from
the Critical List September 11, 1987
Michael Jackson: Bad (Epic). It would
be perversely satisfying to report that this is a steaming ball of horse manure,
but I am here to tell you that even a person who sleeps in an oxygen tank and
has had most of his face chipped off (and the rest apparently hot-waxed) can
make a good record. Some vaguely moral impulse insists that this should not be
so, if only for the sake of the fable. But look at van Gogh. Look at Elvis. A
full deck seems never to have been a prerequisite for making decent art. Michael
Jackson's made not only a good record, but a really good record, a record even
better, minute for minute, than that one all the fuss was about. Nothing epic
here -- just a lot of cannily seductive dance grooves with Michael's quare
falsetto burping along on top. (You also get to hear his actual heartbeat --
yep, he's got one -- "recorded by Dr. Eric Chevlen" and "digitally processed in
the Synclavier.") The lyrics, written in Jacko's very own brand of English,
mostly make a kind of sense. Not always a pleasant sense -- "You're just another
part of me," the Captain sings, and, frankly, I'm not sure I like that idea.
(And "Smooth Criminal" I don't want to think about at all.) But I like the
album, all right, and by God, I'll say so.
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Copyright Robert Lloyd © 1987 and 2002