I don’t mean now. Now Jackson is a creepy symbol of the afflictive nature of fame. But when I listen to “Thriller,” his 1982 commercial blockbuster and critical masterpiece, he’s still the man with the glitter-gloved Midas touch. This week marks the 25th anniversary of the release of “Thriller,” and the milestone is sure to be obscured by his recent lunacy. But I’m using it as an excuse to revisit one of pop music’s golden moments.
In April, a video appeared on YouTube showing a group of Filipino prison inmates re-creating the stunning choreography from Jackson’s “Thriller” video. The clip is closing in on 9 million views, and it’s not because people are interested in the Philippine penal system. It’s popular because it takes Jackson’s dynamic performance and puts it in a context that, mercifully, doesn’t involve him. It separates the art, which we love, from the artist, whom we mock.
But we don’t have to hand over ownership of our Jackson joy to foreign prisoners. Try this: pick up “Thriller” as if it were some obscurity fished out of a thrift-store milk crate. (It helps that his appearance has changed a bit over the years.) Who is this guy, too cool to smile on his album cover, making a white suit look slick before Don Johnson tried it?
On “Thriller,” he’s lustful (“Pretty Young Thing”) and lusted after (“Billie Jean”). He’s tough (“Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’?”) and dashing (“The Lady in My Life”). In other words, he is everything that the Michael we’ve come to know is not. The effect is akin to rewatching Rock Hudson romance Doris Day: there’s a massive disconnect between the artist and his material.
But what can’t be tarnished by criminal charges, plastic surgeries or dangled babies is Jackson’s lustrous voice. Though he was already 24 when the album was released, his voice still contained the clarity and sweet tone it had when he was fronting his brothers’ band at just 8 years old.
Say what you will about the man, his work is unassailable. “Thriller” captures the soulful brilliance of the king of pop before his crown rusted. And yet the album barely shows signs of age, 25 years after it was released. For Michael, the boy who refused to grow up, it’s fitting. For me, it’s just lucky.
