Wednesday, September 03, 2008

Tina Turner

Fatboy Slim - Michael Jackson

I overheard a woman on the train the other day telling her friend about a party she’d been to at the weekend. The DJ (by all accounts he was one of those cheesy old school flashing light box DJ’s of yesteryear), for some inexplicable reason, decided to drop ‘Rock and Roll Part One’ by Gary Glitter. Of course she said, it cleared the dancefloor. No one wants to be seen dancing to the music of a convicted nonce. Or do they? Apparently, one brave soul stayed on and properly wigged out. He was ostracized for the rest of the night and will probably rot in hell, at least if the outraged female storyteller has got anything to do with it. But I have a grudging respect for this lone dancing rebel. He was probably so skulled he didn’t even make the connection. And anyway, out of context, it's a fine tune, with the kind of infectious, bludgeoning tribal rhythm that demands some kind of hip shaking. If anything, it’s the DJ’s fault. If he hadn’t played it, the dude wouldn’t have been compelled to dance.

I can remember having a conversation with a friend a while back. We were trying to work out of it was OK to still like ‘The Thick of It’ in light of Chris Langham’s conviction. Yes, we eventually decided. Of course it was. It doesn’t stop being funny, does it?

It’s the same with Michael Jackson. Whenever I hear anybody talk about Jacko these days, it’s always with a certain air of shamefaced guilt. I'm definitely not his biggest fan, but ‘Off the Wall’ is an incredible album, and I fondly remember gathering around the old VCR to watch the John Landis 13-minute ‘Director’s Cut’ of the 'Thriller' video my Dad had taped off The Tube the night before. Do families come together to watch monumental TV events like this anymore? I was only 10 and it scared me shitless, but the dancing was bugged out. MJ was cool. Like a billion others, I wished I could dance like him.

Is there really any point to all this random pontificating? Not really. Well, kind of. MJ turned 50 last Friday. It beggars belief that he is half a century old. Happy Birthday Wacko you plastic-faced, baby dangling nutjob*. I would post something by you, but the handful of regulars might boycott my blog. Instead, up there is Norman’s awesome tribute to MJ. Altogether now, “Tina Turner, Michael Jackson…”

Until next time.


(* I know you’re skint, but please don’t sue me. I have nothing.)

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