ATG sizes it all up.
Dangerous memories are the fondest.
The 1991 release was Jackson's last great album, last reign of blinding humanity before the eccentric's personal series of collapses really began plaguing him. Thriller and Off The Wall are the world-soundtracking cornerstones; Dangerous is the forgotten triumph.
Dangerous is the magic eye album cover, frying corneas from a bewildering stare; the definitive tape rocked til my tape popped cassette for anyone born between '83-'88; Macaulay Culkin in stunner shades; the simplistic, honest, literal call for social understanding be they black, white or animorphing black panther; escaping the clutches of Eddie Murphy and Magic Johnson in ancient Egypt; the Super Bowl halftime show from the Leon Lett game.
The highlights never stopped for the show-stopping song and dance man - the "Free Willy" jam, the lavish, still-banging Janet duet in space - but after Dangerous we turned to hungry understudies like Teddy Riley and Usher. We started listening to Coolio and Pac as Michael's demons defined him.
What a source of pride and inspiration to hip-hop.
I mean how many times was Michael sampled? James Brown, Curtis Mayfield and George Clinton's arrangements made surefire gold more prominently, fine, but I count roughly 10 billion bits and flips from the infinite producers looping the intro bars of "Never Can Say Goodbye" to Kanye West blowing up a minor, song-closing silhouette from "P.Y.T." into three minutes of chart gold.
Sonically, Michael served as ambassador between the cocaine disco era of black music, to the heavy, backbeat-based invasion of hip-hop. From silver sequins no one else can pull off to kicking it with Wesley Snipes at grimy train stations with spray cans.
For all its hardness and alpha aims, the best rappers swagger-jacked the shit outta Michael. The dancing, the party grooves, the fashion. Really, it was about perspective and ambition: An African-American from a working class family in Gary, Indiana can be massive, so can I, the sheer spectacle and grandeur inspired by his media.
What a source of pride and inspiration to Americans.
The biggest pop star in modern history is one of ours and he's been a giant forever. In 1969, the only band with a comparable discography in terms of mass consumption recorded and released Abbey Road. It's the best thing The Beatles ever made. Arguably, anyway. Amazing. Grandiose.
All the while, however, a 10 year-old Michael Jackson recorded that year's best song. Arguably, anyway. Massive. Earnest.
"I Want You Back" sings the passion and blues more convincingly than John and Paul. The otherwise absurd notion that a sheltered little boy can preach heartache, lust and passion is never questioned because of that one-in-a-million voice.
And unlike Mickey Rourke, River Phoenix, Buddy Holly, Elvis, Len Bias, the raw, tender talent only burned brighter and brighter until inmates in the Philippines emulated his moves in unison, leaving no question of its potential.
In mourning, pundits and colleagues are rallying around a particular point that the Austin-American Statesman's Patrick Caldwell happened to present to us in an email I'll cite for its concise summation:
"Thought: it feels like a very healthy amount of the mourning over the last 24 hours is as much about the death of music as a global pop cultural force as it is about Michael Jackson. I mean, Jackson sold 750 million albums. That, of course, is insane. That's one album for every seven or so people on the planet Earth. Jackson represents a kind of global cultural touchstone that, as a consequence of the incredible stratification of popular music that's taken place over the last 10 years, will never happen again."
I disagree. Pop will always infect continents quicker than H1N1. The "death of pop" line fails.
The sadness is much simpler. Michael Jackson was superbly talented and the stars aligned and allowed for him to create sublime music everyone loves. Michael's passing eliminates the source, the light. We lost a genius and the possibility of more brilliant, life-altering, era-defining work from that wellspring.
Luckily the loss brings the songs back to the frontal lobe of our collective subconscious, immediately recalled positively, moving forward and superseding the perils. I spent last night celebrating at the Alamo Drafthouse, belting drunk standards in a packed house that emptied so long after last call, 6th Street was scattered cops on Clydesdales and homeless veterans snuggling in nooks.
Here's to his second life.
