The '80s Redux, '90s Got Next

Within every new decade, pop culture looks back 20 years. As we get closer to 2010, ‘80s nostalgia has reached its apotheosis. Look around. Lady Gaga is channeling not just Madonna, but the theatricality of Grace Jones with the spirit and hooks of Debbie Harry from Blondie. Atlanta’s Janelle Monae fashioned a robot persona to explain her music and stagecraft, a blend of techno, soul, and rock that seems like a foward-looking black spin on Talking Heads and David Bowie, who in the ‘80s was coming out of the elegant iciness of the Thin White Duke.


Edgy artist Santigold wears the day-glo colors and polka dots of ‘80s fashion with the door knocker earrings and asymmetrical hairstyles of early hip-hop circa Salt N Pepa, while her 2007 tune “Lights Out” is new age proto-punk surf pop, like the Go-Gos on acid.



Rihanna and Keri Hilson are rocking asymmetrical ‘dos right out of the ‘80s fashion playbook, while Dorothy Hamill wedge cuts and shredded T-shirt, straight-legged jeans and wide belts are in again. Kanye West is sporting skinny ties and everyone is wearing those giant white sunglasses that didn’t look good the first time.

It happened last decade as well. By the late ‘90s, culture was all about the ‘70s. We were rocking our bellbottoms and peasant blouses again, Afros and peace signs and smiley faces were back, and rappers were no longer the only ones ripping off classic ‘70s soul tunes to fashion new records, singers were too. So we’re on a roll with the double-decade about face.

The ‘80s were a whirlwind of self-discovery and change for me. I graduated from college in the second year of the decade, then spent three years working at youth and educational publisher Scholastic wearing Oxford cloth shirts, jacquard bow ties, padded-shoulder suits, baggie pants and kitten-heeled pumps. I started as a secretary and then graduated to reprint production editor, managing the production of several manuscripts at a time. In 1984, by a fluke, I was hired by Essence Magazine and the bow ties went out the window. By 1985, so did the Pat Benatar feathered hair. This was the first place I’d ever worked that was by, for, and about women of color. I began as the Careers editor, assigning stories about business survival strategies and educational paths, profiling business success stories and editing advice columns. I then moved to the Contemporary Living department, working with Harriette Cole. I met some great people. In addition to working for Susan Taylor and with Harriette, I also met Deborah Gregory (who wore fabulous Cheetah Girl prints even then), publicity mogul Terrie Williams, who was director of publicity, Keith Clinkscales, who was just starting his first magazine Urban Profile, and Nelson George, who wrote for Essence.

In 1986, I married a part-time musician. He was an avid Billboard reader, and I read it too, keeping up with Nelson’s column and the music industry. It was tough to make ends meet on my Essence pay so I left for an ill-advised three-month stint in the public information office at the New York City Housing Authority. It paid good money but I didn’t have a city employee mentality. My hubby showed me a NY Times want ad for a copyeditor at Billboard and I leaped. I sent my resume on a Monday, they called me in for a same-day interview on a Wednesday, and on Friday I had the job. Within a year I was promoted to head copyeditor and a year after that, when Nelson left his editor post, I campaigned to management and was named R&B editor in 1989. That year was all about new jack swing.

As 2009 segues into 2010, and a new decade begins, new jack swing is about to raise its head once more. Teddy Riley has reconciled with Aaron and Damian Hall and the Kings Of New Jack Swing tour is getting off the ground, and a new Guy album is due next year. Whitney Houston is back. Al B. Sure is back. Yep, it's gonna be the '90s again in a minute.

Legacy

I am sitting in front of my TV, watching Michael Jackson’s golden coffin, bedecked with crimson flowers, as it is loaded into the hearse at the Forest Lawn Cemetery, just a few miles down the road from where I sit. It’s hitting me anew that this talented, conflicted entertainer will no longer be walking the earth in his velveteen loafers and military style jackets. I am both weary of the barrage of news coverage – Jackson doctors being investigated! Debbie Rowe decides not to attend public memorial! Battle over children to heat up! Estate wrested from Katherine Jackson! – and wholly riveted.

