WASHINGTON — Michael Jackson is black. Again.
I knew him when he was black before. In the 1960s, Jackson’s teensy childhood home was a few blocks from my own in Gary, Ind.
Our overwhelmingly black neighborhood admired the adorable and talented Jackson 5 long before the brothers became international stars. We later marveled at Michael’s emergence as a powerhouse solo artist whose controversial personal issues competed with his album sales for our attention.
Over the years, Jackson’s mahogany skin faded (the skin disease vitiligo, he said), his thick Afro straightened, his rounded nose all but disappeared. His associates and pals — Liz, Liza, Bubbles — became either white or fur-covered.
Jackson never called himself anything but African-American. But his public persona got Cloroxed—bleached beyond recognition. Jackson, that persona suggested, was an artist whose ghostly look, glitter-and-epaulets wardrobe and embracing songs ("We Are the World") transcended limits — especially racial ones.
"I’m not going to spend my life being a color," he sang in "Black or White."
Well, Jackson is black again — and hanging with presidential hopeful Al Sharpton and O.J. attorney Johnnie Cochran. Jackson recently joined protesters outside Sony’s New York headquarters. He denounced Sony Music Chairman Tommy Mottola — an ex-friend whose wedding and birthday celebrations he attended — as "very, very, very devilish" and a "racist" who should "go back to hell."
Even Sharpton — a politician, after all — recoiled. "I have known Tommy for 15 or 20 years," Sharpton later said, "and never once have I known him to say or do anything … racist."
The whole thing couldn’t be more fascinating. Or predictable.
Forget Jackson’s claim that he’s the latest in a string of black artists exploited by greedy record companies. He’s actually the latest in a line of cynics who for decades saw black as something they "just happen to be," but who — when trouble loomed — dived deep into their blackness and the sympathy it might engender.
Think of accused wife-killer O.J. Simpson redecorating his house with black-themed paintings before the jury’s visit. Think of Supreme Court nominee Clarence Thomas — with his white wife, church and congressional sponsor — screaming "high-tech lynching" after a black woman said he’d harassed her. Think of the Artist everyone still calls Prince scrawling "slave" on his cheek during his contract troubles.
Think of how some black people swallow this nonsense. Many thought Thomas’ Senate hearing travails would "sensitize" the ultraconservative to black people’s problems.
That worked out well.
Jackson cites Mariah Carey — another oppressed black — as an industry casuality. The diva — formerly married to Mottola, whose racism obviously comes and goes — received $28 million in January to terminate her contract with EMI after her album "Glitter" tanked. The poor thing then signed "only" a $20 million deal.
Jackson’s kid-glove treatment by studios has been more lucrative than any other artist’s. No wonder music insiders say Jackson went activist to pressure Sony into breaking its contract with him. If Sony does, the superstar could take his valuable catalogue of master recordings — whose millions in profits he’d otherwise have to share — with him.
Currently, Jackson reportedly receives an unprecedented half of what Sony earns on his music. (Most major stars earn no more than 24 percent). The Gloved One suggested that Sony’s $26-million global marketing strategy didn’t adequately promote his latest album, "Invincible".
The album has earned $5 million worldwide, compared with the $45 million haul for "Thriller."
This dispute appears to be less about black and white than green. And it’s about this:
A man who says he’s happy only onstage, who christens himself "The King of Pop" and then insists on being called that, can’t be expected to embrace second-tier stardom. A music and marketing genius whose every innovation was copied and every burp analyzed by millions just can’t accept that folks aren’t that interested in his latest offering.
It has to be somebody else’s fault.
Music executives are legendarily merciless. Jackson, the savviest of businessmen, knew this for decades. But maybe he never realized this: "Music is a very fickle mistress," as an African-American music insider put it.
"Get one hit and you’re lucky; Jackson’s career spanned 30 years," he said. "I don’t think he can handle what’s ahead."
Recently, during a long-distance car trip, my energy flagged. Popping Jackson’s "Man in the Mirror" into the CD player instantly energized me.
If only Jackson loved himself as much as we once loved him. I’ve admired his talent for decades and worried about whatever demons drove him to mutilate his face, behave questionably with children and toil so hard for our inconstant affection.
But racism stunts millions of psyches and lives. It shouldn’t be invoked out of ego or to cut a better deal.
Even kings must learn: Life moves on. It don’t matter, as Jackson himself sang, if you’re black or white.
Donna Britt can be reached at The Washington Post Writers Group, 1150 15th St. NW, Washington, DC 20071-9200.
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