The Michael Jackson Tapes (33 page)

In general, there are only two kinds of people: stars and planets. Those who give off an autonomous, inner light, and those who are forced to reflect a borrowed, exterior light; those who illuminate the lives of others with an intrinsic inner glow and those who are so inwardly dark that they become a black hole, soaking up every last speck of light so that none is left for others to enjoy. The irony of Hollywood is that nearly all our celebrities are planets rather than stars. Lacking an inner
radiance, they become dependent on the external spotlight. Soon they become its prisoner and, bereft of a connection with the Source of all Light, they suffer the corrosive effects of celebrity sunburn, which usually manifests itself in the form of moral degeneracy, irredeemable loneliness, and deep unhappiness.

A close friend of mine who is a television producer called me up after Michael died and told me that he was profoundly disappointed in my refusal to get back into Michael's life to try and help him. “It seemed so unlike you, Shmuley, to give up on someone.”

What my friend did not understand was that salvation must always involve some act of personal redemption. One cannot rescue someone who is not prepared to exert any effort to rescue themselves. I knew that if I went back into Michael's life it would be me who would end up needing rescuing. Michael would have dragged me back into his orbit and the dysfunction and chaos would have ripped me from my moorings. I would have been one sinking ship trying to save another.

Do you really believe that all the hucksters who surrounded Michael at the end of his life—the publicists who served as apologists for his most reprehensible behavior, the doctor-pushers who fed him his constant supply of drugs, the agents and managers who sucked his blood dry—were all bad people? I assume many or all of them were once quite decent. But they got slowly pulled into the unethical world of supercelebrity until they were compromised by it. A doctor would start by trying to resist Michael's entreaties for more sedatives. But Michael would seduce him by making him feel that he needed him so badly. And it's heady stuff to be needed by a global superstar. It makes you feel important and special and soon you close your eyes to all you know to be righteous. The glow of fame is too bright, the gravitational pull of celebrity too difficult to resist, until you have become nothing but a satellite in its orbit. All resistance has been quelled by the superpowerful narcotic of superstardom.

So, was Michael Jackson beyond redemption? I am loath to answer that question. I am a rabbi, for goodness sake, and with the exception of cold-blooded killers, terrorists, and violent rapists, I believe in the divine spark of every human being. And it was undeniable that Michael had a luminous soul that once shined brightly.

But having said this, I believe that short of the most profound and gut-wrenching intervention, Michael's early death was almost inevitable. The reason: He had lost any real reason to live. Yes, there were his children, and he loved them dearly. But that was all. Other than that, his life had become so riddled with pain, his existence so directionless, his everyday routine so vacuous, that, aside from watching his children grow up, he had nothing to look forward to.

It remains a mystery to me why the precious responsibility of caring for his children was not enough to make him choose life. But what is clear is that everything else that was important to him—being loved by the public, helping the world's children, having relationships that were not mutually exploitative—were, in his mind, out of reach forever. In this sense, dare I say it, Michael was beyond redemption because he could not summon the strength or energy to redeem himself. He was lethargic, burned out, and drugged into a near comatose stupor, all under the watchful eye of people who claimed to care for him.

Celebrity, in the parlance of PR gurus, is called “exposure.” The term is apt because it connotes a negative that can be either properly exposed or overexposed. If film is not developed in a darkroom, if it is immediately exposed to light, the image is lost. Very early on Michael Jackson began to lose that darkroom, that private haven. Every particle of his being was exposed to the public. There was no place where he could retire for repose and reflection. His very existence belonged to the fans and he was their prisoner. He was exposed from the early stages of childhood and was never afforded a place of peace and solitude where he could regain a sense of self and reconnect with God, a nurturing spiritual presence who gives life higher meaning. The result was an image that, quickly overexposed, slowly faded until it disappeared. To be sure, Michael got a full hour rather than just fifteen minutes of fame. But the overexposure made him wither under the powerful lights until he shriveled and even his undeniable talent could no longer save him.

