Human Nature: What We Choose To Excuse

I saw Michael with the family last weekend, and as a lifelong fan, I loved it.

The filmmakers have openly called it a ‘love letter to the fans’, not the definitive account of a very complicated man.

Fair enough.

It still made $217M worldwide in one weekend, the biggest opening ever for a music biopic.

And if you haven’t fallen down the TikTok rabbit hole yet, it’s worth a look. Fans of all ages are dressing up like Jackson just to go see the movie.

Gen Z and even Gen Alpha are learning the Beat It choreography, crying over Earth Song, and generally just losing their minds over someone who died before a lot of them were born.

Watching them gives me conflicting emotions.

I love seeing a new generation react to the same music as I did at their age.

But I'm also unsettled; with Michael, there was always more to the story.

My earliest memory of Michael Jackson was my mother’s copy of Thriller. I’d sit on the floor by the record player, staring at that iconic white suit while I listened to the entire album over and over, memorizing every word and every little sound.

I was seven years old. I had no idea I was holding what would become the best-selling album in history.

I just knew I'd never heard anything like it.

My other memory of him was Motown 25.

I watched it on a little television perched on a yellow stool in the kitchen (I think my mother was painting the walls in there or something), but I happened to be right there in front of that TV when Michael came out for his solo performance.

I was transfixed. And when he moonwalked…oh boy. Every kid in school was trying to do it the next day.

Michael Jackson created events around his music; people talked about Motown 25 for weeks. When the Thriller video premiered, it was a full-scale production. He even added a disclaimer saying he didn't endorse a belief in the occult.

That tells you everything about the cultural temperature at the time.

We watched it anyway because of course we did it's Michael Jackson. He'd essentially reinvented music videos into its own art form.

Whenever something new came out, you stopped everything and watched it. Depending on the song, he could make you feel like the coolest person in the room or completely break your heart.

Billie Jean made you groove. Man in the Mirror inspired you to be better. Stranger in Moscow made you feel so alone in the best ways.

That much talent in one person just doesn't seem fair.

But the man himself was clearly struggling long before the accusations began.

His relationships raised eyebrows, and his decisions became increasingly tough to explain. Neverland Ranch hemorrhaged money, and his finances eventually collapsed.

He'd reached a level of fame most of us couldn't begin to understand.

It seemed to be eating him alive.

The years passed, and the hits kept on coming. By high school, I was a devoted fan, watching his Bucharest concert at least a dozen times.

With those years came more tabloid cruelty (remember ‘Wacko Jacko’?), increasingly bizarre stories, and then, the accusations.

I’ll be honest, I never believed them

BUT.

I'm also not going to pretend those sleepovers weren’t deeply disturbing.

They were.

The investigations and cour cases dragged on for years, and nothing ever brought definitive answers for anyone. Fans saw an innocent man being exploited, and critics saw a powerful celebrity who kept dodging consequences.

To this day, we still argue about it. So what do we do with his music?

Caravaggio was a murderer, and his paintings still hang in churches. Chris Brown put Rihanna in the hospital, and his concerts still sell out.

We say we can separate the art from the artist, but I'm not sure that's what we actually do. I think we decide, one artist at a time, how much we're willing to overlook based on how much we want to enjoy what they made for us.

And I am no exception.

When I picture my seven-year-old self sitting by that record player, I see a child who knew nothing about the person behind the music.

Michael Jackson was already deeply unwell long before the accusations came to light. His father's treatment of his children left wounds no amount of fame and fortune can heal.

Michael was robbed of anything resembling a normal childhood, then reached a level of superstardom nobody had experienced before.

That explains some things, but excuses nothing.

At the end of it all, I want to believe Michael Jackson was fundamentally well-meaning and badly warped by what happened to him.

Maybe it's true, or maybe it just makes me feel better about enjoying his music.

All I know is I saw the movie and loved it. And I've been playing his music again just like I did as a kid.

Maybe that makes me a hypocrite - or maybe it's just human nature.

Heather Papovich is the voice behind Unfinished Business. She's seen some things. She'll tell you about them.