Yes, I had the undistinguished privilege of meeting Michael Jackson. We actually talked to each other, and I must say I was as unimpressed then as I have been ever since.
We met when I was writing for a Montreal weekly newspaper back in the 1970s. To put things in perspective, one of my “beats” was entertainment, which I generally loathed. In my position, I was given free prized tickets to a Rolling Stone concert, which I thought was one of the grossest displays of depravity since Sodom and Gomorrah.
Another factor in my attitude is that I am a pre-baby boomer who grew up when the bottom half of Elvis Presley was banned from Ed Sullivan’s Sunday night television show. I thought the Beatles, whom he introduced to the American public, were a freak show, and I still do.
Music at that time consisted of people who could hold a tune, and lyrics expressed something more idyllic than reality. The age of rock and roll broke those concepts and prepared the stage for the likes of Michael Jackson and Madonna.
I used to frequent a Montreal pub where the media hung out. One evening, a television producer came over to me and pointed out someone to me. "Do you know who that is?" he asked.
I did not recognize the dark-skinned teenager for being more than a dark-skinned teenager. “Uh, no” I replied. “He writes for which paper?"
The producer, whose name I do not recall, said he is Michael Jackson. I had heard of the name and was told that I could be offered an introduction, but only on the premise that I did not reveal that I am a journalist.
“He wants some peace and quiet. He does not want anyone to know he is here in town, and he certainly does not want to meet a reporter,” the producer friend confided.
I had no intentions of writing about him because I really could not have cared less and was more interested in quietly enjoying my orange juice and ginger ale, which was the hardest drink I consumed even though it was against the rules of being a bona fide journalist.
It was enough that I had to review some of the so-called music of the time, and I was not interested in having contact with the so-called entertainers of the time, who could have been circus performers, from my point of view.
After securing a second promise that I would not reveal my profession, I was brought over to the bar to meet the dude.
“Here is someone I want you to meet,” my friend told me. Jackson held out his hand, and I had no choice but to extend mine and perform the ceremonial friendly handshake.
After a few seconds of a clumsy silence, during which time I assume he was taken aback by someone not saying, “Wow, I am so honored to meet you. Can I have your autograph,” the producer friend intervened and told him, “Go on. Tell him who you are.”
After a couple of feigned and bashful “Aw, shucks” twists and turns, he said, “I am Michael Jackson.”
I replied, “And I am Henry Lee,” which was my name at the time.
Jackson almost fainted. Although I was being perfectly honest and direct, without any ulterior motives, my reply floored him. I think it was the biggest putdown he had ever had in his life, to meet someone who did not fawn all over him.
He had a rare chance to come out of a movie and live in the semi-real world for a few seconds and say, "Hey, here is a human being who relates to me as a human being.” Instead, he crawled back into a dark corner of the pub to recover from being contaminated by a bit of air.
His career made him the bizarre image of his image, which probably was all that he really lived for the past few years. Now the person himself, whatever was left of him, is dead.
Michael who?
Tzvi Ben Gedalyahu writes for IsraelNationalNews.com
