We interrupt this long blog silence to note with sadness the death of Michael Jackson. The best comment I've read on the subject comes from, no joke, Chris Onstad's Achewood comic.
What I think a lotta folks are feelin’ now is a regret. Not regret that a man died; no. They regret that for almost three decades they been mockin’ this guy. This guy who wrote Thriller, and PYT, and Billie Jean. You know who you are, you Michael deniers, listenin’ to your The Cure or Aerosmith. You always considered Michael’s music silly. Not serious. Lame, mainstream. “Popular.” And his life — everyone gets a kick outta’ watchin’ the mighty fall. It sells paper. It makes us feel falsely superior, from our low places. Yet now, now that he’ll never sing another note, you listen to those songs anew —ABC, I Want You Back, Beat It — and you know who he was. . . .
Michael was our music. The next time you’re out alone in your car, and "Smooth Criminal" comes on, it’s gonna mean somethin’ different to you. You’re not gonna change it this time. You’re gonna hear it and think to yourself, “I missed knowin’ his music in the moment.” I don’t blame The Cure. That was your call. The Cure is just out there, like car horns or people who make noise when they cry. The Cure is a choice. When we hear Michael, it is not a choice to feel the beat. It is not a choice to cock your head and straighten all the fingers on your right hand.