Who the hell is MJ?

There’s a guy who was studying at Sheffield University, who was large, burly, bearded and bespectacled. Tall too. I was walking around Luke the Nuke’s hall of residence block (I think) when I walked past his room and found the door ajar. Seeing as it was just the first week or so, of university life and there were no hang-ups, no preconceptions, no cliques and no inhibitions, I decided to say hello. After introducing myself, he told me what course he was going to be studying and told me his name.
Large lad: My name’s Michael Jackson
Me: Excuse me? Michael Jackson?!?
Large Lad: Yeah yeah... I’ve got the same response all my life. I prefer being called Mike. Me: Alright Michael, nice meeting you

Not all that funny. I guess you had to be there.

From the first few facebook and other networking-site based “RIP” status messages all the way to the gigantic memorial service held for the late King of Pop, I’m pretty sure the world knows of his passing. Sequined white gloves (only on one hand, mind you), street dancers doing the moonwalk, commemorative t-shirts, badges and caps, celebrity tributes flew in from all angles all across the world.

But where did I discover MJ, I asked myself a few days ago. I believe it was sometime in 1990 or so, when music to me comprised only ABBA, Air Supply and the Fiddler on the Roof soundtrack. My family’s neighbours then were a wonderful Malayali family. All four members of the family were accomodating, friendly, generous and welcoming souls. The elder of the two siblings, was a medical student who to my six-year-old eyes was the embodiment of all things cool.

It was under his feet that I first saw a skateboard. In his hands that I first saw an air-rifle. Through his tutelage that I learnt to use a crossbow he’d made. And in his room that I saw a door-size poster of this slightly crinkly and long-haired guy wearing some peculiar black studded jacket, black trousers with a red stripe down the side, covered with silver buckles and two silver-studded biker gloves on his hands. Not to forget the boots with the same silver buckles. Along the side in a red scrawl that ran from bottom to top, it said “Bad”.

What the hell is this, I recall asking him, in my juvenile curiosity.

So I heard me some. Bad and The Way You Make Me Feel were the two songs I heard before it was time to pack it in and go home. I thought at the time, “It’s not bad at all! Of course, it’s no Air Supply, but still pretty good.” Why’s it called “Bad” then, I asked him. He told me “bad” was a complex word. “I see,” I responded. I clearly didn’t see anything. Months later, the first audio cassette I bought was the album Dangerous.

I think that’s where it began. That’s where MJ stopped being that guy in the poster and turned into the music filtering out of our archaic music system at home. And over the years, I also heard Off the Wall, Thriller and of course, the whole Bad album, which back in 1990 was an enigma to me. (Some other time, I’ll tell you all about how the artist/band Enigma scared the bejeezus out of me in ’93) I still didn’t see what the complexities of “bad” were.

The paedophilia scandals, the plastic surgery theories, the oxygen tent, the Neverland conspiracies etc. etc. all played out over the next few decades. I remember thinking there’s no way someone as soulful as this could perpetrate some of the heinous acts MJ was being accused of. It didn’t really kill what had by now turned into some serious love for his music.

Then there was the India tour. Sponsored by Pepsi, if memory serves and wholeheartedly endorsed by Bal Thackeray. The sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach when I couldn’t go for the show, is something I still remember. The wide-eyed awe I felt while watching the television footage of the crashing rocket and MJ walking out of it and bursting into a song, is something I remember far more vividly. The sheer glee of getting my hands on HIStory the day it released in India and the soaring levels of anticipation in the car ride home, as I thumbed the little booklet inside, were indescribable.

Fast forward and in the 21st century, Invincible was MJ’s first release. Most people said it was pretty bad. I wasn’t awfully keen on it. But I still didn’t see what “bad” was. There was a track that had a music video featuring Chris Tucker. That’s insane! Tucker’s rendition of Don’t Stop ’Til You Get Enough in Rush Hour 2, was brilliant, after all. Then, there was to be that farewell tour. 50 dates (I think) at the O2 arena in London. I was kicking myself that I’m nowhere near London.

Now, it’s been over a week or so since his bald, bruised and battered body was declared dead. It was only to be expected that the “world’s greatest entertainer” would receive a send-off like no other. The humongous memorial service was to be expected. I guess in a number of ways it was also to be expected that people would try and cash in.

1.6 million people entered a lucky dip of sorts to win around 25,000 or so pairs of tickets for the service at the Staples Centre, LA. Of the tiny number that won the tickets, some even tried to auction them off at ridiculous rates. That’s pretty bad, if you ask me. God bless eBay, Craigslist et al for pulling the plug on that racket before it was too late.

The debate on his cause of death, the motivation behind it, the debts he left behind, the crimes he committed, the people whose lives he ruined will go on and on, long after a film is made. It’ll probably have Johnny Depp slightly modifying his role as Willy Wonka from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and playing MJ. Actually, that flick I’d pay to see.

None of the controversies ever really stopped me from listening to or changed the way I received his music. Which is why, as far as I’m concerned I don’t care who MJ was. I care about who MJ is, which to me is the voice coming out of my phones, backed by some incredible beats, samples and at times, Messers Hudson and Van Halen. And that MJ isn’t too bad. Isn’t too “bad” at all. Chamone!