My-chael

Many years ago in school a teacher asked me to name two famous musicians that were recognised everywhere in the world. We all agreed that one was Michael Jackson. Eight years on and I still don't have a second name.

This man had a kind of influence that cannot be attributed to any other. Since his death I haven't been able to get him off my mind. My ears keep ringing with his songs and I refuse to let it fully register that we now live in a world without the moonwalk-er.

While he was alive I didn't think of him, his misery and fame, his obsessions and influence, his failings and heights as much as in his death. It's been the hardest to believe what my eyes see and read. The man who performed like a soldier couldn't just fall breathless and die.

The MJ I remember was a towering figure on stage with those perfect black pants through which his legs moved so well and the crisp white shirt fluttering behind him. Never had a man looked so good in such little colour. The black-white combination looked better on no one else. The hat-throwing was a personal favourite and how I wished I was there and had caught it.

Besides the hat there are too many things about him I couldn't quite catch. Even now every few minutes the media creates a new Jackson. One was the crazed celebrity, part devilish and the other a human whose failings were just as human. But to accuse him of his crimes we must think we are terribly righteous.

His greatest accusation- living life like a child. Name one person who till date doesn't want to be a carefree child once more. He did too and the world just said no. Loneliness makes you do strange things, who doesn't know that.

It was the coolest thing to have owned a slightly battered audio cassette of his album 'Bad' back in school. I spent hours listening to his tunes, every one better than the previous. The words, some of them which thanks to the internet I am now learning, did not really matter as long as you got the 'dirty diannas', the 'beat its' and the 'smooooth criminals,' all the while waiting for the beloved 'aoww'.

I cringed at his patent crotch grabbing/touching routine but the performances were incomplete without at least a half a dozen of those. I was mesmerised by him even though the face before me kept changing. At the beginning of the 'transformation' though he looked quite alright...ok he looked nice. However, my personal lesson from this is that the nose that mama gives you is the best.

As a fan he really tested my orthodox levels of acceptance. The child abuse cases were shocking but till today my sane mind feels there has been some foul play. But if there is any, any truth in this, I regretfully say he is probably the only such loathful human being for whom I have a slightly soft corner.

With his death the images that remain with me are of a talented, lonely man. I cannot forget the red African top and the boys with drums from 'they don't really care about us'. They didn't care for him, they don't care for anyone. Such is life.

He was there for us for a part of our lives- whether it was teens or adulthood giving us music to make this life bearable. For all of us at some point or the other he was My-chael.

****
I just couldn't not write this.