Fuck Yeah Michael Jackson

As the traditional narrative has it, Michael Jackson’s Dangerous album represented the end of an era: the death of pop and the rise, in its wake, of grunge, alt-rock, and hip-hop. Most critics point to the moment Nirvana’s Nevermind knocked Dangerous out of the #1 spot on the Billboard Charts as the symbolic turning point. Within months, muted flannel had smothered all trace of ‘80s excess and flamboyance.

Cultural transformations, of course, are never quite that simple. Several months after Nevermind reached the #1 spot, Nirvana shared the stage at MTV’s Video Music Awards with stadium rockers like Def Leppard, Van Halen, Metallica, and what remained the biggest band in America—Guns N’ Roses. Indeed, if one were forced to pin down a cultural turning point, the 1992 VMAs wouldn’t be a bad choice. Watching Nirvana’s subversive performance (which began with a few bars of the banned “Rape Me” before relenting into the moody “Lithium”) shortly after Def Leppard’s cartoonish “Let’s Get Rocked” not only made ‘80s rock look ridiculous, but it soon made it nearly obsolete. Even the mighty Guns N’ Roses, who closed the show with a spectacular performance of “November Rain”, were openly mocked by Nirvana as “corporate rock” and “packaged rebellion”. If ever there was a public changing of the guard, this was the night.

Michael Jackson, meanwhile, the defining pop icon of the ‘80s, created an album in Dangerous that had as much—or little—to do with pop as Nevermind did. The stylistic differences are obvious enough. Nevermind was rooted in punk rock and grunge, while Dangerous was primarily grounded in R&B/New Jack Swing. Yet both expressed a strikingly similar sense of alienation, with many songs functioning as a kind of confessional poetry. Compare Cobain’s lyrics from “Lithium”—“I’m so happy / Cause today I found my friends / They’re in my head”—to Jackson’s on “Who Is It”—“It doesn’t seem to matter / And it doesn’t seem right / ‘Cause the will has brought no fortune / Still I cry alone at night.” Both albums also contained their share of catchy pop hooks and choruses while introducing more underground sounds to mainstream audiences, and both albums were sung by wounded, sensitive souls who happened to be brilliant marketers/mythmakers.

Sonically, Dangerous shared little in common with the work of fellow pop stars like Madonna, Whitney Houston, and Mariah Carey. Its tone was much more ominous, gritty, urban, and industrial. In short films like “Black or White”, Jackson was likewise exploring darker territory, shocking middle-class audiences with his raw expression of pain and indignation at racism. Ironically, it was the “establishment pop star,” not the outsider grunge band, whose music video was censored following public outcry over its controversial coda. “Smells Like Teen Spirit”, meanwhile, was in such heavy rotation it had one MTV executive gushing that they had “a whole new generation to sell to.”

The point is that, contrary to conventional wisdom, by the end of 1991, Nirvana was as much “pop” as Michael Jackson—and Michael Jackson was as much “alternative” as Nirvana. Both artists’ albums were released by major labels and had similar commercial and chart successes, though they were measured against much different expectations. Each produced hit singles. Each elicited memorable videos and performances that played side-by-side on MTV. And each has now sold in excess of 30 million copies worldwide.

Nevermind, of course, has received far greater critical acclaim, both for its cultural import and artistic substance. Yet 20 years later, Dangerous is gaining admirers as more people move beyond the extraneous nonsense that was so prominent in contemporaneous reviews and pay attention to its content: its prescient themes, its vast inventory of sounds, its panoramic survey of musical styles.

The bottom line is this: If indeed it is considered a pop album, Dangerous redefined the parameters of pop. How else to explain an album that mixes R&B, funk, gospel, hip-hop, rock, industrial, and classical; an album that introduces one song (“Will You Be There”) with Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony and another (“Dangerous”) with what sounds like the heart of a steel-city factory; an album that can alternately be paranoid, cryptic, sensual, vulnerable, idealistic, bleak, transcendent, and fearful? Even the album cover—an acrylic painting by pop surrealist Mark Ryden featuring a circus-like mask through which Jackson gazes back at his audience—signifies a new depth and awareness.