Weep For The King Of Pop! By Cameron Duodu

Andrew Marr's programme on BBC1 is supposed to be one of the 'heavyweight' offerings of the Beeb.

So Marr tries to prove to his viewers that he is indeed 'highminded' -- by getting rid of the Michael Jackson story rather quickly -- is evident. He brings on Paul Gambacini, a pop historian, and Amanda Platell of the priggish Daily Mail, to review the morning's newspapers. Marr acknowedges, not without a hit of sardonism, the ever-more saturating coverage of Michael Jackson's death: he says, dismissively, "Mirror, front page --"jabbed" , then pages 1 -30. And so on. Alas for Marr, only the SundayTelegraph found something else to put on its front page as the lead -- more scandals on MPs' pay. They agree there is hardly anything new on MJ, despite every paper trying its utmost to find something that the others haven't got. All droll and controlled -- obviously we-ll planned for the programme to reach just that conclusion.

Then Andrew Marr thanks them, and puts on his first guest: the Cuban ballet dancer, Carlos Acosta. Marr's buildup is immense: Acosta is the "new Nijinski and Nureyev"; he's dominating the Royal Ballet and guess what? He's taking britain's Royal Ballet to Cuba! A feat never before achieved by anyone. Marr then asks: "Mr Acosta, obviously Cuban ballet got an advantage from the long asociation with Russia?"

Acosta acknowledges Marr's irrelevancy with a hardly-concealed shrug: "Yes, the Russians influenced us, but long before they came, we had Alicia Alonso, a famous Cuban dancer and director of the Cuban National Ballet, who was the flag of Cuba in the world" Without so many words, he then lets Marr in on a big secret: Man, YOU SIMPLY CANNOT IGNORE MICHAEL JACKSON! "My own dancing career was greatly inspired by Michael Jackson", the new Nijinsky-Nureyev confeess, to Marr's ill-concealed bemusement. "When I was growing up in Cuba, I didn't know what ballet was. Neither did my father, who wanted me to do ballet! But we all saw Michael Jackson, and we couldn't believe our eyes; how anyone could dance like that. We all wanted to dance like him. So every street had its own Michael Jackson and we all tried to be the best of the Michael Jacksons. From that, when break-dancing came along, andI used to do it, and Ii won a break-dancing competition. And they said I could really dance and I went to ballet school. When I was doing well enough in Cuba, Fidel came to see me. I hope that when the Royal Ballet goes to Cuba, he will be well enough, despite hs illness, to come and see us..."

This is surreal. Here is Andrew Marr, within his Western box, all eager to give his viewers the Royal Ballet bumph, being educated, without prompting, about the real 'bad' world of dancing! He is on a rollercoaster ride with someone who came into the box with his feet but kept his head outside it. I am just totally blown away. Michael Jackson and Fidel Castro together on the Andrew Marr Show!

Weep for Adonais
For he is dead.
Ok, easy, huh? I do know that Percy Bysshe Shelley didn't write it quite like that. But that's how I remember it.

I have lifted the linest from the confines of one person's sorrow for another's death:(I [Shelley] weep for Adonais [Keats] -- he is dead) to a call for universal grieving for someone else that one might not know but must needs weep over.

Seven simple words -- but with them, Shelley had wrought a lament that knows no limit of time. Adonais is dead. And I weep. So weep thou also.

Michael Jackson wasn't one of those musicians whose songs stuck in my mind. He wasn't like, say, Elton John, whose Don't let the sun go down on me accompanied me on many a tryst undertaken in a maroon Datsun 280C; or Carlos Santana, whose Black Magic Woman originated many a smile exchanged in a white BMW 2000 CS. Nor could he displace, in my bedroom, the arousal and ecstasy rwanged into me by the guitar solo in Isaac Hayes' The Look of Love. Even Pink Floyd's Wish You Were Here went with me into areas where Thriller could not enter. And once, Dancing Queen by Aba, nearly cut open the skull of one of my kids -- figuratively, that is -- when his head hit a light bulb whilst I was prancing around dancing with him hoisted on my shoulders.

But seeing Michael on the screen was something else. The energy, the intertwining of rhythm in song and movement, the manipulation of facial expression to complete the total communication of joy -- the sheer ketcher (stylishness) of the hat or the gloved hand or the Hitler arm-band -- you needed to be a spiritual imbecile not to be struck by it all.

