Sitting in the restaurant, waiting for our order, the din is cut by a very young Michael Jackson’s voice over the sound system: “A-B-C / 1-2-3 / Baby you and me!” An amazing pop song.
What happened to that exuberant youth? He faded, literally, into the wraith who died last week. Died for the few who knew him, that is. For most of the millions who mourned, who knew him only through songs, he died forty years ago, or thirty years ago, or twenty years ago—their version of Michael Jackson died long before his body did.
The muse is so fickle, touching few, favoring then casting them aside, that I find myself mourning the death of many still-living artists who I know only through their art.
But with preservation and mechanical reproduction, their art lives on, so in a real sense each version of Michael Jackson will live forever, cutting through the din of crowded restaurants, grabbing us while we sit waiting for our orders.
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