- Ramon Ramirez
The 1991 release was Jackson's last great album, last reign of blinding humanity before the eccentric's personal series of collapses really began plaguing him. Thriller and Off The Wall are the world-soundtracking cornerstones; Dangerous is the forgotten triumph.
Dangerous is the magic eye album cover, frying corneas from a bewildering stare; the definitive tape rocked til my tape popped cassette for anyone born between '83-'88; Macaulay Culkin in stunner shades; the simplistic, honest, literal call for social understanding be they black, white or animorphing black panther; escaping the clutches of Eddie Murphy and Magic Johnson in ancient Egypt; the Super Bowl halftime show from the Leon Lett game.
The highlights never stopped for the show-stopping song and dance man - the "Free Willy" jam, the lavish, still-banging Janet duet in space - but after Dangerous we turned to hungry understudies like Teddy Riley and Usher. We started listening to Coolio and Pac as Michael's demons defined him.
What a source of pride and inspiration to hip-hop.
I mean how many times was Michael sampled? James Brown, Curtis Mayfield and George Clinton's arrangements made surefire gold more prominently, fine, but I count roughly 10 billion bits and flips from the infinite producers looping the intro bars of "Never Can Say Goodbye" to Kanye West blowing up a minor, song-closing silhouette from "P.Y.T." into three minutes of chart gold.
Sonically, Michael served as ambassador between the cocaine disco era of black music, to the heavy, backbeat-based invasion of hip-hop. From silver sequins no one else can pull off to kicking it with Wesley Snipes at grimy train stations with spray cans.
For all its hardness and alpha aims, the best rappers swagger-jacked the shit outta Michael. The dancing, the party grooves, the fashion. Really, it was about perspective and ambition: An African-American from a working class family in Gary, Indiana can be massive, so can I, the sheer spectacle and grandeur inspired by his media.
What a source of pride and inspiration to Americans.
The biggest pop star in modern history is one of ours and he's been a giant forever. In 1969, the only band with a comparable discography in terms of mass consumption recorded and released Abbey Road. It's the best thing The Beatles ever made. Arguably, anyway. Amazing. Grandiose.
All the while, however, a 10 year-old Michael Jackson recorded that year's best song. Arguably, anyway. Massive. Earnest.
"I Want You Back" sings the passion and blues more convincingly than John and Paul. The otherwise absurd notion that a sheltered little boy can preach heartache, lust and passion is never questioned because of that one-in-a-million voice.
And unlike Mickey Rourke, River Phoenix, Buddy Holly, Elvis, Len Bias, the raw, tender talent only burned brighter and brighter until inmates in the Philippines emulated his moves in unison, leaving no question of its potential.
In mourning, pundits and colleagues are rallying around a particular point that the Austin-American Statesman's Patrick Caldwell happened to present to us in an email I'll cite for its concise summation:
"Thought: it feels like a very healthy amount of the mourning over the last 24 hours is as much about the death of music as a global pop cultural force as it is about Michael Jackson. I mean, Jackson sold 750 million albums. That, of course, is insane. That's one album for every seven or so people on the planet Earth. Jackson represents a kind of global cultural touchstone that, as a consequence of the incredible stratification of popular music that's taken place over the last 10 years, will never happen again."
I disagree. Pop will always infect continents quicker than H1N1. The "death of pop" line fails.
The sadness is much simpler. Michael Jackson was superbly talented and the stars aligned and allowed for him to create sublime music everyone loves. Michael's passing eliminates the source, the light. We lost a genius and the possibility of more brilliant, life-altering, era-defining work from that wellspring.
Luckily the loss brings the songs back to the frontal lobe of our collective subconscious, immediately recalled positively, moving forward and superseding the perils. I spent last night celebrating at the Alamo Drafthouse, belting drunk standards in a packed house that emptied so long after last call, 6th Street was scattered cops on Clydesdales and homeless veterans snuggling in nooks.
Here's to his second life.
- Ramon Ramirez
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