The Summer of Love, Dionysus & Michael Jackson

June 28, 2009

Summer of LoveSince May I’ve been touring Hank William’s “Lone Highway” actually—Georgiana, Montgomery, Alabama—and not quite making it to Canton. I don’t know why, just one of those intuitive coincidences I can’t explain, but feel might lead to something. Earlier this month I met my cousin, Vince, at the Rock’n Roll Hall of Fame in lieu of driving to Loraine, OH to the Polka Hall of Fame. The Rock Gods Hall itself is creepy, like Madame Toussand’s without heads.  It’s celebrating the 40th anniversary of the Summer of Love with exhibitions of stylish ghosts. I bought a commemorative key chain to help to help with our séance. We sauntered through Jimi Hendrix’s closet, paused and listened at the display of a Vocalion 78 of Robert Johnson and I saw my sixth or seventh pair of hand tooled boots alleged to be owned by Hank Williams. In the past I’ve stumbled past Electric Ladyland Studios and spent an afternoon driving around between Greenville and Rolling Forks looking in vain for Robert Johnson’s grave. So the Hank Williams tour of C&W attire seemed no stranger than visiting Keats House in Wentworth, Les Deux Maggots, or Ezra Pound’s grave in San Michele, it’s something I do…one of my ways of being in the world.  But the Cleveland Hall of Fame is almost seedy, like seeing the back of the carnival—everything looks cheaper and disproportionately small. Vince is considerably younger than me, but for the most part he was patient with my meandering through the fool’s golden age of rock. He didn’t care much about Jim Morrison’s leather pants, Brian Jones’ caftan or John Lennon’s handwriting. He asked me how crazy it was at Woodstock and seemed politely appalled at the psychedelic sense of fashion. We walked by the Michael Jackson mannequin already encased, like everything else there, in its special version of spot lit amber. Vince knew a lot about Motown (He knows a lot about a lot of things) and we had a passing argument about what the Sound of Young America symbolized and what Barry Gordy meant to the industry of music. We conjectured about what record producers, disc jockeys and executives had to do with the deep fundamental pelvic grab of Rock ’n Roll. Just asking questions that we felt might make the price of admission seem less steep. Probably the most prescient question we discussed was “If he’s the King of Pop…have you ever seen Michael Jackson or know anybody who has?” It took a week before we found someone we knew who had. And that included my daughter’s stepbrother, Travis who seems to have seen everyone in concert. Michael Jackson was a recluse in our collective memory before he was lost in Neverland.  Until suddenly, his heart stopped…

Our new cyber culture was electrified with a celebratory spirit like a drunken Greek chorus. Philippine Prisoners forced to practice reenacting their “Thriller” reenactments for hours. A friend sends me pictures of a memorial video dance at the Alamo Draft House in Austin. Anyone can watch versions of these flash mobs appearing on YouTube dispersed all over the world…collective mind appearting to raise a voice resembling passion with no purpose, but genuine frenzy.   Electronically there are thousands of living voices singsonging along “Billie Jean is not my lover”. There’s wild rush from work to the streets or bars with beers and camera phones in hand photographing themselves dancing in imitation of the creature who only yesterday was derided as Jacko.    

 I imagine Greece in it’s mythopoetic glory, when sleepy eyed Dionysus led the dance and the drunken wild Maenads tore Orpheus head from shoulders and Oedipus put out his own eyes.  Michael Jackson was like a character Sophocles might have written—punished not for his alleged pedophilia (like Orpheus) or eccentricities in parenting (like Oedipus), but for trying to outlive his youth.  Hubris is the tragic crime and punishment. What most separates the least recognized god from the most popular king on earth, is the god will never grow old. Dionysus disappears and returns in a hundred disguises, but always a form of a strangely beautiful youth. The King of Pop inflicted monstrous plastic masks of youth on himself trying to delay the departure of his Dionysian daemon. Like Oedipus his machinations to escape his fate turned cruelly ironic—he became inspiration for his chorus’ judgment by gossip. Jacko weds Bubbles, hyperbolic chambers…dangles baby Prince.

Now the chorus is laughing and screaming, running nowhere in particular just like the mob that dispersed Orpheus leaving only his lyre still echoing its master’s songs. Like so many of  my psychopomps Elvis, Hank Williams, Sylvia Plath, Garcia-Lorca, Byron, Marilyn Monroe, Keats, Robert Johnson, Jimi Hendrix—gods grant mortals divine gifts only for a time, then they toss them into a wind coming out of the mouths of the mob celebrating their death like a summer festival.

 “…golden. …stardust and caught in the Devil’s bargain.”                                                                                                        “Woodstock” Joni Mitchell

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2 Responses to “The Summer of Love, Dionysus & Michael Jackson”

  1. Su Says:

    Miss tou MJ. you will rule our hearts forever.


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