Two pop icons remembered
To have one pop icon die is an occasion for sadness. To have two
die, and on the same day
… it’s surreal.
I heard it on the radio last Thursday morning, that Farrah
Fawcett died after a three-year battle with cancer. Then later the
same day, that the King of Pop, Michael Jackson, had also passed
away. Unreal.
Two pop icons remembered
To have one pop icon die is an occasion for sadness. To have two die, and on the same day … it’s surreal.
I heard it on the radio last Thursday morning, that Farrah Fawcett died after a three-year battle with cancer. Then later the same day, that the King of Pop, Michael Jackson, had also passed away. Unreal.
A piece of my youth has gone with them.
I’ll start with Farrah. Poor Farrah, overshadowed by the Michael Jackson blitz, deserves to be mourned as well.
I never was a fan, but who can forget the poster? That poster was up on the wall of every teenage boy I knew during the late 1970s. It is an indelible image.
That being said, I wasn’t a fan, an admirer, or an anything. She was just too perfect. That hair. The tan. And the smile, containing more teeth than normal people were supposed to have.
Not being blonde or perfect, I admit to a little bit of envy.
What was interesting about the poster, though, now that I think about it, is how innocent it really was.
It was not a smutty or suggestive poster, despite the fact that she was in a bathing suit. For crying out loud, it was a one-piece. Yet Farrah rocked the red suit. She looked the part of the sunny all-American girl, not a care in the world, somehow approachable for all that perfection. No wonder the poster sold 12 million copies.
She was an icon of the times, forever young in that poster and in the “Charlies’ Angels” reruns. She remained tanned and blonde even when the dread diagnosis was revealed. At age 62, she was much too young to die.
Of course, there has been much more furor over the death of Michael Jackson. Farrah’s death was expected; his, not so. The circumstances, like his life, are just too bizarre to be believed. More fodder for the tabloids.
I will always remember Michael Jackson as he was before all the rumors and weirdness. He was just a year older than me, a kid that had grown up on stage and in the public eye. Somehow I felt a kinship, that someone almost my age could be so incredibly talented.
The only word for Jackson was “extraordinary.” As in out of the norm. And he was that, for better and for worse.
I remember the summer of ’82 when I first heard “Thriller.” I went to visit a friend in Sacramento and she had just bought the album. We danced and listened to that LP all night long.
It was brilliant music then, and still is. It was the first to bring together rock with R&B, music you could get deep meaning from as well as dance to. And we have movies in our heads to go with the songs, thanks to MTV.
As I write these words, I’m watching VH1’s retrospective of his videos, an encapsulation of his solo career. Amazing in the beginning, definitely creepy later on.
And that is the infinite sadness of the Michael Jackson story. His gifts, mountainous as they were, were overshadowed by all the scandals and the strangeness – the plastic surgery, the odd marriages, Neverland Ranch and all that may or may not have happened there, the germ phobia and the oftentimes peculiar public behavior.
Then his death, at age 50, still with so many unanswered questions.
My feelings about Michael Jackson are complicated. About Farrah Fawcett, not so much. She ran the celebrity race, and at the end, retained some dignity and grace despite her devastating disease.
As for Michael, I am still wrestling with my appreciation of his massive talent versus the heartbreaking reality of his life.
Rest in peace, Farrah. Rest in peace, at last, Michael. You both will be sorely missed in this world.
