Michael Jackson died yesterday. It felt like he has been around forever, as a little boy, I grew up idolizing his dancing – and he was already on the “solo act” phase of his career already; but he was not old, only 50.
Upon hearing about his death in the evening, I was profoundly saddened. I don’t know why. I don’t care about his craziness, lawsuits or problems in recent years; even his last hit I liked was not recent, 2002’s You Rock My World (and it wasn’t even that good). Aside from creating Michael Jackson in Rock Band, he wasn’t in my world at all. He was a character, a creation of the media so that we could talk about his pedophillia, his transition from black to white, or that his hair was burnt on a Pepsi commercial.
When I think of Michael Jackson, I think about his music. But not his career from the Jackson 5 to current day, but a thin slice from ’82 to ’87 where he released his best songs Billie Jean and Smooth Criminal. When I hear his music, it is distinctively Michael Jackson, distinctively 80s, and distinctively pop. I know that he would have never released the same quality of songs as that time, but his death is like losing a friend who you’ve had fond memories with.
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