It must have been an odd moment for many of the Billboard Music Awards at the MGM Grand Garden Arena on Sunday, watching Michael Jackson appear “live” on stage for the first time since his 2009 death. Or, if you want to look at it another way, undead on stage for the first time since his 1982 “Thriller” video.



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The King of Pop had returned by way of hologram, of course – a trick pioneered at the 2012 Coachella Music Festival with a laser-light-resurrected Tupac Shakur. And certainly, the crowd there in Vegas seemed to be enjoying the experience immensely. Why wouldn't they? A chance to see one of the greatest performers of popular music in history, singing a “new” song, no less? It must have been absolutely magical.



Never mind that the song, “Slave to the Rhythm” — which was officially released earlier this month as part of Jackson's posthumous “Xscape” album — really is one of the better pieces of music we've heard from Jackson in a while. (Not surprising, as it was recorded back in the recording sessions for the 1987 album, “Bad,” back when Jackson was still making good pop.)



But still … there's something unnerving about this sort of spectacle, isn't there? It's one thing to see unreleased material make the light of day … we've seen that with everyone from the aforementioned Shakur to Jimi Hendrix and Johnny Cash. Often, those lost tracks should have perhaps stayed that way, as they sometimes dilute the artist's public body of work with inferior material. But sometimes there's a gem: Jackson's “Slave to the Rhythm” is one, Cash's “She Used to Love Me A Lot” is another.



But at what point does this cross the line from being an act of archaeology to one of graverobbing? Perhaps it's the point where we confuse a technological marvel with the real thing. Perhaps it's at the point where the concert halls become overcrowded with ghosts.



For fear of shattering someone's illusions, Michael Jackson was not on that stage Sunday night, and he was certainly not appearing in his capacity as an artist. He was, at best, an echo, a nostalgic thrill given spark. He was, at best, appearing as someone else's work of art, a brilliant illusion crafted by some computer programmer.



But it's hard to shake the feeling that there's a more macabre undercurrent to the whole thing, a sense of not letting the dead rest and milking their memories for every last cent until they are drained and can be easily discarded. There's something unsettling about the idea of bringing a performer back from the dead just to dance. It's the stuff of “Twilight Zone” episodes.



Perhaps that's overstating things, but the question remains: When is it time to be simply content with the music these artists gave us? When is it time to let the dead rest in peace? (Victor D. Infante)