BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN/MICHAEL JACKSON:

Just Between You And Me Obviously, this is a cynical ploy to sell magazines—what else could have possessed the editors of CREEM when they commissioned this “think piece,” the thrust, overview and delineation of which was to be "sumpthin’ about Michael Jackson and Bruce Springsteen”? Such a retro spasm of greed, just when the mag was re-fashioning itself as a journal that mod young things could buy with a minimum of embarrassment. Tsk, tsk. But then, you really didn’t think this was a hobby, did you? I must resort to Moliere, not quoted in CREEM for at least 10 years, who said that writing is like prostitution—first you do it for pleasure, then for a few friends, and finally for money. Just between you and me, I’ve been in the latter stages of that progression longer than most of you have been able to read.

Still, there’s the challenge which is, as I see it, to fulfill the commission without writing another damn boring feature article whose function is to fill the spaces between the groovy color snaps. Critics, said Gautier (another froggy not much quoted here), are like eunuchs in a harem, and, though there are periods of exception (the late ’80s isn’t one of them), most music mag writing is tedious asskissing crap. The idea is to avoid that without tipping too far the other way, into screed for screed’s sake. Let’s give it a go.

The Muscleman And The Black Fag

Well, that got your attention, didn’t it? But it was a trick. I have nothing to say about Bruce’s new-found muscles—except to note that he has wrung from expensive exercise equipment what many of his fans get merely by going to work every day (a bit of a cheap shot, since I’m using irony to imply hypocrisy where, most likely, none exists). And my official policy (I weaken when kicked) is not to use the word “fag” when discussing matters gay—if you do, that’s your unresolved sexual conflict.

Rather, and if only for appearance’s sake, let’s try to establish some sort of connection between our co-topics (this should be fun). First and obviously, there’s their immense popularity, fame at a level that puts them way above such rank and file superstars as Madonna, U2, Prince, and, yes, the Grateful Dead. They are like gods; worshipped, distant, Rorschach-like in their dimensions. They have the gift of outreach, the ability to project beyond their “natural” constituency. They’re like Reagan (in his heyday), who had a hard core of support in the evershrinking political culture (if it gets any smaller, it’s going to be a cult) but whose surface-y charms appealed to those who couldn’t tell the difference between the Senate and the House of Reps. You didn’t have to buy his vile right wing vision (assuming you could decode the borrowed liberalisms); you just had to groove on those encouraging shoulder pads, that potent head of hair, that confiding smile. Likewise, millions bought Springsteen’s good-looking normal guy features and good-timey band sound without absorbing the anxiety and despair (and crusts of hope) in his lyrics (lyrics which brought rock to a level of involvement with reality which American Literature reached around the turn of the century) (incidentally).

Unlike Springsteen, who represents many things to many people, Jackson represents nothing.

Jackson, too, has achieved and maintained maximum outreach, though without any unintentionally hidden agenda and despite the fact that this is a racist country—if you doubt that, you force me to point out that it’s as plain as the nose on his face. Though I mean to say, and will, that Jackson gets most of his brickbats from black critics who discount his life outside the land of mere mortals, let’s hold that thought for now while I point out that, more so than any other period in my lifetime, black America is a foreign country to whites. Even more so than that time when the white girl whose life-soundtrack was Motown (now approaching middleage, she keeps company with Lionel Richie under the headphones) said, after Martin Luther King was assassinated, that she was glad somebody finally “shot that nigger.” An extreme example, perhaps, but there’s a lot of ugly things being said down here, beneath the public sheen of civility; only now, with a handful of exceptions—Jackson, Prince, Run-D.M.C.—the white folks don’t even know the music. Not that everybody’s a racist, understand, but, having lived in the U.S. for 38 years, my impression is that more people are black and white than are not.

Relax, I could be wrong. Anyway, Jackson is above all this—above even the level the Boss has reached; and so, unlike Springsteen, who represents many things to many people, Jackson represents nothing. Above race and class, and to an extent human-ness, he is a unique creature, himself. It’s a frequent topic of his songs which are not conventional lover’s pledges of sincerity and intensity—his need and ability to stand apart. It’s this rejection of some kind of communal stance (the “We Are The World” special god-summit notwithstanding) which has brought Jackson special grief from some black critics—as if the black race were the only race Jackson seemed intent on leaving behind (but let’s be fair, we’re all provincial, with our own special interest, all of us, forever, right?).

Your Turn To Deal Up until this point in our fun-filled “think piece,” I feel I’ve done a fairly good job of carrying on as though I know what I’m talking about—this kind of phony/baloney confidence you learn in Exegesis 101 (that’s pronounced “exit: Jesus,” because it originally meant critiquing the Bible). But now I want to pose a genuine puzzle, something you may be able to help me with. It’s this: we all know that Jackson has evolved into an androgynous figure (more precisely, an androgynous face) and yet, if you’ve ever seen him in concert, or in filmed performance, or just snippets of same—hell, if you’ve only seen him in the Pepsi commercial— you’ve noticed that one of his favorite moves, one that belies the wisplike presence that graces the occasional awards ceremony, is to sneer jaw-jutting defiance at the audience while almost spitting out the lyrics. I know it looks cool, but my question is what does it mean? I mean, who is the defiance aimed at. . .what does it have to do with the lyrics (on “Bad” it fits...but a Pepsi commercial)?