The Staples Center memorial is getting underway half an hour later than anticipated. The golden-ticketed chosen gathering downtown are of all ages, all races, some dressed as for a funeral, others as for a concert. Roland Martin on CNN is saying that you can go to any club in America, and anyone young or old, white or black -- even the toughest gangbanger -- cannot stand still in the face of “You Wanna Be Startin’ Something” or “Thriller.” The memorial service will be dignified, inspiring, heartbreaking, and ultimately humanizing to the King Of Pop.

The question on the lips of every media commentator will be, “What was it about Michael Jackson that we all related to? What will be his legacy?”

Fans who attended the memorial all speak about the power of his music, fellow stars point to his brilliant vocals and incredible dance moves and pioneering video work, and civic leaders discuss his philanthropic and social work, how much Michael gave back. Certainly all of this is true. He was without question a consummate entertainer who was able to distill the best of all the old masters – Jackie Wilson, Fred Astaire, James Brown, Frankie Lyman, and others – and make it all his own. But I’m going to tell you what it was that made him unique the world over:

Michael appealed to our inner child.

When Michael Jackson performed, the primary thing that we responded to was his sheer unfettered glee. He absolutely loved creating magic through song and dance. It wasn’t work to him. He was more like a child at play: utterly free and in the moment and having fun. Have you ever really watched how children play?

Michael was an adult in a child’s body, until he became a child in an adult’s body. He gloried in games, amusement parks, animated characters, animals, practical jokes. He could also be like the intelligent yet stubborn kid who, when you tell him the rules, asks, “But why? Why? Why?” until you too wonder and end up watching him do exactly what he wants, to your chagrin. He refused to accept imposed boundaries of race or age or music industry strictures – and yes, he even refused to abide by the rules of what is considered appropriate adult behavior.

Think about how jaded and mature we all are, how grown up, how impulse-controlled we become as we reach the age of majority. Our society teaches us to bury the child within us and leave behind childlike things. The young boy or girl grows into a teenager and then into an adult through a series of life lessons, hard knocks, discipline, heartbreak, and challenges. We are congratulated for maintaining a kind of adult reserve once we come of age. Michael rejected that. He had his own brand of dignity but he never let his childlike wonder, joy, and curiosity die.

He reminded us that we were once little kids with big dreams. Kids who fervently believed we could accomplish anything at all, including dancing, singing, dressing up in spangly costumes, building a fantasy palace straight out of a Disney fable, and sharing our dearest treasures with all our best friends. Maybe your kiddie dream didn’t involve singing and dancing. Maybe your dreams featured other fanciful props – badges or crowns or masks or gloves or capes or imaginary paws or make-believe wings or a camera -- ideas that caused the adults around you to chuckle knowingly as you babbled and raced through your innocent, imaginary world. Nobody told you then that none of these things was possible and in this lack of knowledge, you were free.

Michael reminded us that the kid is still there. In our quiet moments we still longingly recall those pure dreams.

But life is full of dichotomies. While we were fascinated, we were also perplexed and disturbed by the childlike man. Children accepted Michael unconditionally, but adults were skeptical. It was Michael’s very childlike nature, his immersion not only in juvenile pursuits but in actual juveniles, surrounding himself with children, that earned him both his highest accolades and his most heated scorn. Ultimately it led to scandal. His love of children was a liability to him, his Achilles heel. You know where this is going. To the dark side. I’ll say no more.

Michael Jackson’s legacy? He gave us back our younger selves. He gave us not only the magic of his talent, but the ability -- however briefly -- to believe in magic once more. And that is universally appealing.

PS: My favorite moments from the memorial: Jermaine Jackson singing “Smile,” which reminded me of what a fantastic singer he’s always been; Al Sharpton’s rousing, seemingly extemporaneous speech; Jennifer Hudson’s transcendent performance of “Will You Be There”; Stevie Wonder performing his tunes “I Never Dreamed You’d Leave In Summer” and “I Won’t Go When They Go”; John Mayer’s haunting and respectful “Human Nature” on guitar; and Marlon Jackson’s heartfelt goodbye.

Remember The Time

Oh, Michael. What a sad way to go. When I heard the news I was shocked, but not surprised. There’s something about your untimely passing that I understand.

