I was at the paper cutter listening to Smooth Criminal on my iPod when a co-worker tapped me on my shoulder and told me Michael Jackson just died. To be honest, it either didn’t sink in at first, or I was just watching her mouth move and pretending to listen (a tactic I have perfected with much practice in my encounters with the fairer sex). I took one earbud out, so that I could catch one last “Annie, are you OK?” as I half-heartedly searched for the ‘Unlock’ and ‘Pause.’ Huh? “Michael Jackson.” Yeah, I’m listening to Michael Jackson. What of it? “No. He’s dead.”
‘Pause.’
Tumbleweed rolling by would’ve been the logical next event. I was speechless. The world was still. I’ve never really been affected by celebrity deaths. Sure, I may offer a “Hmm. That’s shitty,” but my day-to-day life will roll on as always without so much as a hiccup. This was different. This really was shitty. As we looked at the news reports updating themselves in Google faster than we could blink, I started to zone out, staring at my MJ playlist. My life flashed before my eyes, set to this soundtrack…
My brother and I walk out of Lyle’s Place, the place to steal liberate records from in Victoria. Me, with Prince’s ‘Purple Rain’ and Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller.’ Him, with AC/DC’s ‘High Voltage,’ Van Halen’s ‘1984’ and a fierce James Olmos (mullet/mustache) combo. Proper!
Yes, that’s me in the MJ hat cheers-ing Gabe Kotter my brother and father’s beers with milk! It’s still kinda bad-ass, considering I sucked it straight outta your mom’s funbags and spat it into that glass, no?
Anami, G. Off and I sample this song and record our own version, yielding such Hip Hop Quotables as “I’ll stop for a hitcher, tell her get a bus pass/Attend Thes Wrex’ bar mitzvah in a Hitler mustache…” and “Ask Michael J. Fox, yo man, what’s shakin’?” (Sorry, Mike.)
[Edited for Miss Teen USSR's eyes and Nuv's safety.] We meet three hours earlier for the first time. We leave the party after two hours. We hit a McDonalds drive-thru in her BMW and get X-Men happy meals, eating them while listening to ‘Bad’ on her Alpine. I chuckle to myself when Dirty Diana comes on. Ok, earmuffs kids. We eventually make our way to the beach and she immediately CENSORED CENSORED CENSORED my CENSORED and CENSORED the CENSORED. So, when CENSORED it sideways, I have to CENSORED her CENSORED. Once we get the light-up Storm toy out, the CENSORED herself while CENSORED CENSORED. When we part ways, the sand is still CENSORED out of CENSORED. We never speak another word to each other. Mo’ Proper!
Both the first narrative I am aware of in a music video, one that actually breaks out of the confines of the song itself in the form of an intro, as well as the first collaboration between two generations of Pop royalty that I notice. I will soon be very disappointed in Michael when he buys the Beatles’ songs, pissing Paul off and ensuring we will never again hear another collaboration from these two. Boo/hiss.
Me and Pops about to recreate the ‘Thriller’ album cover and/or shit ourselves. It’s cool. We’re brown, so, built-in camo.
The seedling that was planted with ‘Thriller’ takes root with ‘Bad,’ and I decide right then and there, after seeing the epic Scorsese video for the title track – barring sudden development of superpowers that enables my first choice of a crime-fighting career -I am going to make music when I grow up. I had been (and will again be) flirting with the notion of becoming an actor, but seeing MJ’s videos makes me realize a musician gets to be both a musician and an actor. Can you peckerwoods say “Two-fer?” No, I didn’t want you to say it! What’re you, a cast member of Corner Gas? I just asked if you could. Jesus! Try and keep up…
The most expensive video ever made. The most aggressive track I’ve heard from Michael. Stark. Raving. Mad. This is his (and sister Janet’s) response to the trials, accusations, media, tabloids, gossip, critics, mud slinging, name smearing. You know, all the things that comprise US Weekly, and Perez Hilton? Borrowing huge pages from rap (explicit, non-fiction, self-referential lyrics) and anime (visually), Michael just gave us another in a long line of stunning videos that upon release, sends the artists of the day back to the drawing board.
Busted lighting up the kitchen floor in my favourite kicks: ‘Beat It’ by Osiris. (Zippers!)
This is the song that makes me want ‘Thriller,’ makes me bug Mom until she gets me that Michael Jackson hat, and makes me a fan for life. The video cements it. I walk around for weeks trying to ‘activate’ panels on the sidewalk so they light up, and only wearing one glove. (I tried one sock, but that was a little ahead of it’s time.) The biggest, the best, and my favourite. Later in life, that exact sentence is uttered everytime I drop my pants.
Don’t Stop Till You Get Enough
I don’t really have a story for this one. But you gotta start a Michael playlist with Wanna Be Startin’ Something, and you gotta end it with Don’t Stop Till You Get Enough, capice?
Smooth Criminal (reprise)
I had one earphone dangling around for the rest of the day, and finished my shift in a bit of a daze. In hindsight, this shouldn’t have shocked me like it did. The Michael I see, is the one I hear. And, off the records, that Michael’s been dying in small increments since just after ‘Thriller.’ You’d think a quarter-century would be enough time to mourn someone and move on, but I guess that doesn’t entirely apply when the person you’re mourning is still there, awkwardly walking in the same direction after you said your goodbyes. Off the records.
On the records? Well, that was that same kid who, through song, was telling people twice his age how the world worked. Had grown-ass men jealous of his voice, a voice that hadn’t even started, let alone stopped, changing yet. Who had women weak in the knees before he was knee-high, and hysterically crying/fainting after. When he was old enough to ride rides at the fair alone, he bought the fair and moved in. That era. The beginning of his reign as the King of Pop. The one that proved he was an alien long before the surgeries with his dancing. No gravity on his tip-toes. One glove holding a tiger. Two thousand zippers. That’s the Michael Jackson I saw. At least when the TV was off and the stereo was on. That Michael, if you’re listening – I Want You Back. Good thing all I have to do is…
‘Unpause.’
– Nuv
[Editor's Note: Here's the rest of that playlist. Every song has a story, but every post has a - long-broken - word limit. Don't forget to click 'em, and, if you have an MJ list or story to share, do it down below.]
Remember The Time • The Way You Make Me Feel • Rock With You • Man In The Mirror • You Rock My World
Blood On The Dance Floor • State of Shock • Black or White • Human Nature • Ease On Down The Road
