BY FAR the most depressing thing about death is its propensity to bring out the worst in people. That's a heresy, I know. Death – especially in shocking circumstances – is supposed to unite those who are left in a common purpose: the celebration of
a life well lived.
But anyone who has stood in a blustery churchyard or crematorium waiting for the coffin to arrive – or attended a wake, particularly one at which alcohol is being served – knows how the act of mourning can become a competitive sport, with rivals jostling for a position higher up the ladder of grief. Erstwhile friends who found it "too distressing" to visit in the final weeks of the deceased's life advance on the front pews; passing acquaintances sob noisily to demonstrate the scale of their loss; blow-hards tell how they spoke to the dead man hours before his passing, as if this most fleeting of encounters somehow places them at the centre of the drama. For these people, death is not an occasion to reflect on their own mortality, or an exercise in catharsis, but an opportunity to seek attention.
Trying to steal the limelight from a corpse is unseemly enough in a domestic context – but transferred to a global arena it makes for a truly unedifying spectacle. In the days since Michael Jackson died, there seems to have been no limit to the depths to which celebrities are prepared to stoop to secure themselves a bit part in the story; no stunt too tacky in the attempt to make the singer's death all about them. If it wasn't Lily Allen donning a single white glove, it was festival goers snapping up T-shirts bearing the legend: I was at Glasto when Jacko died. Or Canadian football player Arland Bruce lying down with his arms folded in honour of the dead singer after scoring a 21-yard pass.
As for civil rights leaders, you couldn't move for them. Just hours after the singer's death had been confirmed both Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson were giving forth about the star's great qualities, while apparently lobbying for the right to preside over his funeral.
According to Sharpton, Michael was an icon for the black community; Michael was the first to prove black artists could cross the divide; Michael paved the way for Barack Obama to become president of the United States. No mention of Otis Redding or Marvin Gaye or The Temptations or Jimi Hendrix, all of whom were at the height of their fame before the youngest member of the Jackson Five first took to the stage. No mention either of how – while James Brown told his fans to "Say it loud: I'm Black and I'm Proud" – Jackson spent his most of his life apparently in conflict with his racial heritage.
Brian Oxman – sometime lawyer to various members of the Jackson clan and radio presenter – also lost no time in reminding people that he had been with the star in 2005 "at the darkest hours of his life," during his trial in Santa Barbara County. "The man was innocent. I proved that he was innocent. He proved that he was innocent. And yet now we have this. And it just hurts me to the core of my heart," he said. Which struck some observers as odd, seeing as how he was said to have been kicked off the defence team well before the verdict after apparently falling asleep in court and being fined $1,000 by the judge for persisting in making improper queries to a witness.
As social commentators competed to provide ever juicier sound-bites, others came up with more creative ways to earn themselves some column inches. 50 Cent, for example, pulled a blinder, becoming the first artist to pay posthumous tribute to Jackson in song, adding the words: "Rest in peace to Michael Jackson" to his new record.
Those who couldn't come up with a stunt had to make do with twittering. Miley Cyrus – born in 1992, three years before the singer had his last hit – wrote: "Michael Jackson was my inspiration". Oh Miley, please, what do you take us for? But for sheer cynicism, even Cyrus couldn't beat Lindsay Lohan. She treated Jackson's death as she treats everything: as a good excuse to pose in her undies – albeit with a Jacksonesque trilby over her eyes.
The rank hypocrisy the singer's death generated was not confined to the rich and famous. Let's be honest, for the last 10 years, the only time most of us have thought about Jacko was when: a) a joke involving the words recycling and plastic was doing the rounds on the internet; b) a photo which suggested his right ear had migrated to his chin had just been published in one of the red-tops or c) The question of what on earth Jackson would have to do in order for his children to be taken away from them was up for drunken debate. And the nearest most of us came to celebrating his legacy was teaching our children how to moonwalk.
Since Jackson died, however, we seem to have been engaged in an exercise in collective revisionism: convincing ourselves his personal problems never stopped us acknowledging his musical genius, and downloading tracks we wouldn't have given iPod space to a couple of weeks ago.
It's all too shallow. Frankly, I have more time for the obsessed fans alleged to have committed suicide, although, now I come to think about it, even that smacks of a desperate attempt at one-upmanship.
Re-reading this column I realise it sounds a bit harsh, so perhaps death brings out the worst in me too. As Jackson himself preferred fantasy to reality, this orgy of faux mourning could be entirely fitting. I hope so, because there's bound to be more of it when he is laid to rest this week. There's something about a funeral which begins with a parade of wild animals and ends with the burial of a gold-plated coffin that renders all attempts at sincerity futile.