Over the past month, as I reported on your upcoming series of 50 shows in London next month, I told people around me: “Michael will never perform a single date of that engagement.” It was evident to me that you were not well. If you weren’t physically ill, I thought, you were ill inside. You wouldn’t withstand the pressure, the expectations of the madding crowd. I knew it wasn’t to be, but I never imagined your death. I simply thought that the Michael Jackson who speaks in a whisper and wears surgical masks and told the world that the most loving thing you could do was to share a bed with a child – the Michael Jackson who had crooned a tender “Ben” to a rat -- I knew that that Michael Jackson was being consumed in the conflagration of the world’s desire, a desire to both love you and see you utterly destroyed. There would be nothing left of you to display in the stage glare of the O2 Arena. In your heart, you wanted to give yourself to us. But your heart wasn’t strong enough to withstand the pressure from within and without, and so you fell.

You weren’t like other people, Michael, you never have been. You were born a stunning, gentle, sensitive child with a staggering talent, and you held onto your childlike nature for as long as you could despite the tests and trials and tragedies, the world’s determined and often mean-spirited attempts to grow you up. Your path away from us was never going to be mundane or simple. This is why I am in no way surprised. What does surprise me is my slow reaction, from surface sadness to a deeper ache that has to do with time and talent and waste and mortality and the sense that you were in some way mine.

I remember you, Michael, from when you first appeared on the scene in the late ‘60s. We are only a year apart, but I always thought of you as younger. You and your brothers, a picture of familial unity, on the television, on the album covers, you in the middle with your dark cherry cheeks, dimples, and bright eyes. You with your preternaturally angelic and polished voice. One more chance, is all you ask of me? It is yours. If you want me back, I want you too, Mike. You and Jermaine, Jackie and Marlon, even Tito and his blues guitar, all of you in your psychedelic bellbottoms, your supremely sculpted Afros, I am for you, I am on your side. I was formed within myself just from watching you on TV, hearing you on the radio. You gave out hope as well as joy, awe as well as pride. Did you ever truly know how perfect you were, Michael? Not just the little-man-soul vocals and the James Brown dance routines, but your gorgeous, shimmering blackness? You stunned the world. That fact seemed never enough for you as you grew into a man.

I have a memory of seeing you, Michael, you and your four sho-nuff Brotha brothers adding up to Jackson 5, in the way-back-then of exploding fame and gushing teenage adoration. You were young and nimble, on the stage of Madison Square Garden, the opening act for someone then deemed bigger. Was it the Isley Brothers? And I wonder, who’s loving you?, you cried, in an anguish that made me speculate on what the world held in store that could stir up that amount of emotion. And I betcha, you chirped with your brothers. You seemed so sure and wise. You hinted at things to come, Michael.

Oh, I loved those Motown/Corporation Jackson 5 hits. Especially “Sugar Daddy” and “Mama’s Pearl.” They were sheer confection, pop perfection. The idea that you, Michael, or some other boy your age might be interested in buying me treats to win my affection, or that there was a real understanding that I was a gem not just to my parents but to you, dear Michael, were concepts so potent, so lofty, so romantic and gratifying that I began to see myself differently. Maybe a gawky, spectacles-afflicted girl from the Bronx was truly worthy of you.

I must confess, though, Mike, that I wasn’t as swept away as some of the other girls in my class. I didn’t fight in the rest room over the latest issue of Right On! Magazine, or indulge in debates over who was cuter, you or Jermaine. I didn’t have shouting matches in the schoolyard with the other girls, which began, Michael’s my boyfriend! No, he’s mine! I was always sort of reserved, lowkey, conservative. But I knew you were special, Michael, in a class by yourself. I had heard you speak on The Mike Douglas Show, knew you were shy and quiet too. Oh Michael. Did you know? Did you ever truly know that you were a shining black prince?

