A Creative Life

I am eternally curious about the lives of entertainers. Rock stars, film stars, artists, writers and architects, if there’s a biography on film, I am likely to watch it. Documentaries are fine, but the best ones are those compiled from the artist’s own words, from interviews and articles and performance clips. Naturally, someone whose work I admire is a draw, but I am equally intrigued by the life of someone whose career played in my periphery—David Bowie, for example. “The Last Five Years” of his life was utterly absorbing. I came away with a strong sense of his individuality and his determination to preserve that individuality by reinventing himself with every project. He was brilliant. Not at all tragic, just brilliant.

Mind you, he lived to a fairly ripe old age before cancer took him out. The ones who die young seem to be more tragic, probably because we tend to lament the work they might have done even as we celebrate the work they did. Often, those young ones lived hard, deeply troubled lives and checked out early (either deliberately or accidentally) because celebrity only amplifies what already exists. People like Amy Winehouse and Kurt Cobain were doomed before they started. Fame made it worse for them. Then there were Prince and Michael Jackson, twin geniuses in crippling physical pain, who succumbed in one form or another to the drugs prescribed to alleviate it. Even Chris Cornell’s lifelong struggle with depression must have hastened his end.

Then there was Heath Ledger. Young, strong, successful, talented—and dead at twenty-eight. Surely a tragedy lurked somewhere in his life, right?

Wrong.

I sat down to watch the documentary “I Am Heath Ledger” with the expectation of a common thread that would link him to other famous figures whose lives were cut too short. A dysfunctional family, substance abuse, or maybe some childhood trauma that he never got over; surely something pushed him beyond the brink. But, no. He was a happy kid, a good brother, a loyal friend, a determined actor, a gifted director (he shot music videos for friends in the biz), and was making plans far into the future when his light went out.

And what a light it was. His buddies reminisced about his energy, one even wondered aloud how he could sustain so bright a burn. Another mentioned how strangely aware of mortality he was, how he kept saying he had so much to do and limited time in which to do it. He had known from the start that he would be an actor, and he worked steadily toward it, but he remembered his friends and family along the way. He was warm and generous and loving, and asked nothing in return. It seemed to me that this intense and inherently good soul was operating on a level the majority of us never reach.

The one thing that pinged was his trouble sleeping. When I heard that, I thought of Michael Jackson—there was the common thread. A bright, intense white light, snuffed before the rest of us were ready by prescription drugs and a flu bug that got in the way. A truly tragic accidental death.

Celebrity death is traumatic because our icons are supposed to be immortal. Truth is, they are immortal. Look at the legacy of everyone mentioned in this post. None of them is truly gone when the spirit in their work lives on. I was not so big a fan of Heath Ledger that I followed every move or saw every film he made—but “A Knight’s Tale” is one of my favourites and without him, it wouldn’t be.

I Got the Music in Me

They say that the printing press was the most important invention in history. If this is so, then the advent of recorded music must be a close second.

Ter and I met in 1982. Our mutual musical history began then, with Duran Duran, Def Leppard, Tears For Fears, Michael Jackson, and a host of others. When we tune into the 80s music channel, almost every song conjures a memory that starts with one of us saying, “Do you remember …?” We laugh and reminisce and wonder whatever became of So-and-So when it seemed at the time that we would always be in touch with our friends. Good times, bad times, hard times, doesn’t matter which. Pick a song and we are transported instantly into our shared past.

Tune into the 70s channel, however, and we have discovered buried treasure. Music was less homogenized back then. Folk rubbed with rock, disco dropped in, and pop was often schlock, but everything got airtime because radio had yet to become “formatted.” It was fun, even though I was battling my bones and Ter was in her turbulent teens during most of the decade. We didn’t know each other then. One had no idea that the other existed, in fact, or that the scene was being set for the destiny point when our paths would cross and the adventure would begin.

We hit the 70s channel one night, just because. Oh, we laughed. We laughed … and then the memories surfaced. Not mutual ones, of course, but the fossilized ones unearthed by songs we heard while growing up in our separate worlds. “These Eyes” is her favourite Guess Who tune. “No Time” is mine—but she and I both remember the pink and orange label on the old 45, even if neither of us could name the company that owned it. The 70s channel inspired a different question from the 80s. Instead of “Do you remember?”, one of us asked, “Where were you?” and wow, we had a blast bringing each other up to speed.

I generally stream my silly jazz station at work. With thirty channels to choose from, there’s always something to fit my mood. My membership, however, also covers jazzradio.com’s sister station, radiotunes.com, which features a gazillion channels spanning pretty much every genre in existence. Last Friday, for the heck of it, I picked the Oldies, and O-M-G, everything they played dated from my elementary school years or earlier! It was the perfect playlist to file by!

So, whether at work, at home, or somewhere in between, music has proven critical to my existence. It fires up my imagination and grounds me at the same time. Of course I appreciate the value of the printing press—what writer wouldn’t?—but if I had to choose between TV and my stereo …

The King of Pop

Watching This Is It inspires me to renewed awe for the late Michael Jackson’s genius.

He was a Virgo, you know. *beams*

But seriously, folks, when he died, a halogen spotlight died with him. He had such ferocious talent and relentless instinct for music and movement—watching him rehearse for the tour that never happened is a mesmerizing glimpse at the inner working of a savant.

The tragedy: knowing it was filmed during the final weeks of his life.

The miracle: that he had decades of material from which to choose. 1987’s Bad is my favourite album except on days when the posthumous CD Xscape surpasses it, and even then, naming my top five favourite MJ tracks is like picking my top five Beatles songs. It absolutely depends on the day.

