Michael Jackson at 50

I heard the news at work. I was designing on a mockup related to the CNN home page, and the lead story suddenly changed from Farrah Fawcett to Michael Jackson. He had been rushed to the hospital. One report said he had suffered cardiac arrest. No one confirmed it. Officials refused to comment, citing privacy laws. TMZ claimed death; I held out, waiting for confirmation.

After taking the subway home, I checked my phone. The NYTimes published a story citing the LATimes, which confirmed the news. The AP had posted a quick, poorly written obituary. The NYTimes published the AP story. Michael Jackson, 50 years old, had died. In the bookstore "Beat It" was playing on the stereo. I heard a woman tell her co-worker that it had been her first favorite song.

I grew up with Michael Jackson. I taped Thriller from a friend and listened to the cassette until the music had become a throbbing bass heavy blur. I checked Off the Wall out of the library on vinyl and put that on the reverse side. I watched MTV whenever I had the chance, waiting to see the 30 minute Thriller video, and then kept watching to see the making of documentary. I studied the dance moves and practiced in the living room after school. I coveted the red jacket, the single sequined glove. I longed to visit Disney World to see Captain EO in 3D.

I went back in time, seeking out the Jackson 5's Motown sides before jumping forward to Bad. It wasn't until Dangerous that my devotion began to flag (even though there were still songs I thorougly enjoyed). By then only one album remained.

I still can't believe the news. There's something about it that seems impossible and at the same time almost unsurprising. I've pulled out all his albums (as the news stations and MTV have been pulling out clips and videos) and am listening to as I write. On record he still sounds so fresh, so new, so alive; and each track serves to rekindle the love I have for Michael Jackson.

Posted by eku at June 26, 2009 12:17 AM