Michael Jackson was my very first exposure to pop music. Back when I was still a child, my mother had always stuck the radio to the very “auntie” chinese radio station 95.8FM. Although there were the occasional few mandarin pop songs that I loved, the rest of the playlist were nearly non-understandable. Like, 1950s and 1960s stuff.
My head often breaks down at trying to grasp the meaning of the songs, but I often fail to do so (probably the germination of the chinese “potato” within me). I came to think that songs were about undecipherable words, and that I was only supposed to jig along with the rythmn. It worked well for the few more recent mando-pop songs the oldie station played, so that was the way I perceived music.
Until Michael Jackson.
Remember how you were sometimes overly obsessed with skipping between the small gaps in the tiles within large shopping malls for luck’s sake, and suddenly had the realisation that not only did it not work, but it was silly?
Well, imagine a ton of bricks falling off my back when in my primary 6 year, my class music teacher played Black or White on the tape deck in the music room.
I mean, it still wasn’t legible, because the singer shouts the lyrics too fast for my young ears to comprehend. But the screams, the hiccups, the high-pitched grunts were magical. It’s like somebody conveying his emotions, loud and clear, into my heart. And I could feel the bitterness tinged with hope. All that, before I could understand the term “racial discrimination”.
Of course, later on I would learn about the power of music as a conversational medium, but there’s no need to prove anything to my primary 6 self. I was touched by the song. Maybe even addicted. Since that was before the age of Compact Discs (spelled with nicely capitalised “C” and “D”), so a few of my classmates volunteered to dub copies of the music tapes off the “Dangerous” album for the rest of the class.
After I got my copy, I went home and switched off boring 95.8FM. Insert the newly dubbed tape, and woke the whole house up with “Black or White”. I got barred from the tape player for a few weeks after that. I guess suddenly playing a tape full of suggestive shouts where you’re used to only play tapes full of nursery rhymes is enough to scare your mother. I suggest nobody try this, especially if your family is traditionally conservative.
Introduction of Michael Jackson to Mums and Dads need to be done gently, lest you find yourself grounded. But even so, it was well worth the shocked expressions, even if the next few tapeless weeks were unbearable.
Later generations of Mums and Dads would forever forbid their sons and daughters from making Michael their idols after the baby dangling incident. Ok, and the alleged child molestation charges. I still maintain his innocence though; his actions show that he probably has a side that has never followed his 50 year old stature.
It is thus that it was a sad morning for me, when I woke up to see Twitter abuzz with news of Michael Jackson death. At 50 years old, he is way before his time; but for a man with multiple health issues, and under the intense pressure of public scrutiny, it’s probably the best he could have managed.
His music and philantrophic work has touched the lives of many. At least, he has certainly touched mine.
Rest in peace, Michael.
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