So D and I couldn't quite go to bed last night; the news that Michael Jackson died turned us both into news buffs: channel surfing and web watching (twitter went down, that's how you know there's real news).
Kinda reminded me of when Diana died, except there wasn't that everyone cares thing, more of a everyone from the seventies and eighties cares - like, do my friends teenage children care? I'm guessing not.
Aside: D and I were reminiscing that when Diana died twelve years ago, we didn't know each other, but we were across the Kilburn High Road from each other, little knowing what the future held.
I have Thriller and Off the Wall as real, old-fashioned albums, tucked away in my parents house, probably turntable-less, reminding me of a previous technical era, as much as the music. And they were probably among the first albums I bought - I might even have been in junior school.
When I was a kid, all the cool kids could do the (early) Michael Jackson dance with the slidey feet.
And the music. Was mesmeric. I remember bat mitzvah discos where they played Don't Stop Till You Get Enough and Thriller and everyone danced, even the people who didn't want to.
Maybe Wacko Jacko is like Woody Allen - it's the early works that count. I mean, the skin thing, and the alleged kid thing, and letting all the money go to his head, and hanging one of his kids out of a balcony, and just, well, the ... weirdness made him less interesting. Of course now there's a lot of weird celebrities who let the money go to their head (you always read about contracts stating how huge the entourage is and how they only drink freshly squeezed organic guava juice) but most of them don't have any huge talent.
Jackson, on the other hand, for all his (later) weirdness, really knew how to make music and dance: an old fashioned entertainer. Put all the other crap to one side. RIP, Michael, and like half the planet, I'll be looking out my albums for one last listen.