First, a tedious reminiscence: I remember my last spring in Japan. My craving for an A&W Teen burger was starting to manifest as a real physical pain, and only Krystel was capable of offering a possible remedy for my home-sickness: Filipino food. After assaulting her with much begging (broken up by intermittent tirades about her visiting Shirakawa without allowing me the courtesy of bothering her), I was invited for a wonderful dinner at her apartment in Takayama. To make the evening an embarrassment of riches, Justin and Marina were coming with some Brazilian food too. After spoiling me with a long overdue breakfast of longanisa and pan de sal, Krystel set me to work wrapping lumpia and to pass the time, we watched youtube videos. Long story short, Michael Jackson's video for "Rock with You" entered the rotation. As often happens to me recently, something that was old and familiar was suddenly becoming something that I was really seeing for the first time. Even though the majority of my rhythmic faculties were held in check by cold meaty filling clinging to my fingers, I was starting to lose my rolling discipline: Krystel's lumpia were appetizingly clone-like (a yummy quality conducive to binge-eating because it discourages counting), while mine were quickly looking misshapen and random as funk-induced spasms rippled through my frame. Consequently that video soaked into my subconscious.
Now, before I go on, I went to such lengths talking about food (as I often do), that I feel it is correct for me to conclude the thread regarding that evening's dinner by commenting that a) enjoying Krystel's adobo made me appreciate white vinegar and Japan's lack of it, b) Marina is herself a competent chef whose creamy stroganoff-looking dish allowed me to effect the greatest gut-density I have ever experienced, and c) Justin is an charming dinner companion even though he thinks Olivia aka thatssoraven was cuter than Rudy Huxtable. Phew, are you still with me? We'll get to the video in a second.
Now flash-forward a year: I'm back in Canada entering my third season as a volunteer complacency-expert. I cannot recall the exact date of my epiphany (because the days have been bleeding together for a while now), but I can say with certainty that like most mornings I broke fast alone with leftovers and worked through a crossword puzzle with Ellen and the Sopranos playing in the background (ps. that's not the name of another amywinehouse-esque soul nostalgia band; I hate commercials so I flip between both shows even though I'm not really watching either). Then at some point while vacuuming in my sweats, Mayer Hawthorne's "Maybe So Maybe No" gave way to "Rock With You," and what happened next is between myself and the hallway mirror haha...
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I think the following picture will resonate with a lot of people:
You and your friends are out for So-and-so's birthday. So-and-so hedges their bets, chooses one of those lowest common denominator clubs with no sense of character or identity, trying to please everybody and succeeding with no one. The first thing everyone does is throw a shot of sourjacks or tequila down their throats so they can get through the night, then two more, then three. If your now rosily flushed collective manages to tiptoe down to the dance floor, it's only because the lazy DJ trusted you all to fistpump while insinscreaming "tonight's gonna be a good night" at each other, and he was right! Now you are all just riding that initial momentum, only slightly modifying your standing drunk-wobble into a feeble two-step, until finally dundundun you are all standing in a huge circle smirking pathetically at each other.
That was a little dramatic but you just felt a cold shiver didn't you? If you didn't and that's not a bad night for you, you are lucky so go on and enjoy yourself. But for those of you who feel shame or self-alienation whenever music demands its natural response, I'm here to tell you that in '79 Michael Jackson gave you a special gift.
We often remember him for the bombastic, spectacular aspects of his star persona; with respect to the music this boils down to crotch-grabs, moonwalks, and the most iconic dance choreography in pop music. The key-word there being choreography: during an entire career spanning the smooth Motown stepping of the Jackson 5 to the "Thriller" zombie-shuffles, only the Off the Wall videos show you Michael Jackson, the person, actually dancing. Now before I have everyone up in arms, let me qualify my definitions for that word: in my opinion there are two types of dancing. One is performative, in the sense that it demands a spectator. Whatever feats of rhythmic kineticism you get to witness, as a viewer your responses will more often than not polarize you from the performer. Take for example the crowd watching a breakdancing competition: arms are crossed and heads are bobbing only to mark the timing of the dancer. Whether they're giving props or boo-ing, this is a posture of judging. And for the dancers awaiting their turn to ignite the hardwood, one could argue that there is a competitive, if friendly, colouring to their perception of their peers. Or consider that same quality on a different scale: the audience of a ballet sits quietly in darkness viewing the spectacle on stage. Or even consider how it is that eyes work in the first place: the retina is just a mirror reflecting light, and as spectators we don't exist where the colour comes from, we are by necessity removed from it; we don't get to shine. In other words, while this type of dancing definitely constitutes an important aesthetic experience, it doesn't necessarily make you want to dance yourself. The other type of dancing does however.
Does anyone think that if they were so blessed to share the dance floor of a wedding reception with the real Michael that he would be "on" the entire time, spinning and kicking and smoothcriminal-ing for hours? I like to think that if Michael ever had the opportunity to share that moment of simple human joy with us, he would be just like how he is in "Rock With You". He would listen to the music, whatever it was, and let his body tell him what to do. Of course, when you watch the video he is obviously "performing" in the sense that he knows that there is a camera there, just like when you are busting it out on the floor you know that somebody's watching. But look at his face, does it look like he cares, or that any kind of scrutiny could deter him? And if the lyrics weren't clear enough, after seeing him (or anybody else for that matter) move so freely and intuitively, don't you want to move too?
To be fair, the video for "Don't Stop 'til You Get Enough" laid the groundwork for "Rock With You". It is similarly sparse in choreography, with Michael dancing and singing in front of vivid psychedelic backdrops. However ironic it may sound though, there is something mannered and restrained about MJ in the fly tux compared to the emotional honesty of MJ in a bedazzled sparkle suit. Consider the ethereal green glow, the laser halo, and the spotlight: that's how we should feel when we're locked into a groove so tight that we have to close our eyes and let the syncopation flow through us.
The best DJ's are the ones engaged in conversations with their audiences. Granted not everyone goes out to boogie (I love when Kweli says that "we used to use a club to hit and drag her by the hair / still use a club to get her a martini or a beer") and when a DJ plays the right set, he or she catalyzes an entire range of reactions from the people who are listening. But I can say with confidence that the most gratifying response for a DJ is dancing, when an entire room of people is united by nothing more than the overwhelming urge to react in their own way to the Pulse.
So don't just look at Michael; he's not going to wait for you. Move. And if you're going to do that, do it like it's just you and the Man in the Mirror.
~dedicated to Uncle Jun and Sheldon.
J. J. Baylon
