Unpopular Culture
I don't believe I have ever heard R. Kelly sing, but based on his performance (and it was surely as rehearsed and structured as any musical gig) in the Gayle King interview, I have to admit I'm curious. He projects a kind of Otis Redding intensity that is only marred by self-pity and fake outrage. In short, I wouldn't mind hearing him sing.
Of course, this is precisely the wrong response. I know. He has been credibly accused of terrible crimes against young women and common decency, and I am not supposed to like his voice, just as I am not supposed to laugh at Louis C.K. or enjoy the films of Kevin Spacey. I got the memo. Bad people. Avoid.
By almost unbelievable coincidence, HBO is currently showing a two-part documentary about two men who were abused as children by Michael Jackson, two of the many, we are made to understand. Jackson's fans, many bordering on worshippers, are in the millions, and their outrage is matched only by that of his family, who have a huge financial interest in keeping his image acceptable, if not pristine. Inevitably, they have been compared to Trump supporters, undeterred by any crime or depravity up to and including treason or the proverbial shooting on Fifth Avenue. This is surely where fandom or politics crosses over into religious faith, blind and unshakeable.
None of this is new. The history of show business is full of people whose unquestionable talents were equaled only by their transcendent sleaziness. Destructive of themselves (alcohol, drug abuse, financial profligacy, gluttony, dishonesty) or of others (adultery, grossly bad parenting, the crimes Kelly and Jackson are accused of), they often crushed the very gifts that made them stars. Sometimes there was an excuse -- fear of poverty, demanding parents, abusive movie studios -- but ultimately, people are responsible for themselves. And the debate rages on: Can we separate the personal from the professional, keep our distance from the singer and just enjoy the song? What does it say about us? Are we, to some extent, also creeps?
Welcome to my world. I have spent the last forty years trying to reconcile love of Wagner's music with loathing for his politics. Did you know Verdi fathered numerous children with his mistress Giuseppina Strepponi, and forced her to put them all up for adoption? (He may have wrecked her voice, too, by writing the pitiless role of Abigaile in Nabucco for her.) Leonardo seems to have misbehaved with a very young model. Wilde paid underage boys for sex. Dickens left his wife and children and set up house with a teenage actress. Yeats flirted with fascism; hell, he pretty much grabbed it by the pussy. Byron fathered a child with his half-sister. Then there are all those slave-owning Founding Fathers we need either to defend or to depose. And don't even start on the classical world; there's a reason paedophilia is a Greek word. Although ignoring Aeschylus and Plato may be more consequential than hiding your copy of Thriller when guests are due. At least these people are all dead and will not benefit financially if I buy a book, nor will their relatives.
I have no wisdom to offer beside the unhelpful observation that talent often seems to require shitty behavior, genius even more so. We must just decide for ourselves to what extent we can marvel at the art and tolerate the rest. Tolerate, not excuse.
Of course, this is precisely the wrong response. I know. He has been credibly accused of terrible crimes against young women and common decency, and I am not supposed to like his voice, just as I am not supposed to laugh at Louis C.K. or enjoy the films of Kevin Spacey. I got the memo. Bad people. Avoid.
By almost unbelievable coincidence, HBO is currently showing a two-part documentary about two men who were abused as children by Michael Jackson, two of the many, we are made to understand. Jackson's fans, many bordering on worshippers, are in the millions, and their outrage is matched only by that of his family, who have a huge financial interest in keeping his image acceptable, if not pristine. Inevitably, they have been compared to Trump supporters, undeterred by any crime or depravity up to and including treason or the proverbial shooting on Fifth Avenue. This is surely where fandom or politics crosses over into religious faith, blind and unshakeable.
None of this is new. The history of show business is full of people whose unquestionable talents were equaled only by their transcendent sleaziness. Destructive of themselves (alcohol, drug abuse, financial profligacy, gluttony, dishonesty) or of others (adultery, grossly bad parenting, the crimes Kelly and Jackson are accused of), they often crushed the very gifts that made them stars. Sometimes there was an excuse -- fear of poverty, demanding parents, abusive movie studios -- but ultimately, people are responsible for themselves. And the debate rages on: Can we separate the personal from the professional, keep our distance from the singer and just enjoy the song? What does it say about us? Are we, to some extent, also creeps?
Welcome to my world. I have spent the last forty years trying to reconcile love of Wagner's music with loathing for his politics. Did you know Verdi fathered numerous children with his mistress Giuseppina Strepponi, and forced her to put them all up for adoption? (He may have wrecked her voice, too, by writing the pitiless role of Abigaile in Nabucco for her.) Leonardo seems to have misbehaved with a very young model. Wilde paid underage boys for sex. Dickens left his wife and children and set up house with a teenage actress. Yeats flirted with fascism; hell, he pretty much grabbed it by the pussy. Byron fathered a child with his half-sister. Then there are all those slave-owning Founding Fathers we need either to defend or to depose. And don't even start on the classical world; there's a reason paedophilia is a Greek word. Although ignoring Aeschylus and Plato may be more consequential than hiding your copy of Thriller when guests are due. At least these people are all dead and will not benefit financially if I buy a book, nor will their relatives.
I have no wisdom to offer beside the unhelpful observation that talent often seems to require shitty behavior, genius even more so. We must just decide for ourselves to what extent we can marvel at the art and tolerate the rest. Tolerate, not excuse.
posted by Buttermilk Sky at 1:07 PM
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