My children were, oaf course, enthralled by him. My partner used to shout, as his hand moved suggestively across his crotch, “Ei Michael Jackson, neker oyoor?” (Is that what you're like, Michael Jackson?) To which he thundered back, looking straight at her from the screen: “I am bad! …I am baaad!.. I'm baaaad!” Yes:

I weep for Adonais --
He is dead.
It wasn't only in our house that Michael Jackson tore the age and culture gaps to shreds. Here is the spectacular testimony of a proper “Michaeletta”, Asabea Acquaah-Harrison (nee Ofosu-Appiah) one of the 'queen-pins' of the invaluable Old Achimotans' newsgroup, [email protected], which has been transformed from a mere fund-raising website into a fantastically brainy discussion forum:

“My Idol - Michael Jackson”
The craze for me started in 1979, when Michael released "Off The Wall". Prior to that, I had seen a few Jackson Five magazines, but never had the chance to see the group on telly. I was watching the BBC's Top of the Pops programme with my mates at school… Then it happened - Michael came on with "Don't stop till you get enough!"

We all watched in utter amazement, firstly because of the excellent moves and the cool dude attitude Michael had in the video. Seconds later, we were all dancing away in excitement. I was hooked. The next day, I went to buy the album. Every song on it was excellent. We could not stop dancing. I bought a huge poster of Michael and up it went on the wall, and every other corner was plastered with MJ. I spoke, ate and drank MJ!!

That year, the Jacksons toured the UK, but I did not have a chance to go as I was stuck at school! I was determined not to miss the next gig and followed his every move after that. I went on to get Thriller and Bad… and yes, it was that tour that I finally had a chance to go to.

It was in Aug. 1988 that he toured the UK, and I managed to get tickets to watch him twice! The first gig was the best. I got there at 11am and sat and waited with a couple of friends. We were let into London's Wembley stadium and we rushed in and got what I thought was a perfect position... right near the stage.

This was it, I thought... at last I would be able to hold his hand.. maybe even get pulled up the stage by the bouncer for a kiss and a hug… (I would have passed out in awe).

At 5pm the crowd was summoned by the bouncers to move nearer the stage... (Silly fools! - CD)

There was a sudden surge, I got swallowed in it and found I could hardly breathe, as the force of human bodies began to crush me.

I started screaming for help and I had to be rescued by paramedics just before I passed out. I was carried above the crowd, onto the stage and away on a stretcher!!!!!!

I lived to tell the tale. But I ended up having to stand at the back with binoculars!!! My, was I disappointed!! Back, front or side, he was wise enough (the first time I had seen that) to have screens at every corner of the stadium so that we did not miss anything.

I had asked my hubby to come along and after moaning and groaning about how wonderful the Jackson Five were when he saw them in Canada and “I don't think this will be any better”, he said, coming only reluctantly. You should have seen him dancing well into the night, after the gig.

The gig was spectacular and Michael showed that he was by far the best where live shows are concerned.. i.e. based on the ones I had watched in the past. That day, he blew my mind with Smooth Criminal, Heartbreak Hotel, Dirty Diana, I want you back and much more.

The attention to detail was superb… you had to focus on absolutely everything not to miss a trick. My all-time favourite was the guitarist whose blonde hair lit up in different colours as she played and danced with Michael.

I went again!.... 3 weeks later... and it was great once more. Anyone who was around me at the time thought I had gone mad!...

I had another near-miss when he came to unveil his statue at Madame Tussauds in London. I was in my classroom that was opposite Madame Tussauds and had a bird's eye position as Michael came out, jumped on the top of his limo, white glove in hand, and waved at all of us. I nearly fell out of the window in excitement. Incidentally, this scene was captured on a video released by Motown: "Michael Jackson… The Legend continues". Look at the scene with people sticking their heads out of a window, above the car. I was one of those.

When my aunt in Ghana heard about my near death experience at Wembley, she was puzzled. She wondered: "Na saa Jackson yi koraa... den na obe ye ama wo???" (This Jackson at all, what will he do for you?????) Even I do not know the answer as I write. But I tell you... my heart is broken!!!!

Looks like I have to get a ticket to the funeral in LA! (sob sob!!!!!)

Rest in peace Michael... You were the greatest. Will remain the greatest.

x x x
What more is there to say? That tribute by Asabea encapsulates everything that about half the world is feeling right now.

There will be many theories about the cause of Michael Jackson's death. Amateur psychologists will make enormous amounts of money slicing up his brain and psyche to find out whether he was black or white, male or female, adult or child, 'nosephillic' , 'chimpanphilic' or paedophilic. Vultures will sell his pictures of his "dying"; maybe they will even try to sell autopsy pictures and/or body parts. Disgusting.

But let them. To Michael's adoring fans -- such as Asabea -- what counts is the spirit of the man. A spirit that moved other people's spirits; a spirit that like that of Adonais, will never die. A spirit that commands total strangers:

Oh weep for Adonais!
For he is dead.