I can’t think where—Slate, perhaps—and Google can’t help me now, it’s all about death—but I came across some interesting observations about Michael Jackson‘s (gorgeous, gob-smack-stunning) attire.

One, his predilection for military garb (you ain’t never seen an army sequined like that) and its connection,  homage almost, to the military-like precision with which those little boys were taught to perform, and what it must have been like, his father drilling it into them, Michael wanting to play.

Someone else speculated on his wish to never, ever look like his father, moving his face not closer to being white but to not in any way, ever, resemble the man—and if these seem trivial urges to you, then bless your happy childhood.

The third and most intriguing thing, because I had not taken it in as such—must we only notice things after they are gone? what kind of spell does genius entertainment put us under, anyway—the bandages. The way his costuming expressed wounds and disfigurement, and so beautifully.  The left forearm bound and wrapped in leather, as if to strengthen or protect. This isn’t analysis, it’s reading the signs: the armband, nearly always the armband. Signifying Rescue. Or, Rescue me.

Transforming, as artists will, his personal pain into the universal, and, it must be said—setting taste firmly aside—quite beautifully.

I’m not going to argue with the more “cultured” that this work was not art, of course it was and if you missed out on the post-Thriller years, more’s the pity. In Smooth Criminal he dances with a group of men, and it is both impeccable and exciting. Exciting because they move in perfect time to each other—synchronous bodies are always strange and riveting. But more than that, a long video like this (9:36) was such an accomplished, extended vision, such an astonishing choreograpic creation. The fact that the secret of The Lean has been revealed makes it not one whit less amazing to watch, a stunning part of the dance.

That these works were presented to us through the medium of music video instead of the modern dance stage, well, get over it. Watch him dance with Naomi Campbell. Everything you think is challenged in the next song, the next video.

Was it really such a crummy life? Did not John Lennon go to a club in LA with a sanitary napkin tied on his head? What can we allow genius? What kind of clue do you suppose Michael Jackson ever had as to Normal—what it looked like (his brothers fucking groupies in the adjoining beds) how to find it (the chimp.) A chimpanzee, a Red Cross armband, Lisa Marie Presley, little boy friends. That pretty much runs the gamut of A to Z and beyond, somewhere off the alphabet. Somewhere over the rainbow.

No question, this was a suffering, amazing man. Bluebirds to you, MJ.

Tags: michael jackson

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