THE JACKSON 5: I'll Be There
It may seem strange to begin a chapter about the Jackson 5 with a discussion of Milli Vanilli. It is strange to begin a chapter about the Jackson Five with a discussion of Milli Vanilli.
Nonetheless: Milli Vanilli.
First off, I have to say I'm not a fan. It's not a matter of guilty pleasures; I just never cared about Milli Vanilli's music. And that's okay; just as there's no reason for guilt with music you like, there's no reason for guilt with music you don't like.
But Milli Vanilla were huge, immensely popular. They must have had fans, a lot of fans. No one admits it anymore. Milli Vanilli has been expunged from the records, stricken from the collective consciousness, the pop music equivalent of being declared a non-person by the Soviets during the Cold War. Milli Vanilli's former fans are like Peter denying Jesus three times before the rooster crows. Milli Vanilli? I do not know them!
We all know the reason for this after-the-fact scrubbing of Milli Vanilli fandom: Milli Vanilli were frauds who had nothing whatsoever to do with the records released under their brand name.
You can't compare the Milli Vanilli scandal to the Monkees (whose records always featured a lead vocal by Micky, Davy, Michael, and/or Peter), nor to obviously fictitious combos like the Archies or the Partridge Family. No, Milli Vanilli frontmen Fab Morvan and Rob Pilatus were sold to the public under false pretenses, marketed as a duo of dancing, singing pretty boys when, in fact, they were dancing, lip-syncing-to-someone-else's-vocals pretty boys. Milli Vanilla's sins were not unique, nor even wholly their own fault; the bulk of the blame belongs to the puppeteers who pulled their strings and concocted the façade that sold a jillion records and made a bazillion dollars.
But Milli Vanilli got caught, and Rob and Fab were the ones who paid the price for this chicanery.
The price was steep: They were disgraced; they had to relinquish the Grammy they'd won as 1990's Best New Artist; attempts at a comeback, with Rob and Fab actually singing, fell far short of their previous success; Pilatus' personal issues consumed him, and he died from a drug and alcohol overdose in 1998. His death was ruled accidental.
The callous machinations and eventual tragedy behind the music overshadow Milli Vanilli's recorded legacy. I'm not a fan, so I'm not the one to speak on their behalf. But the question remains: If some people liked or loved Milli Vanilli's records, why wouldn't they still like them now? The records didn't change with the revelations of the men behind the curtain. The records sound the same. They are the same. Fans, you know it's true.
That's the nature of context in our pop obsessions. It's not cancel culture; our favorite records don't exist in a vacuum. No disc is an island. We hear the songs, and we think of things we relate to that song. We can't help it, and maybe we shouldn't.
Which brings us to Michael Jackson.
I haven't seen Leaving Neverland, the 2019 HBO documentary detailing the allegation that Jackson was a serial child molester, a predator who got away with committing awful, awful crimes because he was a superstar, above the law, untouchable. I have no intention of investigating the evidence for or against him, so I can't render a verdict, even an unlicensed pundit's verdict. When the accusations first surfaced decades ago, my knee-jerk reaction was to believe they were true, and I still suspect they are true. But I can't say how much my opinion was and is affected by Jackson's prevailing oddities.
It's not a crime to be weird; let your freak flag fly. It is a crime to hurt people. And it's a worse crime to hurt kids.
What if Jackson was innocent? But worse: What if was guilty? If the former, a beloved pop star's reputation has been sullied by accusations he denied when he was alive, accusations he can no longer answer in death. If the latter...that's just horrible. Horrible. All those kids, all that heartbreak and torment, and no one helped them. No one stopped the monster that was Michael Jackson...if he was indeed the monster these charges describe.
I liked some of Michael Jackson's music. Many of his records with the Jackson 5 are classic AM radio gems, and I enjoyed some of his early solo work. I'm not sure whether or not I want to listen to any of them again. Maybe. Probably? Maybe not.
Context matters. Some say we should separate the art from the artist, and I agree. Ike Turner was abusive. Phil Spector was a murderer. Yet I still listen to them. Sometimes I can disconnect the record from the misdeeds of its creators; sometimes I cannot.
The summer of 1970 was when I really began paying attention to AM radio. It was an unsettled, intimidating season. I was trying to prepare myself mentally for my upcoming unwelcome jump from fourth grade to sixth grade (discussed elsewhere in this book), dealing with a sudden, unexpected death in the family, trying to come to terms with the idea that my sister was going off to college. Things were changing.
I hated change.
Summer ended. School began. I listened to the radio every night, seeking comfort and melody. My parents objected to my preference for leaving the radio on as I fell asleep; over time, the practice became tacitly accepted. And among the many comforts the radio offered me, there was this distinctive harpsichord opening, this soulful sway of harmonies, this reassurance, and a voice singing, Whenever you need me, I'll be there.
At the time, I wasn't really conscious of the Jackson 5's earlier hits "I Want You Back," "ABC," and "The Love You Save." But "I'll Be There" was an integral component of my immersion in Top 40. It's an exquisitely constructed pop record. The young Michael Jackson sounds sweet, innocent, earnest, and steadfast. His brothers support him with a Heaven-sent vocal blend, and Jermaine Jackson nails it all in place with that unforgettable bridge, swearing he'll be there to comfort you, to build his world of dreams all around you.
And Michael comes back in to carry the verse. Trust has been established. Everything will be okay.
It remains jarring to contrast that image with our knowledge of the charges against the adult Michael Jackson.
I suspect I'll return to listening to some of the J5's stuff eventually, particularly "The Love You Save" and "I'll Be There." I think I will. Art [...] artist, unless context overcomes the separation. Such great music. Such horrendous allegations. Can we separate the two? I don't know. You and I must make a pact; we can bring salvation back.
And Milli Vanilli? I've never really listened to Milli Vanilli, and I'm not going to start now. But if you were a fan of Milli Vanilli, consider giving them a fresh spin. In the big picture, Milli Vanilli's crimes were pretty inconsequential. Blame it on the rain.
Songs on the radio. Comfort. Strength, to keep holding on. Salvation? If we can bring it back, well...I'll be there.
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