So much has occurred since those early days, when you were coming into your own. You grew up, a bit awkwardly, but your talent never flagged. Eventually you left your brothers and forged a stunning path that was purely your own, and this is the crux of your fame: Off The Wall and Thriller, the albums that telegraphed your brilliance to the world. So many people acclaiming you, celebrating you. Generations thrilled by “Thriller,” nations rocked by “Rock With You.” I too applauded, but I felt crowded out, Michael. I had connected to you when we were young, felt a kind of proximity and kinship to you back then, but you had outgrown me, like a cousin who had moved to the ‘burbs. I waved to you from my seat high up in Giants Stadium in New Jersey when you reunited with your brothers and gave a dazzling performance on the Victory Tour. You were on a well-deserved rocket to the stratosphere, while my feet stayed on the ground.

Beautiful and strange things were happening to you, things I could only guess at as I too, grew up, began my own career, married, divorced. I was now on the music beat, writing, but you were as far away as the rings of Saturn. By the mid ‘90s I had played tennis with 2Pac in Miami, shaken hands with Prince at Paisley Park, brunched in Minneapolis with your sister Janet, sat in a New York restaurant as your brother Jermaine expressed disappointment in a story I’d written. But you, Michael, had gone into the Ivory Tower of your melanin-depleted skin, you indulged yourself in whims and became inaccessible, at least to me.

When Bad was delivered, then Dangerous and the rest, I listened without much comment or enthusiasm. Your brilliance was intact but it had lost the power to amaze me, I am ashamed to admit. You became shrouded in rumor and accusations and blame, and I wanted to believe that there was still an innocent living inside the grotesque figure you appeared to be, no longer black, not ever white, an incongruous presence. Unlike so many of your fans, who forgot and forgave, I had to divorce myself from you Michael. It was too painful to see you this way, fading and blundering and afflicted with a kind of selective blindness. Like Peter Pan, you could only maintain your eternal youth within the boundaries of Neverland. When that sanctuary, too, was finally gone, I knew your days were numbered.

It is the Saturday after the Thursday of your demise, dear Michael. Strains of “Beat It,” “Thriller,” “Remember The Time,” “Bad,” “The Way You Make Me Feel,” “Billie Jean,” and so much more fill the air, wafting from radios around the world. These are the tunes that most people cite when they speak of you. And rightly so. With each song, each recorded step of your journey, I am reminded anew of the power you brought to bear. It has taken two whole days for the truth of your passing to finally sink me to the sandy bottom of this ocean of memory.

I go back in my mind to the days when we were children together and you were held lightly in the grip of the world. There was one 45 in particular that I remember, when I was in grade school and you were Motown royalty. I was partial to B-sides, and fancied myself a budding poet. You sang a cover of a Supremes tune, and the recording never failed to slay me, as they used to say; it used to make me swoon. I was way too young then to have ever loved and lost in an epic way, but I listened beyond the lyrics to the emotion held aloft in your voice, listened until I was moved to tears. I think of it now as I say goodbye, Michael.

Love is here
And oh my darling, now you’re gone
You made me love you!
And oh my darling now you’re gone

Self Improvement And Seeing Angels

Greetings, it has been more than a year since my last confessional.

In December 2007, soon after posting up the sad novel excerpt posted below, I began a two-year MFA creative writing program at Antioch University L.A. Challenging, and obviously much needed in terms of my own craft. Still, the current state of the economy means that the publishing world is not what it once was, and my two-year graduate education may boil down to an expensive self-improvement project, like elocution lessons. I hold out the hope that with Obama now in the White House and placing a renewed emphasis on higher education, I might be a little ahead of the curve, and a warm and cozy teaching post awaits me at some fab university when the stampede to academia really gets going. I'm optimistic that I will get over the humps of my final manuscript and a teaching seminar to graduate this December.

A propos of nothing, I was just on the street in West LA and saw a crowd of red-bereted dudes: black pants, army boots, red and white T-shirts. Guardian Angels! My God, I have not seen Guardian Angels since the early '80s in the subways of New York, when their controversial presence and outspoken leader Curtis Sliwa divided city opinion. Taking back the streets from criminals, or a group of vigilantes? That was the question back then. But when I was riding the subways through the Bronx and Manhattan at all hours, those red berets were a welcome sight, let me tell you. Seeing a group of them just now on Sawtelle and Olympic brought back memories.