I almost fell off my exercycle at 7am on this icy Jo’burg morning when I switched on the TV and saw that Michael Jackson was dead.
At 49, I am past flinging myself on the fainting couch and sobbing when celebrities overdose, break up with each other or their bands, or say they won’t do Batman 3. I had no idea Michael Jackson’s death would be such a shock to my system. Twenty-four hours after the announcement crashed Twitter, I am sitting here trying to work out why.
I fell for Michael when he was a fat-cheeked 10-year-old fronting the Jackson 5. I was eight at the time and living in England. I have a clear memory of jumping up and down in front of the TV watching him sing ABC — which I still rate as one of the best pop songs of all time — on Top of the Pops.
It was the first time I wanted to spend my weekly pocket money on something besides doll’s clothes. My dad and I went to the record shop and I handed over a pound for the seven-single of ABC. Seven-singles — that’s what they were called and if you don’t know what I’m talking about, Google ”vinyl” and ”record player”.
Aside from ABC‘s exuberant, can’t-sit-still appeal, it was Michael — little arms pumping, toes a twinkly blur, baby voice belting — who fascinated me. Until then I don’t think I realised that children could do that, or were even supposed to do that. And not get sent to bed.
By the time Michael grew up, slimmed down and made Thriller, I was no longer a big fan of his music. But there wasn’t a club in the mid-80s that didn’t play a track from that album at some point in the evening. So you’d square your puffy, sequined shoulders, spray some more big into your exploding Bonnie Tyler hair, and get on the floor. I once knew a bride who did the moonwalk at her wedding, though by then Michael’s brand of campy, prehistoric bling was already becoming more retro-ironic than cool.
In 1996 I got to shake Michael’s hand when he visited Sun City. He stayed at The Palace and emerged from his diaphanous gloom to meet the media, shaking each of us by the hand. By then he was well on his way to turning into an unhappy-looking white woman and I was just another wolf-packer hoping his nose would fall off before my deadline. I dimly remember a soft, gloved handshake and a whispery ”pleased to meet you”.
The next morning he arrived in the hotel’s breakfast room with a red veil wrapped round his face. We waited to see how he would eat his Cornflakes. He didn’t eat anything. But close up, he was a discomforting sight, and it seemed rude to stare for long.
Michael Jackson was a part of my childhood, my youth, my growing up. He won’t be part of my getting old. May I always remember that bouncy little boy with a big Afro who reflected my child-self back to me and made me want to dance.