled something in a foreign language, whilst gesturing for me to approach her. She was my only hope. I showed her the ticket. Again, a shrug and a look of confusion. My heart sank as I was hit with a genuine terror that I wasn’t going to be either home, warm, eating or sleeping any time soon. Then the woman, whose face had empathetically mirrored my own as it fell, suddenly pointed at my T-shirt (the top one, anyway), and simply said, “Michael!”, before directing me to take a seat in the back of the car, and beginning to drive around what came to seem like endless, dark, desolate city streets. Finally, she turned a corner, and I saw something I recognised. Illuminated like a homing beacon, in all its elucidated glory, stood the HIStory statue.

  And at its feet, my ride home.

  The closing words to Michael’s song ‘The Lost Children’ are uttered by his own children, and are of them recognising that it’s time to return home, as it’s getting dark.

  As many of us do when we’re feeling lost, I simply had to return to Michael; to the light.

  ***

  There is a photograph of me as an eleven-year-old boy, in which I am stood proudly in front of one of the walls of my bedroom. Behind me, each and every inch of the wall is plastered in pictures of Michael in various poses: most of them of him on stage wearing either the silver shirt from the Bad tour or the gold leotard from the Dangerous tour. Some of the pictures are huge, one of them is as small as a postage stamp (for those pesky spaces adjacent to light switches - I would have bought an entire magazine sol
ely for that picture). The other walls, the ones not featured in the photograph, were adorned in the same way. As was the ceiling. My younger brother and I shared the bedroom, and one of our favourite things to do was agree to intermittently rearrange our pictures. It would take us entire weekends.

  This photograph is over two decades old now. It is beginning to brown around the edges. My memories of those times are often played on Super 8 film. There is a yellow saturation to them, and its inhabitants move with a strange and erratic jerkiness; a dreamlike dance akin to how toddlers dart around. The photographs evoke a sense of nostalgia that invokes a spirit of eighties and early nineties summers; of hotplate patio flags and the riled ants that filed from the cracks between them; of music from a far off radio somehow managing to carry all the poignancy of a Muezzin’s call to prayer, as it infused thermal air currents with otherworldliness. Radios that would, naturally, have been playing Michael’s music.

  No-one embodies the zeitgeist of those years better than Michael. I sometimes experience waves of Michael-specific nostalgia inspired by a mere scent or particular lighting. In an instant I can be stood in the queue waiting for the coach to take me to my first concert: Dangerous tour, Roundhay Park, Leeds, August 16th 1992. I was twelve.

  Pre-Internet, we had pen pals that sent us cassettes and VHS tapes that were ultimately played to ruin. Cassettes containing The Jacksons album, with rarities such as ‘The Man’ or ‘Whatzupwitu’ tagged onto the end, to fill up the space. Our longplay version of MTV’s ‘Dangerous Diaries’ was our most prized possession. Those tapes contained a lot of soul. The Holy Grail was a Victory tour performance or Bad tour second leg concert on VHS. We finally received the latter in 2012 as part of the Bad 25 anniversary package (with the Estate's profiteers even being kind enough to retain the same levels of quality control exhibited by those mail-order bootlegs from back in the day).