Now we know better of course. Don’t make teenagers into sex objects. That’s why Britney and Justin and Miley are so well-adjusted.
Back then, we didn’t know. And who could have guessed? I mean, Michael’s probably thirteen in this photo and surely that’s old enough for beefcake poses (however…innocuous)!
No way that could go wrong.
I never exactly felt sorry for Michael Jackson. He almost certainly inflicted too much pain on too many innocents for that. But I do try to once in a while imagine what it was like to be at the center of a storm of madness–not as a young adult (which is hard enough) but as an eleven year old.
I was in a junior high gym in 1972 when a group called the McCrarys (who later had a nice run on the R&B charts) spent parts of their show pumping up a genuine superstar they had run into at the airport in Orlando and had talked into appearing as their special guest. When the off-and-on hour-long build-up finally reached its climax, they opened a curtain and shouted “ladies and gentlemen…Put your hands together….for our fellow superstar….DONNIE OSMOND!”
By the time Donnie emerged–in the guise of a six-four black guy with a twelve-inch afro who, I must say, did a fine version of “Puppy Love”–a few of the white girls had fainted.
Later on, all the black girls laughed…and admitted that if it had been Michael Jackson’s name being called they would have fainted, too.
Donnie Osmond, of course, is sane (as I imagine is the six-four member of the McCrarys). You can survive it.
But Donnie wasn’t the meal ticket of a large, dirt-poor family that wasn’t going anywhere without him. Heck, he wasn’t even the lead singer in his brothers’ group (just the one who got a solo career out of it). And he wasn’t abused–wasn’t given a psychological wound he was bound to visit on the world.
Michael Jackson almost certainly was. I don’t say it excuses him–plenty survive worse without taking it out on others in turn.
But it always gives me pause. And it always gives a plaintive edge to even his most joyous early music.
On the album above, the first I owned by any incarnation of the Jacksons, I learned that a lot of that early music was far more plaintive than I had been led to believe from the distance of my white-bread existence.
It left a mark. I bled a lot of needles through all three LPs in the set.
And honestly, back then, that cover never bothered me. Looked innocent enough.
Now, of course, I wonder. Just where does the line get crossed when you’re dealing with a future pedophile (allegedly, of course)….and just how innocuous is it really to push the youngsters onto one another?
Well…at least we have the present to reassure us nothing like that will ever happen again!
Here’s to what might have been.