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THE FINAL CURTAIN
by Daren Foster

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DAREN FOSTER PODCAST about his recent columns - July 6 2009!

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THE FINAL CURTAIN
by Daren Foster

***Michael Jackson's daring career move.***

Confession time.

Every so often, usually when the torpid stupor of summer’s heat sets in, inspiration dries up like a charred brown under-watered lawn. (See? Unforgivably stretched similes). There seems to be so many better things to do than opine on the day’s cultural events. Strongbows on the deck. Languid strolls through the city streets soaking up the sweaty urban vibe, looking for another deck and another Strongbow. Sultry evenings when the temperature doesn’t budge but the sun no longer punishes you on the awningless deck and the Strongbows still going down smoothly.

What I’m say is it’s summer and I’m constantly drunk. Who can find the time to knock off a thousand words about the latest Michael Bay debacle or the utter barrenness of television this time of year? They’re giving me nothing to write about! There’s no recourse but to find a deck and order up a Strongbow.

Of course, life does have a way of interceding and forcing you back in front of the computer, regardless of how much you try to resist. For example, the death of the King of Pop, Michael Jackson. More than a week has passed since his passing and the circus continues unabated. While it’s no surprise that the freak show that is Jackson’s life survives and thrives even after his death, it is getting creepier and that’s saying a lot given just how creepy the man’s life had been over the last 20 years or so.

What could I possibly add to the screeching morbid din that has engulfed Jackson’s death? A second autopsy. Painkiller addiction. Custody of his children. Celebrity jockeying for public displays of grief, surprise and remembrances. Who cares what I think about the proceedings?

So I sit on a deck and order up another Strongbow and realize my relative lack of importance has never before stopped me from weighing in on all matters cultural. There’s no reason to be daunted by this one. If Wolf Blitzer can hop aboard the Ghoulish Express, why can’t I? That man’s a certified idiot.

Let’s just say that I come not to praise Michael Jackson but to bury him. In fact, it’s not the man himself that intrigues me. He was something so different that it’s impossible for me to relate to or empathize with. Child star who somehow managed to escape an overbearing family and double-dealing management to establish himself as a pop music legend. His best and most famous work done before he turned 25. The last half of his life spent trying to live up to his early work. It is a pursuit which does not end happily, spiralling downward into an increasingly bizarre and isolated existence.

While Jackson might win the award for Most Extreme Descent Into Fame-Induced Madness, his trajectory is not unique in the annals of pop culture history. It is, sadly, a well-worn path. Elvis. Judy Garland. Chet Baker. Marilyn Monroe. Tatum O’Neal. The entire cast of children from Diff’rent Strokes. Even someone like Marlon Brando who had a career renaissance in his late-40s with The Godfather seemed personally malformed after achieving iconic status in his early-20s with On the Waterfront and A Streetcar Named Desire.

Fame, it seems, rewards handsomely but for some, exacts a hefty cost. Too much? Would some of the afflicted trade it all in for the relative peace and serenity of a “normal” life? Pure speculation obviously but it’s hard to think that the offer wouldn’t have at least a modicum of appeal if it meant not dying in middle-age, broken and alone.

But then what would we, the non-celebrities, have to cluck and tsk-tsk over if the rich and famous lead “normal” lives? Hi. I’m Britney Spears. Not only am I rich and famous, my marriage is perfect and my kids think I am the perfect mom. Just like my mom was. There’s got to be a downside to rolling in dough and succeeding beyond your wildest dreams. Life can’t work out like that. If it does, what happened to me? How come I’m such a failure?

We need the tragic story arcs to make the world seem just and fair. Celebrities don’t necessarily have to die early. A mid-career breakdown will do. Bankruptcy. Maybe a little seamy illegality. Then, a comeback accompanied by a healthy dose of humility to prove that a lesson’s been learned, that you no longer take success for granted, and you know what it’s like to be down-and-out. Props to all my struggling peeps out there. Without you, I am nothing and the journey would not have been worth it.

Dying, however, saves you from eating all that humble pie. Flame out into an early(ish) grave and sainthood awaits you. No longer simply a superstar or legendary icon, you become a myth. All sins are forgiven. All blemishes wiped clean. Only the greatness is remembered. People suddenly stop forgetting about what made you important in their lives in the first place, why and how you scaled the heights you scaled.

All of which makes me wonder why it takes a death or spectacular fizzle and rebirth to remind us of the sometimes prodigious attributes that initially brought an artist to widespread attention. Why can’t we continue to just marvel in the work and hope for more without demanding it or measuring any succeeding output solely by previous efforts? Let’s assess Michael Jackson’s contribution to mankind by the joyful infectiousness of Off the Wall and Thriller not by the fact he once owned a chimp or horribly disfigured his face in some quixotic attempt to.. ? What? No one’s ever going to know why. Let’s do this while the man’s alive and not in the form of obituary tribute.

Despite Jackson’s every attempt to embalm himself in a state of perpetual pre-adolescent innocence, the man in the mirror was wise to the celebrity game. When his song writing skills and musicianship failed to rally him another pop music nugget after 1982, his publicly revealed personal idiosyncrasies kept him very much in the public eye. To what end that served his needs, only those closest to him will ever know. The rest of us will remain on the outside, merely trafficking in gossip and conjecture. If Michael Jackson was the author of his sad disturbing demise, we were most certainly willing participants and heartless enablers.

In the life of an artist and the consumption of art, nothing else should matter outside the music that makes you dance, the books that make you think, and the movies that make you laugh. Because of our continued fascination with the life behind the curtain of Michael Jackson, we allowed him to stop being a musician and to wallow simply in being a celebrity. Being a celebrity is as easy as any 15 minute stop on one of the countless reality shows. There was a point of time nearly 30 years ago when Michael Jackson towered high above that. He and we all share the blame for his subsequent fall from grace.