In all honesty, Ter made his work a fixture in my life; she was the greater fan. She mapped out the moves to Thriller when choreographing her own performance in her dancing days (we still laugh about the stick figures bent this way and that across the foolscap). His death immobilized her; she couldn’t listen to any of his albums until well after his funeral.

Six years later, he remains a vibrant presence in our music library. Prompted to revisit This Is It the other night, I became acutely aware of his effect on the world and on me. Whenever I need reminding of creativity’s power in action, I look to his legacy.

I suppose there are people who will always mourn the music he never made. I am more inclined to gratitude for the music he left behind.

Xscape

Fuelled by the MJ hologram at the Billboard awards, and because she’s a lifelong Jackson fan, Ter immediately went out and bought the “new” album. That was a week ago. In that time, we have both fallen to our knees at further evidence of his creative prowess, not to mention in love with the songs themselves.

Ordinarily, I cringe at albums released after an artist’s death. It’s hard to perceive such an exercise as anything other than a cash cow for the estate; a last-gasp attempt to grab what they can from desolate fans, and sometimes that’s exactly what it is.

“Xscape” is different, and not because I’ve always liked MJ’s music. The project team took part in a documentary that describes how they all came together as recording professionals, former colleagues and die hard MJ fans. They talk about their conditions for signing on, and describe in detail the remixing of the eight original songs featured on the album. The album includes the originally-recorded versions as well, as the vocals were complete at the time of MJ’s death. If he had lived, he would have been in the studio with these guys, and every song would have sounded exactly as it actually does. There are no disposable tracks on this album. Even the original recordings are exceptional—the production team have merely shot them into the stratosphere using their talents to complement the master’s. Jackson did nothing by half measures. He laid the foundation for this piece as if he planned its release in 2014. So it’s no surprise to me that everyone involved has stated quite seriously that each of them felt his presence in the studio as they worked.

This is no cheap ripoff culled from vocal fragments scattered throughout the vault. This is a real album of real songs—and sure, it could be the former and still top the charts and scoop all the awards because it’s Michael-freaking-Jackson, but when it does sweep the Grammys, I won’t be rolling my eyes in disgust. This record deserves to win.

It’s almost a cliché, how creative geniuses lead such agonized personal lives yet produce phenomenal art. Granted, if you’re not an MJ fan, this won’t mean much to you, but he’s not the only tortured talent whom the world eventually destroyed. In the film The Devil’s Violinist, a dying Niccolo Paganini refuses the last rites, but when the priest admonishes that he must be prepared to face God’s grace, the dissolute violinist replies, “Let me tell you something of God’s grace. He gave me a gift, then abandoned me in a world that couldn’t understand it.”

Miracles From Beyond

I dare you to convince me that people who move on to the next realm have no influence on what happens here after they’ve gone. Take the Billboard Awards on Sunday night. I didn’t see the show because Thrones was on, but I heard about it later. A hologram of our dearly departed Michael Jackson performed a song from his newly-released album live on stage with a dance troupe that blew-my-mind when I saw it on Youtube the next morning. I’m still astonished by the brilliance of it all, of the idea, the technology, and the endless hours of painstaking work that surely went into producing those four magical moments.

Because it is magic. And because it’s magic, you must know that MJ himself would have been all over it—he loved mystery and illusion as much as music, and he used it all to support his genius. He was always pushing the envelope in life, and while it could be argued that he pushed it a tad too far on the budgetary scale, heck, it’s not like he didn’t have the funds to pay for the product. The man knew how to put on a show. And I am utterly convinced that he had a hand in Sunday’s astounding success. He loved to dance, he loved to sing, he loved to perform—there’s nothing creepy about a CGI MJ, not when he would have loved it as much as his audience did. It’s entertainment, and entertaining is what he did best. I just know he was involved from beyond this realm.

This may seem unrelated, but then there’s Marty’s mother. Over in the hockey world, Martin St. Louis of the NY Rangers had to deal with the shock of his mother’s unexpected passing as the Rangers’ series against Pittsburgh went to game 7. NY won the game, the series, and has moved on to play the Montreal Canadiens in the eastern conference semi-final. (For the uninitiated, the winner of this series goes to the Stanley Cup final against the western conference champs.) Between beating the Pens and winning game one against the Habs, Marty and his teammates attended Mme. St. Louis’s funeral, and the emotional outcome of her loss has galvanized the team around her son. No joke, I’m pretty sure that’s why they won the conference semi; not that she pulled any strings from beyond, but because her son suddenly had greater cause to overcome and his buddies rallied to help him. He’s known for his stubborn perseverance anyway; fire the little bugger up and he’ll move mountains.

The primary reason why Montreal remains in the hunt is their goalie—BC’s own Carey Price, who won hockey gold in Sochi and has looked absolutely unflappable so far in the playoffs. With him in the net, the Canadiens beat Boston in their conference series. Boston, the biggest, ugliest, meanest gang of thugs in the league, was beaten by a bunch of speedy sneaky gnats mostly because Price consistently kept the puck from crossing the goal line, sometimes by the thinnest of miraculous margins.

Alas, Price was injured in the first game against the Rangers, who kicked the Habs’ collective butts by an outrageous score of 7-2. And now he’s done for … the … series. I’m sorry, but the conference is suddenly New York’s to lose. With absolutely no disrespect intended, I believe that Marty’s mother is working magic from above. He’ll probably win that Cup ring this year, a bittersweet trophy for sure, and part of me kind of hopes he makes it because in some mysterious manner, he’ll know sa mere was watching and maybe even manipulating the stars a little in his favour. And I’m okay with that, because I’ll know it, too.

So, if you’re looking for evidence of otherworldly influence in our reality, you need look no further than Marty’s mother and Michael Jackson. Though I do wonder why Ter’s dad has been unable to work a similar miracle for the Maple Leafs …