Fade to Black - Michael Jackson

When I was a kid, I loved Michael Jackson. Before his descent into madness, me and my friends thought he was not just the King of Pop, but the King of Everything.

I have a few very distinct memories of Jackson back in the day: me, Phil, and Sean, choreographing a routine to Billy Jean for the elementary school play. I think I remember rousing applause. Then there was me, Timmy, and Sandy choreographing more than a dozen routines in Timmy and Sandy's backyard. We were playing "music video," complete with a director (Tim), choreographer (all three of us), and an audience (Sandy's dog and - for thirty seconds - Sandy's older brother).

We didn't have a malt shop when I was kid. Instead we had a variety store that held two video games. We used to go there, hang out, and play video games all the time. There was this one guy who was the best video game player in town. He was a few years older than me, had a beard, wore a leather jacket and ripped jeans, sported an earring, drove a dented Camaro, and looked mean. His last name was Roc and it wasn't made up. He scared the hell out of me. One time I was watching him play Galaga or Pac Man and we got to talking about music. He told me, "You know who my favourite entertainer is? I bet you'll never be able to guess."

I tried the usual skid suspects ("skids" were people with long hair that listened to heavy metal; I don't know if they're still called that): Black Sabbath, AC/DC, Judas Priest, so forth. He said, "Nope. My favourite entertainer is Michael Jackson."

I was floored. This was heavy stuff. Not only did he like Michael Jackson, but he was willing to admit that he liked Michael Jackson. To give you an idea of why this was a big deal, fast forward a few months. I was hanging out in the smoker's pit of the high school. Someone brought up Roc. I was stupid enough to say that Roc's favourite entertainer was Michael Jackson. One skid girl told me that Roc was going to kick my ass for saying that, and another guy threatened to do it himself. For a week I walked around wondering when Roc was going to descend and beat me to a pulp. Never happened. That's character.

It occurs to me now that I think that was the first time I heard someone described as an "entertainer" in the true sense of the word. Roc had brains. He knew the difference between heavy metal entertaining and pop entertaining, but he knew that they were both entertainment. I wonder if Roc became a critic.

One other childhood memory: Sandy and Timmy were the first kids in the neighbourhood that had a copy of the Thriller video. I waited and waited for them to invite me over to see it. But, like kids with a pool, they knew they had a trump card. They would mention the video now and then, or talk about their favourite parts, and I would be left standing there, wishing.

Two or three weeks went by. I wished and I wished. This was in the days before 34505 channels on TV, and the only showbiz show was Entertainment Tonight. So I had probably seen only three or four Thriller previews and commercials, leaving the thing a big mystery rolling around in my head. I wanted to see it so damn bad.

Finally they showed me the video. They sat on the couch and feigned boredom while I watched in wide eyed wonder. It scared me. It thrilled me. I loved it.

Everybody did. Anyone who said that they didn't like Thriller was a liar. And Roc was right: Jackson was a great entertainer.

I lost touch with Jackson and his music after that. Black or White was the last song I really paid attention to, and that one only because an English teacher wanted to dissect it during a writing class. Jackson had begun to turn weird. Freaky weird.

Years later I was watching a Michael Jackson concert on DVD. I had wandered into a girl's room and she and her friends were loving it. I didn't get it. He was a freak. His face was a mask, his body a stick. He looked ill. While watching the video I made some comment that he looked like a freak. I got kicked out of the room. So Jackson still had it, but he didn't have me.

It takes a lot to overcome child molestation charges. Jackson settled out of court with a teenage boy to the tune of millions, but people still loved him. So who's more weird? The fans that were ready to line up for his "comeback tour," or Jackson? American Idol recently had a "Michael Jackson night," where the singers had to perform Michael Jackson songs. You kept hearing the word "legend," as in, "Michael Jackson's a legend, so it was hard to pull that song off."

Legend? Really? I don't think so. Not anymore. If his career had ended at Thriller, his legendary status would be undeniable. Instead, I think his legacy will be one of a strange celebrity that couldn't handle it. Endings mean more than beginnings. Jackson's ending sucks. A man that liked to sleep with teenage boys, wear surgical masks everywhere he went, and had his face chopped into something unrecognizable to a mother. He didn't release any studio albums in the last eight years, leaving the public to judge him not by his music, but by what he did with his life. Over the past decade, the music stores have been flooded with Jackson "greatest hits" albums, the last of which was the "Celebrating 25 Years of Thriller." Man how the time flies. 25 years since he looked normal. 25 years since I thought he ruled the world.

The old line says that poor people are crazy, rich people are eccentric. Jackson certainly proved that. If he had been a door-to-door salesman, nobody would have wanted to be within 100 yards of him. But he was a celebrity, so dangling babies from windows and sleeping with boys wasn't such a big deal.

Weird. That will be Jackson's legacy. I'd say it's sad, but it's not. Again, if a door-to-door salesman acted the way Jackson did in the latter part of his life, you'd shed no tears for him. So I guess I'll give you a very slight pass if you say, "It's about the music," but you won't get much from me if you say it's about the man. Or what was left of him.

The Old Chops

Ian Tyson had the best voice since Nat King Cole.

I really believe that.

There were times 20 years ago that I would sit and play Nat albums, then some Sinatra, and then some Tyson. Theirs were my Three Great Voices.

Outside of country and western circles (with Tyson, heavy on the western), Tyson didn't have the fame of a Nat or a Frank. After his Ian and Sylvia marriage and folk days were over, he donned a cowboy hat and kept it there. He wrote stories instead of songs, and he once said that the songs coming out of Nashville were boring and tired. He would eventually settle down in Alberta. Another marriage went under the wheels and still he was singing. Until he couldn't.

I watched a pretty good interview of his tonight, and his rasping voice was stunning. Gone was the voice that could climb the scales with ease. The low bass, the high falsetto. He could do it all. He was certainly the most pleasant sounding singer, the kind of guy that could keep you company. He sounded like an older brother would sound. Most of his songs were happy ones, some of them sad, but they all said something concrete. No hidden meaning. Rarely did he have a song that sounded as if it was on the album just to take up the number 11 slot.

His chops left him last year. I know I've been in one place too long because I've lost all track of music. When I was on the move, I used to know music well. I would keep an ear out for new songs and fancied myself a professional listener of anything but rap, and even that I would listen to enough so I could play it at parties. Lately it's been way way too much news, too much sports radio, and not enough music. I have to get back to my roots: classical for a half hour, then country, then metal, then folk, then some old standards by the Rat Pack and their contemporaries. (My mixed tapes used to drive ex-girlfriends nuts; now I can blame it on the computer's shuffle feature).

I heard some of Tyson's new stuff tonight. He sounds like a cross between Tom Waits and Leonard Cohen. If you aren't a fan of either, then you might not like Tyson's new sound, but he's worth listening to. He always has a good story to tell.

But, man, I'll miss that voice. Adelita Rose. Irving Berlin is a Hundred Years Old Today. Old Corrals and Sagebrush. Four Strong Winds. Good stuff.

My dad dug Tyson a lot. Introduced me to him. I wonder if he'll dig Tyson's new sound. Hope so.

Here's Tyson with his old voice, singing the greatest travelling-man-break-up song of all time: