Just yesterday afternoon, all of us here in the editorial department were talking about Michael Jackson’s upcoming shows at the O2 Arena in London. The tone of the conversation skewed exactly as you may have guessed — rife with skepticism that the shows would actually come off, or wondering what they might look like if they did.

Just a few short hours later came the news from LA that Jackson — undeniably one of the only pop stars of the last 20 years as big, if not bigger, than the Beatles — had died. It’s weird, head-splitting news, and every media outlet in the world is scrambling to come up with a different spin on Jackson’s life and legacy.

While we don’t want to add to the torrent, we do want to take a minute to give you an advance look at something we had assigned as part of our upcoming Sony coverage: NY Daily News pop critic Jim Farber’s guide to the music of Michael Jackson — both the successes and the missteps. Bear in mind that he wrote this before Michael’s passing, so some of the language will be changed before it appears next week. But it seemed appropriate to post it now, and to take a look back on Jackson’s music and legacy.

Also, on a personal note, I’ve been kind of marveling all over again at the pop majesty of songs like “Billie Jean” or the lovely, haunting “Human Nature.” I’ve listened to both over the last 24 hours, and both still stand to me as masterpieces of pop construction, every tiny piece perfectly in-place.

Hope you enjoy Jim’s piece.

The Music of Michael Jackson

Before the trials and the tabloids, Michael Jackson made music more worthy of chatter and awe than all of his scandals put combined. The music Jackson recorded as an adult – starting with his first, grown-up solo effort on 1979’s “Off The Wall” – made him the most beloved, visionary and musically comprehensive African-American pop idol of the last half-century. At his peak – during the 1982-4 juggernaut of Thriller – he enjoyed a popularity, and cultural impact, exceeded only by Elvis and The Beatles.

Unlike The Beatles, however, Jackson didn’t sustain an untarnished record of musical excellence. More like Elvis, he has swung wildly from genius to punchline and back again – sometimes over the course of the same CD. For that reason, it’s especially important to rate Jackson’s solo output from “most essential” to “least.” But to do so, one has to navigating the swells and dips of his talent with a surfer’s care. Ultimately, following the story of Jackson’s musical works reads as a cautionary tale, with most of his greatest efforts arriving at the start.

“Off The Wall” (1979)

Jackson’s Off The Wall had the brashness of the truest debut. Released at the close of the ‘70s when he was just 21 years old, “Wall” not only established Jackson as a man – instead of the boy he’d been with his brothers – it set the bar high for all of his solo albums to come.

Though the album arrived at the pinnacle of disco — and so incorporated its swirling strings and club-driven beats — the sound Jackson and producer Quincy Jones devised seems in no way tied to its time. Opening cut, “Don’t Stop ‘Till You Get Enough,” sets the tone, starting with Jackson lost to his passion in a half-stuttered speech that spews over a bass line punching with funk. From there, strings swing in, a guitar begins its sexy sway and the bass takes flight, Jackson topping them with an orgasmic cry.

There’s a low-down quality to the needs expressed here, tempered by an elegance in both Jones’ production and Jackson’s fleet falsetto. It’s forceful and beautiful at once, a balance that enlivened all ten tracks on “Wall.” Jones brought a jazz sophistication to the arrangements, especially in the liquid keyboards of “I Can’t Help It” and the sneaky tune of “Rock With You.”

Given the album’s rare unification of pop, jazz, funk and disco, it’s no wonder it sold over 5 million copies and nabbed an armload of Grammys. It also established the pattern and style most observers felt Jackson perfected on Thriller. To me, however, the freshness of the sound, and the surprise of its maturity, makes “Wall” even more cherishable than the deservedly worshipped work that followed.

“Thriller” (1982)

Buoyed by the mega-success of Off The Wall, Jackson and producer Jones sought to up the stakes in every way with “Thriller.” The songs stretched on longer, the beats hit harder, and the melodies swung for the rafters.

While all those elements may have aligned in perfect harmony, there’s no way Thriller would have had the history-altering impact it had without a host of other factors, chief among them Jackson’s groundbreaking videos for “Billie Jean” and “Beat It,” along with Jackson’s performance of the moonwalk on the Motown 25th Anniversary Special — a feat that made him seem not only to defy gravity but to transcend the bounds of humanity.

Just as “Don’t Stop” did for “Off The Wall,” the new disc’s “Wanna Be Starting Something” kicked things off decisively, declaring its fortitude and durability right in its title. The bass line’s rhythm had both dance-floor resonance and pop panache. But for an album with just ten tracks, there’s a bit of filler here as well. “The Girl Is Mine” repeats the trick on “Wall” of bringing Paul McCartney in to contribute to a track (as well as to bolster Jackson’s attempt to equate himself with a Beatle). And while the title track may be propulsive, the use of Vincent Price as a narrator smacks of kitsch.

