I’m Never Gonna Dance Again
I was 6 years old the first time I heard of Michael Jackson. My Dad had set up our new Harman Kardon receiver and Bose speakers and had been playing all sorts of American music for months, sometimes so loudly that, in a strange role reversal, the kids had to tell our Dad to keep the music down. He kicked all the hits, my favorite of which was Juicy Fruit… yes, the one that Biggie Smalls would eventually sample. Who knew Daddy was that hip? Then one day, he brought home Thriller.
Don’t stop ’til you get enough. And we didn’t. We listened to every MJ song from every album incessantly. Then with the entry of MTV into our home, I started to dance. MJ rose above the formidable din of artists and personalities that included cool VJs like Adam Curry, rockin’ bands like Quiet Riot, and synth pop groups like a-ha. I would mimic every single move, even impressing the kids at daycare where I’d moonwalk on the border of our sandbox.
Before I became known in the South Asian community at the age of 13 for hosting annual events from Holi to Diwali, I was a dancer. I signed up to perform at one of our events and was ready to go on. I can’t remember if this was before or after the most horrific moment of my childhood in which I left my silver glove in a Burger King bathroom (not Humpty’s) down in Florida. But I glanced down at the program and saw “Rajiv Satyal - Break Dancing.” And I got so scared. I called to my Mommy (who would remain “Mommy” until my 10th birthday, when I declared that since I was now a double-digit age she had become “Mom”) and said, “But I don’t break dance! I don’t know how to break dance!” She tried to tell me that it was just the way it was written but I was too afraid to do it. I couldn’t go onstage. The host called my name and about a thousand people sat quietly and waited (Who am I kidding? It was an Indian event. No one sits quietly and waits. But there was a sustained pause.) while my name rang out across the PA system. The stage was empty. I had retired, at the ripe old age of 9.
Now, the thought of Rajiv The Dancer is at worst frightening and at best amusing. But rhythm, like comedic timing, cannot be learned. Hardly anyone who has seen me break it down at a club would question my ability to find a beat and run with it. (And there’s no better club song of all time than “Billie Jean.” It’s the one, perhaps only surpassed by “Stayin’ Alive,” that can get more people on the floor than any other.) I’ve just struggled with the moves, similar to how I never got lost on the viola during all of those complex Bach and Beethoven pieces in dorkestra class - I just didn’t necessarily hit all the notes.
And so it was that my very first stage experiences were inspired by the late, great Michael Jackson. His persona… the way he owned a room… his theatrics… the world had never seen and likely will never see anything like him again. He was a singer/songwriter, widely acknowledged as the best dancer ever, and in my opinion, was the best live performer we’ve known. Yes, his regal equivalent of Elvis was bigger but nobody had ever gotten started at so young an age and maintained that level of anything-dom. A true American icon.
(An icon is more than a legend; it’s somebody who stands for something. Say, say, say what you want about Paul McCartney (the one w/ whom he battled over ownership of The Beatles’ catalogue), but he’s only legendary. His partner, John Lennon, WAS peace.)
The fact that he later was associated with transgressions against youth certainly provided its fair share of jokes (many of which I repeated), but it never overshadowed his talent and contributions to the world. No matter that he was probably the closest approximation we have of the Joker. He was amazing. To think that I retired at 9 and he started then…
“I read the news today, oh boy” (I think he owns that) only a few hours ago… I was at my manager’s office, only a couple of miles from the UCLA medical center. The staff members and I kept refreshing our browsers every few seconds. TMZ.com was the first to declare it and I quickly updated my Twitter and my Facebook status. I said something about how it was strange that TMZ was reporting his death right here in LA so soon, but then again, LA Style prematurely declared, “James Brown Is Dead.” (Gosh, scarier than I remember it - sounds more like a Front 242 song.)
There’s a danger in that. So many of us want to be the one with the news that we sometimes forget this was a real person with a real life, no matter how surreal it was to us.
And of course, as comics, we try to liven the mood. Our minds naturally gravitate towards the funny, no matter how sick or inappropriate or soon it may seem. That is our job. It is on us to provide laughter where others don’t see it - we must push the envelope. So, it’s likely that I will in fact mention Michael Jackson tonight during my set at the Icehouse in Pasadena. But I hope to do it tastefully. And I believe I can. After all, I was called upon by a young widow to do standup at a dear friend’s visitation years ago. I don’t think it’s appropriate to say “I killed,” but it did go well. And I hope that I can do my part to respect his death but more importantly celebrate his life.
The ones I’ve come up with so far:
Maybe he couldn’t handle that our President was another 50-year-old half-black, half-white male.
It wasn’t just the young boys. You touched us all.
Well, perhaps ironically enough, this might be the one time Michael Jackson jokes aren’t funny.
RIP, Michael. You will always remain my first hero.
Add comment June 25th, 2009
