(#031) Michael Jackson wasn’t there — but I should be

Once more to London. Once more to see a show.

The last time was March 15th, when I went to see Mr. Wynton Marsalis at The Barbican.

This time, it was Michael Jackson.

Well — he wasn’t there, of course. But Jamaal Fields-Green showed up in his stead.

I had never seen him before — never heard his name, never caught a clip — but here’s what I witnessed: a young man dancing with intention and vigour through complex choreography, effortlessly blurring the line between dance as musical expression and dance as dramatic storytelling. Singing in perfect pitch, modulating his voice to give the illusion that the King of Pop had been reborn. Slowing down at times to deliver lines, still in character, still channeling the voice, and for two and a half hours straight. Twice a day, on some days.

For someone lacking academic dramatic arts studies or an elegant analysis of the play, I would have been happy just to understand, “How is this even possible?”

The best art is that in which the artist’s hand disappears. Where the technique, no matter how complex, vanishes into a feeling of effortlessness. And yet, sitting there, it was impossible not to marvel at what must have been clearly a monumental amount of work, and team work — the preparation, the discipline, the obsessive precision behind every movement, every word, every gesture. All of it executed with timing as sharp as a snare hit.

A show like this isn’t something you stumble upon just anywhere.

I saw it last night at the Prince Edward Theatre.

You can catch it again tomorrow, Monday at 7:30 p.m. Same place. Then again on Tuesday, and Wednesday...

Sure, you could go see one of the many other shows in the West End or on Broadway. And many may also carry their own flavour of Jamaal Fields-Green’s sunshine.

But even all of them together remain rare moments in the grand scheme of things, and are available in only in a handful of places on earth.

And throughout the evening — as much as I was enthralled by this pure, noble form of entertainment — I couldn’t avoid being overwhelmed by another emotion:

Motivation.

To witness something so uncommon, so elevated. To see mastery on full display — the physical proof of what discipline, focus, and grit can achieve.

It worked its way into my psyche like a drumbeat.

And I felt it in my bones: in my world, my dimension, I want to strive for the same kind of excellence.

Suddenly, pursuits which once felt draining began to feel stimulating and rewarding.

Living in a city with access to the highest forms of artistic expression isn’t just about quality entertainment — whatever that even means.

It’s vital. It’s fuel.

They say inspiration can’t be bought, inherited, rushed, or stolen.

And they’re right.

But it can be fed.

L.F