Despite what my previous blog posts may suggest to some folks, I've never hated Michael Jackson. But I'm not going to jump on the bandwagon of those who, upon the minute of the announcement of his death, were suddenly declaring themselves devoted fans.
I saw the kid perform with his brothers on The Ed Sullivan Show when I was just 7 years old (1969), and from that point on, I just wanted to sing and dance. The dancing part was soon replaced by guitar playing, and later on, folks like the Clash, Dead Boys and Ramones made me decide what kind of music that I wanted to play.
Around the same time as the Jackson 5's Sullivan appearance, I had read a Classics Illustrated version of Victor Hugo's The Man Who Laughs.
Michael Jackson, by my estimation, grew up into the Gwynplaine of our time. His remaining fans, the ones who stuck with him through all of the embarrassment and ridicule, are now a personification of Homo, Gwynplaine's faithful companion wolf, staring mournfully over the railing and instinctively acknowledging his drowning, sight unseen.
Posts
