Michael Jackson (1958 - 2009)
Ravi Mundoli -
Monday, June 29, 2009 2:13 PM
In which we discuss the dietary preferences of geese
Michael Jackson died last week. It was a hugely significant moment for me when I got the news, and my life has not been the same from that point forward. Mostly because for the first time ever, I got real news from Facebook before the BBC. Facebook also informed me that in his dotage, Harrison Ford forgot to lock the door of the fridge while shooting the next Indiana Jones movie at an unspecified location in North Korea, and was duly microwaved; that Jeff Goldblum was fried to a crisp while shooting for a film in New Zealand by a very annoyed Balrog that Peter Jackson forgot to pay; and that Emraan Hashmi and Himesh Reshamia, apart from being anagrams of each other, are actually the same person.
It was with great difficulty that I managed to separate fact from fiction, and it finally dawned on me that Mykellu Jacksonnu (this is his Telugu name) was no more. Status messages of several friends had references to the unfortunate event, and it was only then that I really became aware of how much he meant to so many people. In a show of empathy, I changed my status to "Who died?" which prompted questions about my paternity (a camel was mentioned) in 6 different languages from various "friends".
Only after Mark Zuckerberg invented Facebook and Jackson moonwalked off this mortal coil did I realize how much a part of practically everyone's growing up he was, and even though he hasn't been in our faces lately, how entrenched he was in people's minds. All this came as a bit of a surprise to me, seeing as the only English songs I seem to have heard in the 80s were by Jim Reeves, Boney M, and their ilk. Jackson did not figure anywhere in the musical firmament.
Actually, that's not true. There was one place where MJ reigned supreme, and that was in the rarefied heights of Telugu (and Tamil) cinema. Jackson's popularity was an important part of the creative processes of a whole generation of lyricists, choreographers, and Dancing Superstars. At the height of his histrionic prowess, Megastar Chiranjeevi paid Jackson the ultimate compliment (imitation = most sincere form of flattery) by remaking Thriller. Of course, it's quite possible that things happened the other way round. In other words, I humbly request Megastar Fan Clubs Associations to please refrain from burning down my house. Jacksonu looksu and Jacksonu stepsu found their way into songs in movies such as Kokila and Sundarakanda (And many others. The names fail me, help!), and everyone with a jacket seemed to have forgotten how to take their feet off the ground. And who can forget Prabhu Deva unleashed in Chikku Bukku Railey and Urvasi Urvasi?
So it turns out after all, that Jackson was an important part of my life, and I hadn't realized it. And my friends were possibly right to bludgeon me on the head with Facebook and other things to point this out. The last time I felt non-trivially emotional about a musician's death was when I woke up one snowy New England morning to hear a dour voice on the radio announcing that George had died, and then they played Something. It was a fight-back-tears, lump-in-throat moment. And now I sort of understand what the MJ fan is feeling, Whacko Jacko allegations and skin pigment issues notwithstanding. Every time I come up with a snarky, "He's not the only legendary MJ, you know, there are others.", I bite my tongue, because this sort of thing hurts and it's the wrong time. Also partly because they could retort, "They're not the only legendary Beatles, you know, there are others...OK others...OK others...sort of."
For me, that band will always remain the band, no one even comes close in terms of creativity, influence, path-breaking-ness, angst. But even if his music didn't mean much to me directly, I guess MJ's legacy does. So we mark a moment's silence at Filter Coffee before moving onto more trivial and pleasant issues such as the plight of the scheduled tribes of Andhra Pradesh (upcoming).
P.S.: Just realized that I didn't touch upon the dietary preferences of geese at all. Or did I? Ah, in a nutshell, what I wanted to say, apropos of people's taste in Jackson's music, was that not necessarily is sauce for goose = sauce for gander. Finis.