Never in a thousand million years would I ever have expected to write anything about him. Music was always for the others to write. Maybe I could tiptoe toward cabaret, but that’s because Bobby and Blossom warbled words I had already memorized as script for my own performing life — singing lustfully, wrenchingly, privately. You see, I have no voice, but the person looking back at me in the mirror will make you weep with his.
Yet I was asked, and being just a guy who can’t say no, I complied. Jackson’s been dead a year. I like “death bump” better than “death bounce” because there’s some danger implied.
Here’s my Jackson piece today in Obit Mag.
And when I say now that I was the first on my block to watch MTV, believe me. Anyone, voice or not, can watch anything. That’s culture.
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