Holy cow. For some reason, I am finding it very difficult to believe that Michael Jackson is dead. Michael passed away earlier today at UCLA Medical Center at age 50. Maybe it is because it seems like I’ve been aware of him for nearly my entire life – he was only 4 years older than me – from watching the Saturday morning Jackson 5 cartoon show, to their performance of Dancing Machine on the Carol Burnett show when Michael first did the robot, the sappy theme from Ben, to his adulthood with Off The Wall and Thriller when he became larger than life itself. Mind you, I was never a big fan, but I really like a good pop song, and Michael was a damn good performer. Was, until he descended into freakdom and virtually became a pariah in the media. Maybe I was always hoping that one day, Michael Jackson would come to his senses, abandon his freakishness, get back in the studio and record, and exonerate himself. He seemed to be on the verge of doing just that, with his upcoming schedule of 50 shows in London; again, mind you, I was never a big fan, but I admit to Michael’s tremendous talent onstage, and he possessed the ability to pull himself all the way back to the top of the pop music world.
I don’t remember much about when the King passed away in the summer of 1977. Sure, we all knew Elvis, the hits, the legend, but it wasn’t doing anything for him or me to really care much at the time. Yes, both endings were tragic losses of tremendous talents before their time, but unlike the King, who was virtually dead to me already in 1977, it seemed to me that Michael was finally getting ready to exorcise himself of his demons and regain the spotlight.
I guess in a way, he did.