Still, not since the Stones scored a one/two punch with the singles “Bitch” and “Brown Sugar” in 1971 has a pop act had the back-to-back brilliance of “Billie Jean” and “Beat It.” The former boasted rhythms and hooks like nothing else, while “Beat It” brought rock ‘n roll into Jackson’s realm with an organic power he has never equaled. Popularity isn’t necessarily a measure of excellence (I call to the stand “Frampton Comes Alive”), but in the case of Thriller, the disc’s commercial dominance equals its role as peerless pop.

“Bad” (1987)

Michael Jackson had already started to look strikingly different in a video for the song “Bad” that preceded the album’s release. His nose had been thinned to achieve a regal refinement, his chin seemed more chiseled and his eyes widened into a scared, doe-in-the-headlights stare. But if all those alterations signaled the start of a long, and increasingly alarming, series of self-mutilations, those acts had yet to seriously mar his art. Perhaps hobbled by the impossibility of following up Thriller, Jackson and producer Jones did choke on the opening of Bad. It begins awkwardly, with the repetitive title track. But the quality of the melodies ticks up sharply from there; Jackson stressed melodic pop this time over the more daring dance rhythms or jazzier twists of the disc’s predecessors. There’s a lighter sound to songs like “The Way You Make Me Feel,” “Liberian Girl,” or the sweet ballad “I Just Can’t Stop Loving You.”

On the other hand, “Another Part of Me” hits the dance floor hard and recalls the more undulating parts of Off The Wall, while “Smooth Criminal” expands on the dynamics and tension of “Billie Jean” with a riffing texture all its own.

Still, one song (“Man in the Mirror”) indicates the megalomania to come. Like many compositions that aim to shed light on the travails of the world, the song in fact amounts to an overheated reach for “importance,” a needy bid for the star to be seen as both a “serious artist” and a “good person.” The lyrics also seem ironic in the extreme, given Jackson’s new look: at this point, the star wasn’t trying to spiritually elevate what he saw in the mirror, but to physically erase it. But, at least for now, he still had a hold on his creative soul.

“Dangerous” (1991)

Jackson made one truly dangerous move on this album: He broke with collaborator Quincy Jones to hook up with “new jack swing” producer-of-that moment Teddy Riley. No wonder many sounds on the CD seem stuck in their time – especially those on the percussive end, including the ‘90s slapping rhythm of “Why You Wanna Trip On Me,” or the hollow, popping beat of “In The Closet.” What saves the albums are the melodic hooks in its more fluid tracks. “Remember The Time” has the swank of the hits off Wall, along with a bass line that demands movement.

Unfortunately, by this time in Jackson’s career we have to deal with too many songs about saving humanity (“Jam,” “Planet Earth” or “Heal The World”), not to mention a racial harmony number (“Black And White”) so over-stated, even the subtext of Jackson’s own crossover career can’t lend it nuance. Worse still is the tear-jerker “Gone Too Soon” which, if played at a funeral, would more likely inspire eye-rolls than tears.

Even with some of the album being unlistenable, Dangerous shows Jackson’s continued brio as a singer, not to mention his power as a rhythmic force – one that deserves better than Riley’s gimmicky beats.

“Blood on the Dance Floor” (1997)

Michael Jackson made an interesting move one year after looking back on his HIStory hits-and-more-set: He decided to let a group of star DJs have their way with six of his less celebrated songs, lending them each a trace of hip. Deconstruction specialists like Tony Moran, David Morales, Todd Terry and Wyclef Jean fiddled with with fairly recent Jackson tracks like “This Time Around,” “Stranger In Moscow” and “Earth Song.” It wasn’t his best material, but the added rhythms gave them at least a bit more verve. “Money” gets a spacey new sheen from Farley and Heller. Terry goosed “Stranger In Moscow” with a deep house beat. And even the icky “Earth Song” gained something from Hani’s trance-like new beat. To this, Jackson added five fresh songs, all of which only show a further ebbing of his originality.

“HIStory: Past Present & Future” (1995)

Michael Jackson didn’t do himself any favors by configuring HIStory as a double CD. Its first disc unfurls a hugely impressive collection of greatest hits. The second offers 15 new songs that don’t fare at all well by comparison. Jackson produced a lot of the new work himself, and since self-awareness and self-criticism have never been his strong points, it’s small wonder many tracks stumble into self-indulgence.