1973—A Really Swell Year Let’s mar this meditation with some factoids. By 1973, the ’60s were pretty much over, though the mainstream pop/ rock scene, like a chicken strutting around the yard with its head twisted off, continued, awash with dreamy, blissful pretensions. K was a year when past heroes carried on, sometimes bloated (Quadrophenia), sometimes adrift (Goat’s Head Soup), sometimes merrily oblivious (Houses Of The Holy). R&B crossover geniuses were making their last gasps before lowering their sights (Fresh, Innervisions) and the first of the Zep clones were doing what they would always do: killing time. As in ’68 (and that’s a whole ’nother “think piece”), it was the perfect historical moment for somebody to make the right neo-classical move—not a revivalist one; that brand of puritanism is always with us—but a drawing of inspiration from forebears, infused with original vision.

And yea verily, Bruce Springsteen debuted that year, not once but twice. The first time, Greetings From Asbury Park, N.J., is generally agreed, by friend and foe alike, to be a false start. Dylanesque to a fault was the problem, all the symptoms were there—the internal rhymes, the surreal juxtapositions, the cast of grotesques (who could forget “interstellar mongrel nymphs”?). Besides, he was said to have a killer in-the-tradition bar band which didn’t come across here. There was, though, the kernel of an original vision, clearer on the second debut, The Wild, The Innocent & The E Street Shuffle. Critic Marshall Berman said, around the time of the release of the boxed live set, that Springsteen’s career was “a paradigm of the modern myth of personal development”—a reference to all the crap Springsteen had to unload before he really became the Boss (with the release of Born To Run). Dig out these older, inchoate sides and you’ll have to agree.

Does anyone really believe that Michael Jackson might have his nose restored?

Looking at the ’73 Bruce, it is hard to believe that this guy was going to be a god, just from the album pictures alone. He looks like a bum. Not the kind of guy the president would pick up by the ears and hold as an exemplar of the American Dream, but a street-level hippie of the disillusionment years—low-rent and seedy, prospects dim. Don’t get me wrong—I’m only two months older than Bruce and have always appreciated his wholly appropriate appearance at any given point in his career—as well as the fact that although his lyrics have changed a great deal since 73, he’s always managed to look like a character in one of his current songs, right up to Tunnel Of Love.

Now, those of you who aren’t self-medicating today may recall that this piece is supposed to be about someone else, too. So, quick, what was Michael Jackson up to in 1973? “Not much” is the answer, but I do have in front of me an album that he recorded that year (though it wasn’t released until early 75), which may be considered typical of that period when MJ was making the best of a pre-fab identity he was about to outgrow. Again, no signs of the god to be. On the front cover of the album—Music & Me it’s called—little Michael (never Mike) strums a guitar half his size. Despite the tasteful bourgeois threads and a soon-to-be-passe Afro, the young prince looks kind of.. .mean. Eyes about to squint, lip about to curl... thinking of future Pepsi commercials? That’s the Me part—inside, the Music is lame pop/soul with a few old standards thrown in. MJ sounds less like Diana Ross (a common comparison even then) than a slightly funky Andrea McCardle (erstwhile star of Annie). He sounds like I remember him sounding at the time, around when “Ben” came out—like a boring novelty act (kids shouldn’t be allowed to sing before they’re 16 anyway—when they go for those high, dramatic notes and this hollow piping sound comes out, it’s too freaky).

1987—Thank You For Reading This Far

Well, the joke is on me because now they’re gods and nothing I can say can hurt them, not that I would want to. By now you’ve either bought or read about them endlessly, or skipped over endless articles and reviews dribbling about their two new (as I write) anti-climactic records, Bad and Tunnel Of Love. To refresh your memory, I’ll line up all the conventional and sometimes contradictory wisdom on the subject for you in short form: Bad— MJ’s finally grown up; not as good as Thriller but damn good anyway; Quincy Jones is a genius; a solid party album and who could ask for more; not black enough; fun, which is what the world needs more of. Tunnel Of Love—Bruce is starting to grow old, which is a risky career move; not as good as Born In The U.S.A.; the E Street band are awesome so where the hell are they anyway?; a solid, thoughtful album, so who could ask for more; not specifically political enough; sincere, sincerity being what the world needs more of.

Why is it that people criticize gods when they know they’re not going to get any response from the criticizees? Does anybody really believe that Michael Jackson might have his nose, you know, restored? That having been raised in the ether of show biz, he’s going to suddenly start speaking for black people? Or that Springsteen, who has spent years stripping down his lyrics to their separatefrom-time universals is going to suddenly start dealing with the bloody but to most people obscure daily battles of politics (how can you be mythic and respond to George Will at the same time)?

The Denouement, The Punchline, The Bitter End

Better to just leave them alone. The problem with rock and pop music in general is that people sometimes expect too much from it (I’m starting to sound like the Anti-Marsh). Not that therd isn’t a lot to be gotten, but when stars reach a certain level of popularity, we should just be thankful that our secular gods are up there; because, as with the old gods, expecting miracles may be a bit much.

And that last sentence, as you could probably tell, was the end of the piece—a bit abrupt, perhaps, as though I’d reached a desired number of words and decided to end it; and yet, it had that certain summing up quality, don’t you think? Yeah, me too.