Michael Jackson was a study in shame. He was ashamed of being black, ashamed of being gay. Making his posthumous embrace by African-Americans especially disconcerting, Jackson spent a fortune to efface every trace of his racial heritage — from his nose, his lips, his very skin. Although the media have embarrassedly skirted the fact, it is plainly obvious that all three of his children are white. Jackson must have been sufficiently repelled by his own race to ensure that whoever really fathered those children was of European descent. For whites, he feeds an ugly narrative: give a black guy a whack of cash, and what does he buy? Being white.
For gays, Jackson was a throwback who closeted his sexuality behind two sham marriages. Worse, his creepy proclivity for surrounding himself with little boys only helps to reinforce a misguided popular conflation of homosexuality and paedophilia.
Moreover, we secretly relish the cultural autopsy of anyone who had it all and was still so conspicuously miserable. If a man of unimaginable wealth and fame squandered his fortune on gaudy trinkets, carved up his own face like a standing rib roast, and hungrily sought oblivion in addiction to prescription drugs and surgical anaesthesia, our natural envy is ameliorated. See? We don't need to covet what he had, because the guy lived in hell.
Poorly disguised voyeurism has put newscasters in the unconvincing position of pretending to find awesome snippets of rehearsals for a tour that, if the slight footage thus far released is anything to go by, was going to be awful. Jackson was as weak and thin as the music itself, his choreography evocative of an aerobics class for over-65s. This middle-aged emperor had plenty of clothes, but he sure couldn't dance.
The Michael Jackson story is heartbreaking. He was clearly a lost soul. Even now, he remains a horrifying emblem of internalised prejudice and self-hatred. By all means, credit where due; many of his performances were fabulous, his songs catchy. But let's not confuse admiration and fascination. Jackson's story is compelling because it's so depressing. I speak for myself, too. Sheepishly, I've followed every sordid revelation. But I'm under no illusion about what I am. I'm no fan in mourning. I'm a rubbernecker.
