If the packed auditorium is a good indicator, then nostalgia sells. The self-proclaimed King of Pop left an indelible legacy on collective memory, one that many are eager to spend an evening reliving.
The Michael Jackson HIStory Show is a gem in the jewelled crown of Showtime Australia – big hitters in the business of nostalgia. They are currently touring a full house of tributes to the greats of yesteryear from the Beatles to Prince (whose upcoming 1999 show is heavily advertised throughout the evening).
The current company hails from South Africa, where Jackson’s fame had cult status, particularly during his heyday, before things started getting weird. His golden years – Off the Wall, Thriller, Bad, Dangerous – coincided with the dying throes of apartheid, when his fame both inspired kids of colour, and transcended racial barriers within the industry. Billie Jean paved the way for artists of colour on MTV. Jackson was the only black artist played on nineties white South African pop stations. If our kids are listening to Kanye or Beyonce today then it is thanks, in part, to Michael Jackson, for desegregating the airwaves by force of sheer talent. If Taika Waititi’s Boy is anything to go by, Jackson was of similar cultural importance here in Aotearoa – not just known, as he is in every corner of the world, but loved.
Stepping into Jackson’s white stockinged black flats is Garth Field, a Capetonian of many talents, the least of which is the ability to rapidly change extravagant outfits, painstakingly modelled on Jackson’s signature pieces, featuring familiar leather and sequins. Field has obviously put in the hours studying Jackson’s moves, his mannerisms, his voice – both singing and speaking – replicating them with unbelievable accuracy. He hits every high note; nails every toe stand, crotch grab, spin, slide and moonwalk, even pulling off an impressive anti-gravity lean during Smooth Criminal, surely using Jackson’s own patented shoe design?
Field channels Jackson, belting through his back catalogue with an energy the star himself would be unlikely to muster in latter years. To give such a powerful pitch perfect vocal performance combined with incredible physical feats is breath-taking – at least for us watching. He is a masterful crowd rousing hype man, giving permission in falsetto for all to dance and sing along – a request that is met with enthusiastic compliance.
Support performers include a full live band with guitar, bass, drums and keys, and the lustrous Virtuous Kandemiri on backing vocals, projecting glamour and star quality just as much as her full bodied voice. A quartet of male dancers provide a feast for the eyes with dizzying flips and spins bursting with personality as they take us on a high octane ride, with many outfit changes along the way.
More than the elements of music and dance, there is theatre – bold and flashy, right in the King of Pop’s wheelhouse. There is smoke and strobe and pomp and the plot thin, spectacular heavy music video devices, of which Jackson was a master, rendered on stage. Dancers play gangsters, be they in fedoras or bandanas, mime fights and shootouts or spray paint on the LED screen sets. They lurch as zombies and monsters. They create dramatic tableaux. At one point ‘MJ’ appears on stage carrying a suitcase containing the iconic single sequined glove (for sale outside on the merch table). A lone voice from the audience cries, ‘there’s a spare room at my whare, bro,’ to amicable laughter.
Having been given permission to have a good time at the outset, the crowd are all in, singing along, dancing in the aisles, working themselves to a frenzy. The cast actively engage with their people, moving through the auditorium, high fiving and singing directly to them. As well as those of us old enough to remember Jackson fever the first time around, there are a large contingent of children, and a cohort of people with special needs and their carers, all having a ball, in awe, utterly immersing themselves in the experience. The show leaves us with shining eyes and a spring in our steps, our nostalgia indulged.
Loving Michael Jackson is something of a guilty pleasure. The controversy that surrounded him came to overshadow his talent in the tabloid saturated time before he died. But dead he is, and neither our scorn nor our idolatry will bring him back. This show, as with all of the tributes under Showtime’s belt, has no affiliation with Jackson’s estate. If his body of work can be co-opted by a group of incredibly talented South African artists, for whose country’s liberation Jackson provided the soundtrack, then surely this show is an act of redemption for the legacy of the King of Pop.