Celebrities like Michael Jackson have become so accustomed to being rescued by paid lieutenants that they forget that true salvation comes from
the inside rather than the outside, through inner transformation rather than transient cosmetic modification. Only Michael Jackson could have rescued Michael Jackson. The conversations in this book serve as a good reminder of what he once was and aspired to be. But more importantly, they are also a morality lesson for a society filled with people who believe that their lives will become meaningful through fortune and fame.

The blessings of renown and resources are ones to which many of us aspire. But if a solid grounding in something wholesome and spiritual is not laid before the journey commences, and is not sustained when the journey is at its peak, there is no telling to what depths one may fall. Without a solid moral and spiritual anchor, we become first a life adrift, then a life that is steadily eroded by the shifting sands of celebrity.

In this sense, the literary figure that Michael came to resemble was J. R. R. Tolkien's Gollum, who is destroyed by the “ring of power,” or what Gollum calls his “Precious.” As Tolkien so brilliantly portrays in his
Lord of the Rings
trilogy, the ring of power eventually brings out the very worst qualities of its owner.

Gollum, who started life as a decent hobbit, slowly becomes ravaged by the effects of the ring until he is only a grotesque and sinister caricature of his former, wholesome self. In our time, celebrity is that “ring of power.” Like the ring itself, fame is shiny and glitzy, precious to behold, and makes ordinary people powerful beyond their wildest dreams. Even someone unknown, like “Joe the Plumber,” can try on the ring, become famous for fifteen minutes, and suddenly become the subject of presidential debates, be enveloped by photographers, and bring traffic to a halt by simply walking down the street.

Fame is our modern “Precious,” a circular aura that we don to temporarily render us not invisible but invincible. Fame is power. Obscurity is death. We treat life today like the proverbial tree in the forest that falls with no one to hear it. Did it really fall? If you lived your life and no one has heard of you, did you even exist?

But just like the ring, celebrity has a dark and sinister side. While millions crave it, very few have survived its ruinous effects. Like smallpox, fame usually comes in bursts and by the time it passes it leaves hideous scars. Sometimes those scars are the scars of divorce and loneliness. In our conversations, you heard Michael himself talking about how fame
nearly always destroys the lives of childhood stars, many of whom never even make it to their adult years. At other times, he rightly notes, fame leaves the scars of deep isolation and unhappiness, which in turn lead to the scars of substance abuse and addiction—anything to dull the pain. Other times, celebrity leaves the scar of damaged children. Most tragically, celebrity often causes the scar of early death.

There is often a tragic correlation between superstardom and early death, as in the cases of Marilyn Monroe, Elvis Presley, James Dean, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, John Belushi—and now Michael Jackson. And yet, for all the tragedy and disaster it causes, like the ring in Tolkien's tale, still we pursue it. Even as it consumes us, chews us up, and spits us out, we worship steadfastly at its altar.

Michael Jackson tragically became the Gollum of the modern age, a desiccated and disfigured incubus. Like Gollum, Michael's voice sounded odd to those who heard it. Like Gollum, Michael evoked the image of a healthy past and a tragic present. Like Gollum, Michael held tenaciously onto his ring, his “Precious,” his fame, even as he so eloquently articulated its toxic effects. Strangely oblivious to how it disfigured him, he refused to forsake it.

He was not only proud but obsessed with being the world's best-known entertainer. In many of our conversations, he compared himself to Elvis Presley—“my former father-in-law”—indelicately bragging that he had garnered more number-one hit records than Elvis. Michael seemed oblivious, however, to the other ramifications of the comparison: that he, like Elvis, was slowly mangled by celebrity. Tragically, like Gollum, Michael was oblivious to how the “ring” was killing him. Yes, Michael may have had Deprivan, Demerol, and Oxycodone, but fame was always his drug of choice.

No matter how dedicated Michael was to changing the course of his life during the years of our close relationship, the corrosive nature of his celebrity was always evident. I saw what it did to him, and I saw what it did to the people around him—often bringing out the absolute worst in them.