The new music’s main draw came in “Scream,” a tete-a-tete between Michael and sister Janet (then a bigger, and far hipper, star). Unfortunately, their union sounded shrill and overblown, even as produced by Janet’s normally on-point sonic sculptors, Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis. From there, things go downhill fast. Much of the music plays either to Jackson’s cornier or more self-righteous sides. For the former, we have “Earth Song” (a condescending environmentalist tome). For the latter, there’s “Tabloid Junkie” (about his problems, not ours), plus a swipe at an old business manager who allegedly did him wrong: “D.S.”

The cover of “Come Together” once again represents a strained attempt for Jackson to sell himself as a one man Fab Four, while “You Are Not Alone” (penned by R. Kelly) and “Childhood” (from the movie “Free Willie”) break the bank on kitsch. It all skids to a sad close in “Smile,” a cover of the song associated with Charlie Chaplin. Jackson cries through the piece in a way so self-pitying and solipsistic he seems almost entirely lost to us by now.

“Invincible” (2001)

Quick: name one song from this album. Even the most ardent pop fans would have trouble – and for good reason. Nothing on Invincible sticks. One sign of trouble from the start: You’ll find the most crowded songwriting credits on any Jackson disc of his adult career, indicating its over-thought, over-worked nature. The beats on the disc – many of which were created by Rodney Jerkins – seem even more mechanical than the ones Teddy Riley devised for Dangerous. On top of that, the songs that Jerkins and so many others penned seem like flat re-workings of pieces we’ve heard from the star before. At one point, (the finale, “Threatened”) Jackson drags in an old Rod Serling voice-over to try and revive the commercial ka-ching of Vincent Price’s turn on “Thriller.”

Even Jackson’s voice seems to have diminished. He sounds uncomfortably pinched, perhaps as a result of his apparent nose and facial work. The result brings to mind an actress who has pulled her face so tight she’s incapable of her greatest and most necessary asset: expression.

The first thing to note is that, for better or worse, eMusic’s taste is the same. We’re finicky, we get excited about weird records, we like to dork out over awesome songs and we do our best to ignore the hype, focusing on things that either: a) we think are great, b) you think are great or c) we think that you think are great. Got that?

What this does mean is that we just got a whole lot more to choose from. There are tons of classic records in the Sony catalogue, and we’ve been drooling over the idea of having, say, Highway 61 Revisited as a Review of the Day or building a feature around the deep, spiritual connections between Arcade Fire’s Funeral, Mahler’s Second Symphony and Journey’s Escape. (That is, believe it or not, a real feature that Jayson is writing.) The spectrum gets widened considerably.

We’re very focused on drawing (or creating) connections between the small indie records that we live and die by and the big classic records that got us so into music in the first place. Musically, socially and spiritually there are tons of links to explore between the big boys and the little guys, and we’re doing our best to find them with a series called Six Degrees, where we take a classic record (and we’re defining “classic” as everything from London Calling to Miles’ Nefertiti to Tribe’s Low End Theory to Panda Bear’s Person Pitch) and examine five albums that echo it in some way across all genres, eras and styles.

Here’s an example: Bruce Springsteen’s Nebraska. Obviously an amazing record, and a clear outlier in Bruce’s career. Our Six Degrees of Nebraska connects that album to the Johnny Cash Sun singles, Woody Guthrie’s Ballad of Sacco and Vanzetti, Suicide’s first record, the complete Robert Johnson recordings and Kurt Vile’s Constant Hitmaker. Some of those are super obvious; some of those are not. The idea is that if you are into Nebraska but aren’t sure what else to check out, you’d consult one of these. We should have about twenty Six Degrees pieces ready for launch.

You could also take two features we’ve built called Mainstream Goes Indie, and Indie Goes Mainstream. The former chronicles big name artists making weird records (Springsteen’s Nebraska, Lou Reed’s Berlin, the Johnny Cash American Recordings series, the Clash’s Sandinista), while the latter lists indie artists who made it big (Modest Mouse, Interpol, the Strokes, Franz Ferdinand, etc). Again, emphasizing how close musically a lot of these records are.

There are a lot of permutations and riffs on this approach that you will see encompassing almost every genre and style. We feel pretty confident that there will be something for everyone. And so with this enormous, ridiculous catalogue and our shared musical philosophy (listen to the good stuff, ignore the rest), it’ll be that much easier and more fun to find records, to get inspired, to get into some phase that you never expected. That’s what being a fan is all about.

Yancey Strickler
Editor in Chief