As an example of the state of sincerity, or the lack thereof, we have the Michael Jackson 30th Anniversary Celebration culled from two nights at Madison Square Garden, taped the weekend of Sept. 9. Designed not to showcase M.J.'s new Invincible CD but to hype the man himself, it was the most vulgar display of masturbation I've seen in my life. Not because it was masturbation, but because it was ( cynical, hyped, "EVENT" ) public masturbation broadcast on CBS. On several embarrassing levels, what was supposed to "wow" us came off as an often bizarre take on "Death Becomes Her."
Some observations:
1. Liza Minnelli warbling "You Are Not Alone" off key. M.J. is to blame; good friends don't let their good friends appear in public in such a sorry state.
2. The opening number. Usher ( in a cheap weird animal pelt ) gyrating through a sea of tanned, young, nubile bodies on "Wanna be Startin' Something." The editing was so frantic that the number crumbled by the end of the first verse. Things got twisted when an emaciated Whitney Houston popped up, wagging a boney finger with the other hand planted on a skeletal hip, doing her damnedest to get down. She didn't.
3. Creepier still was the star himself. M.J., wedged between Liz Taylor and Maccauley Culkin looking ( I'm being kind ) ghastly. Worse still when he took the stage for a reunion with his brothers—I couldn't help but notice how the other Jackson's were strikingly beautiful Black men ( HOTHOTHOT ) . M.J. looked so freakishly out of place ( his posture hunched, every move and gesture seemed un-natural, as if it had been rehearsed to death, and the face is gone—a powder white mess with eyeliner and features that look like they were carved out of Ivory Soap with a fingernail file ) , that the natural response was sympathy, not adoration.
4. Worse still was a video montage of M.J. embracing small children while the announcer droned on and on about M.J.'s charitable causes. In my book M.J. was never exonerated of those pedophile charges ( at the time, Sir Elton John advised, "If you didn't do it, don't pay them a cent." So what did M.J. do? Pay them in millions ) , and the look of lip-smacking delight on his face looked like a drug addict locked in a pharmaceutical warehouse over a three-day holiday weekend.
But the most mind-numbing thing about this "Celebration" is the un-nerving plasticness of it all and the crass assumption that we were supposed to actually like this. A "news event" only because M.J. decided it should be ( meaning we're supposed to care because M.J. decided we should care ) but in the post-9/11 world insincerity doesn't look merely fake but criminal. At 40, M.J. has still got the moves and the voice, but there's no soul. The extended "Billie Jean" number, which allowed him the chance to display his dancing, almost saved the show ( no one can move like this man—moonwalking backwards, gliding, defying gravity at will; if anything M.J. has taken modern dance from Martha Graham, Jerome Robbins, and Twyla Thorp and turned it into an art form for the masses ) , but you had to wade through one and a half hours of piled on horrors to get to it.
In another tightly edited sequence there was a montage of highlights from M.J.'s videos—a reminder of his past certainly couldn't save the mess on stage. Those videos were a reverse of "The Picture of Dorian Gray"—in the past the energy, talent, and beauty have turned into something ghoulish, contrived, and self-important. But the horror isn't hidden in the attic in a picture frame, but currently parading as "the greatest entertainer in the world."
By contrast, "An Evening of Power Ballads" Nov. 17 at Nevin's Live was a goofy ersatz spin on numerous variety TV shows of the '60s starring some of Chicago's best-unknown talent. The concept was a tip-off that this was intended in jest, but though it reeked of Velveeta this show was astonishing because of its sincerity. Each of the performers sang songs they obviously loved, for whatever reason, and trapped on Nevin's tiny stage without a full orchestra and a 200-member choir they were left to fashion these ballads down to their poignant elements. With host LO-REN-ZO officiating, there wasn't a slack moment. In a nutshell;
1. The Anna Fermin and Andon Davis ( from Trigger Gospel ) take on "Love Lifts Us Up Where We Belong" ( sheer vocal power at its roof-rattling furious ) and Fermin's take on Eric Carmen's "All by Myself" ( her edgy lower register reading bordered on a nervy sodden-ness that cut Carmen's pretentiously over-ripe orchestrations to shreds ) .
2. Reyna and Katrina ( Mabel Mabel ) doing "Almost Paradise" in such a nakedly emotional tone that it epitomized transcendence.
3. Billy O'Neil ( from Oh My God ) singing his heart out on Billy Joel's "Honesty"; simultaneously stripping Joel's version of its arrogant tone while making it bleedingly heartfelt.
4. The Adam Conway and Liz Murray ( from Marvin Tate and the D-Settlement ) take on Eurythmics' "Sweet Dreams" and Pink Floyd's "Comfortably Numb." Both bracing transformations of rock into chilly techno-soul—unquestionably Conway and Murray redefined the rock syntax by stripping the music of its heat and presenting it in a chilly sexy way.
5. Ingrid Graudins' spare take on Sir Elton's "Sorry Seems To Be the Hardest Word" and her affectionate take on Gary Wright's "Dream Weaver" ( spinning disco ball included ) .
6. Stephanie Turner's musically naked take on Kiss's "Beth," which somehow in its uncluttered clarity became oddly poignant.
7. The all-participant finale of "Hey Jude" with guest Tom Dunning. O'Neil sang lead, proving just how stilted Paul McCartney actually sounded, but the finish of "Na-na-na"s and all those glorious voices sharing microphones, and tambourines rattling, made the Beatles sound positively canned.
Free of all the billion-dollar wrappings and faked-up pleas to "save the children," and with the exception of LO-REN-ZO's brown tux ( ! ) , free of all pretense, "Power Ballads" may have had a slight aroma of summer sausage, but I'll take this ham and cheese hoagy over M.J.'s multiple-course entre any day. No question.
