So, Mel Gibson has recently done something outrageous. Again. And this time, it seems as his fans have finally given up on him. It took quite a lot of his shit to get people to actually acknowledge how crazy he is, but now the damage is done.
This drama has got me thinking again of a general question, that more often than not takes place in the Music World: What are the acceptable relationships between Artist and Fan? Or more specifically, What will it take to make a Fan stop loving an Artist’s work, or refrain from investing in the first place? The answer will obviously differ from person to person, but I’m not sure I would know how to answer for myself.
Michael Jackson, John Phillips (of the Mamas & the Papas), James Brown, Phil Spector. All of these artists have legions of devoted fans, as well as armies of scornful critics and protesters. Some people refuse to indulge in the pleasures of paltry pop songs that support, or are even associated with, a creep or a criminal. Others, such as myself, don’t mind separating the art from the artist—at least to some extent.
Is Michael Jackson creepy? I think most people agree that he was far from normal. His infamous fascination with children and youth in general definitely set off alarm bells, my own included. Even if one concedes (as I do) that he was twice found not guilty of sexual acts with children, due to a lack of convincing evidence, it’s nonetheless clear that any adult even innocently having sleepovers with young kids has got some problems.
Still, I don’t think the bizarre details of his later life in any way tarnishes his earlier contributions to the entertainment world. His songs recorded with the Jackson 5 just burst with jubilant energy; Off the Wall is a pitch-perfect pop album; and Thriller, with its exciting fusion of disparate styles, and its immaculate fashioning of pop iconography, rightly turned him into a superstar. I don’t think there’s an ounce of lyrical or emotional depth to his craft, but he made simple into something sublime. If anything, his later story is a cautionary tale against the lure of celebrity, which often destroys the lives of talented people who are hungry for any kind of acceptance they can get.
Of course, if Michael had released singles like “Don’t Stop til You Get Enough Preschoolers,” or “Dirty Diana (A Diaper Story),” a line would have been crossed. I can appreciate the art of someone whose personal life I disagree with, but only if there’s something in the art that I can relate to (and condone), which requires a song not triggering my moral disgust.
I must admit, though, that I sometimes even let this criterion slide. Perhaps because there’s some historical relevance to it, but also because it’s an admirable challenge to humanize someone you’d love to hate, I decided to buy some films by legendary filmmaker D.W. Griffith, whose “Birth of a Nation” boasts some openly racist depictions of blacks, and even incited racially motivated attacks when the film was released. The imagery is troubling, as is Griffith’s worldview, but the film is also expressive in style, and quite revolutionary in its technique. Similarly, I am constantly irritated and turned off by the casual misogyny and homophobia of gangsta rap, yet the honest rage and anxiety that fuel the best works of Public Enemy and Ice Cube are enough to keep me coming back, if grudgingly.
I guess if the main topic of a song (or any piece of art) is something I’m against, I’m likely to avoid it. This is why I don’t play “Homosexual” by the Angry Samoans, “Blow Bubbles” by Bad Brains (even though the members later apologized for the homophobia of their youth), “Treat Her Like a Prostitute” by Slick Rick, or “Support Our Troops, Oh!” by Xiu Xiu, even though I like other songs by those groups. Or maybe it’s like there’s a tug-of-war battle between my emotions for approach and withdrawal: sometimes, despite some feelings of distaste, I am still drawn in; other times, despite a fondness for some musical or expressive element, my dignity gets the better of me, and I am compelled to get the song far, far away from me, and then I go take a shower. Still others I easily label as unlistenable or abhorrent, due to repulsive moral content and a complete lack of saving graces. Examples, thy names are Eminem and Guns ‘n’ Roses.
I like to be consistent with my evaluations, and yet it’s hard to be consistent (or rational) when emotions run high. Not surprisingly, many people who indignantly condemn a particular musician or artist for moral failings are often forgiving of others who have done terrible things. Many people who can’t even think of listening to Michael Jackson songs anymore have no problem jamming out to “I Feel Good” (performed by a wife beater) or “Be My Baby” (produced by a wife murderer). I won’t even begin to try to understand the logic of it. Such stances definitely seem hypocritical to me, or at least unintentionally contradictory. Still, as much as I may strive for consistency and coherence in my own opinions and evaluations, ultimately I can only act upon what I “feel” is right. And if I righteously condemn these folks for being slaves to their feelings, then I’d be a hypocrite too.
Well, dammit, I do condemn them, hypocrisy be damned. I can’t help it! They’re just so unreasonable! My emotions won’t just let it slide. So I willfully fall into my own trap of hypocrisy and incoherence, all in the name of consistency and a regard for reason.
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… Perhaps I should cut off this line of thought, lest I go the route of a certain unsavory Australian actor, and sever my ties with my friends and professional connections. I should stop all of this emoting and evaluating. I feel it in my guts…
