When I was going to sleep last night, Michael Jackson was just taken into hospital with cardiac arrest. Some people’s reaction to that was “oh yeah? Liar! I demand a refund!” Those people will forever remain the ones who, when they heard about Michael Jackson’s death, thought first about 50 quid they spent on “This Is It” tickets.
I thought: how low have the mighty fallen. For Michael Jackson was, basically, god. Alien god from the planet of dance and music previously unknown to man. And then he was the black guy who turned himself into a white lady. And then he was a child molester. (While the court cleared him of all the charges, people never stopped referring to him that way, in fact, on the Polish news portal’s elegy to Michael Jackson page half the comments seem to contain the word “pedophile”.) And then he was a near-bankrupt in need of lung transplants. Not many people remembered he was also a very lonely human being forced to work since the age of 5.
Music-wise, I was always a fan of Janet rather than Michael, but I have, strangely, rediscovered him only recently when the This Is It tour has been announced. I put together an 80 minute playlist which I am listening to right now. Perfect from start to end. It goes: Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’/Leave Me Alone/They Don’t Care About Us/The Way You Make Me Feel/Black Or White/Stranger In Moscow/In The Closet/Thriller/Remember The Time/Blood On The Dance Floor/Unbreakable/Another Part Of Me/Scream/Bad/Jam/Beat It/Liberian Girl. And those 17 songs — not allegations, bankruptcies and rubber noses falling off in unexpected moments — are why I am sitting here and typing this, shaking my head in disbelief, tears in my eyes.