Kate Solomon

After the is-he-isn’t-he drama, the shock of it actually being true and a day of jokes tasteless or otherwise, I realised today that Michael Jackson actually* died. I’ve read the entire Guardian MJ tribute edition cover to cover, I’ve got Thriller on and I’ve been seeking out internet grief; needless to say, I’m feeling gloomy. And soz, I’m going to do that annoying ‘feel-it share-it’ thing that the internet compels us all to do.

I was born in the ’80s [thanks, Calvin Harris, but this really isn't the time] so Michael Jackson has been a household name my whole life. 1984 wasn’t solely notable for my birth, it was also the year that Jacko’s hair caught fire whilst filming an advert and the term ‘Wacko Jacko’ was coined in response to news that he slept in an oxygen tent and wanted to buy the Elephant Man’s remains. Such is the nature of cultural memory that I feel as though I remember all that happening.

What I really remember, though, is being obsessed with Dangerous with it’s weird, opulent cover art and Macaulay Culkin cameos. It was one of the staple soundtracks to epic NES sessions with my older sister. I remember loving Earth Song more than any song I’d heard before, dancing around the living room filled with passion for saving the planet and spreading the love through the power of pop (thank the lord there’s no video footage of this).

I remember Pepsi adverts taped on VHS in the ad breaks of Disney films and watching them again and again and again. I remember my first day at my gymnastics club, thinking it was the single greatest place on earth because one of the warm-ups was done to Bad. I remember that hat, white socks with black shoes, the glitter, the glitz, those iconic dance moves.

So yeah, I am sad that Michael Jackson has died. But I feel weirdly detached from the sorrow that the rest of the world seems to be feeling. I can’t get on board with lighting candles, moonwalking flashmobs or the gnashing of teeth and pulling of hair. I don’t think there’s any celebrity whose illness or untimely demise would compel me to camp outside their hospital. Why is that? After all, it took me ages to stop being bothered about Heath Ledger’s death and I even shed a tear over Steve Irwin, and neither of them had half as much impact on my life.

It’s really sad that someone has died – and died young. That man has children, parents, siblings, friends. He had fans and unfinished business and plans for the future. But that man isn’t the man I remember from my childhood. The Michael Jackson I cared about hasn’t been around for a really long time, and that’s why I feel really sad without feeling any real loss.

So here’s to that Michael Jackson. Thanks for being a part of my childhood Jacko.

*conspiracy theories aside, you nuts