And here I am not just talking about ordinary people who went berserk around Michael. I am talking about celebrities who become just as sycophantic as the others. I remember once Michael inviting me to his
hotel suite in New York to meet Justin Timberlake and talk to him about how he might assist us in promoting parents spending time with children. Justin had just flown in from Las Vegas, where the night before he had hosted the American Music Awards. He did not tell Michael that he was bringing his girlfriend at the time, Britney Spears. So when he came into Michael's suite, he sheepishly said that Britney was waiting in the room with the security guards, afraid of entering without Michael's permission. Michael told him to bring her in. And here I was, face to face with a woman I sadly have come to disrespect for her irresponsible role in oversexualizing young teens. I spoke with each of them briefly, told them something of the public lectures Michael and I were conducting, and then promptly departed. When I got home, my young daughters asked me what it was like to meet Britney Spears. I responded, “Ordinary. She is absolutely ordinary. There was nothing special about her.” Indeed, Britney seemed pretty intimidated by Michael, and Michael was a bit intimidated as well. Which just goes to show that even stars are star-struck.

The game of celebrity one-upmanship is one that can never be won, as Farrah Fawcett found out. She had the tragic misfortune not only to die young from cancer, but on the same day as Michael Jackson. A huge star when I was a boy, she was consigned to oblivion because a supernova exploded on the day of her death. Most celebrities nurse even worse insecurities than us mortals. Britney, since that meeting four years ago, has degenerated sharply, having largely erased the line that separates the female recording industry from soft porn.

Another case in point was the star-studded Angel Ball, organized by Denise Rich. As mentioned in Part 1, Denise's daughter, Gabrielle, whom I knew at Oxford when she was a student, died of leukemia, and the biannual ball raises money to help fight the disease. Denise asked me to attend and to bring Michael along.

I also invited my friend Elie Wiesel, the Holocaust survivor and Nobel laureate, together with his wife, Marion, to be the guests of honor at our table. When we entered the reception, the room was filled to the rafters with bona fide celebrities, including the guest of honor, Denise's friend President Clinton. But Michael outshined them all. There was a rush from all over the room as people hurried to meet him. His security force could not hold the people back.

Elie Wiesel, one of the most respected men in the world and a recipient of the world's most prestigious award, was literally shoved and pushed by Hollywood's elite as they eagerly raced toward Michael. It was embarrassing and humiliating. Women as well-known as Cindy Crawford were lining up to get their picture taken with Michael. I was trying to keep people from stepping on the Wiesels.

A prominent banker who was sitting next to me at the dinner, and who watched the world's most famous Holocaust survivor being nearly trampled to get to the singer, turned to me and said, “It makes you lose hope for the human race, doesn't it?” (The only ray of hope that evening was when Lance Bass of 'N Sync walked over to one of our retinue. We were all convinced that he too was requesting the opportunity to meet Michael Jackson, but he said to her, “Do you think I can meet Elie Wiesel? That has always been a dream of mine.” A classy guy.)

Many chart the beginning of the fall of Michael Jackson to the 1993 molestation accusations. I disagree. Yes, Michael settled those allegations, leading many to believe that he was guilty. Still, he survived them and even began to successfully rebuild his career. Aside from the toxicity of childhood exposure that robbed him of a normal life, in his adult life I find a different starting point that marked his accelerated decline. It took place when Sony launched his
HIStory
album in 1995. Accompanying the release were huge statues of Michael placed in cities all over the world, as well as a music video depicting Michael as a gargantuan idol, complete with thousands of soldier-worshippers at his beck and call. I was living in Oxford in 1995 and can well remember the large statue of Michael that was dragged down the Thames in London.

I watched this video with Michael at his Neverland Valley Ranch theater for the first time in August 2000. Michael, sitting about three feet away from me, was nostalgically reliving his earlier success. But seeing a mortal man depicted as an enormous object of worship nearly made me fall off my chair. I can still remember the intense discomfort I felt. Here was a man who had been a devout Jehovah's Witness, with an innate, deep-seated spirituality, setting himself up as a god! Even
after
Thriller
came out, Michael continued “witnessing” for his church every Sunday, going from door-to-door selling
Watchtower
and
Awake
magazines.