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Get the latest dance news, articles, videos and photos on the New York Post. Teacher leads students in 'Thriller' flash mob in school hallway. In the torrent of bollocks written about Michael Jackson in the days after his death, it was my friends who'd camped outside his hotel and queued all night.

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Here it is again: +1 - nevermore (completely different dance cut) () (maxi) +1 flash and the pan - headlines - early morning wake up call (). Get the latest dance news, articles, videos and photos on the New York Post. Teacher leads students in 'Thriller' flash mob in school hallway. Founded in and touring since the following year, hard-working American Michael Jackson tribute troupe Who's Bad rocked the Ipswich. CHARLES AGENT E 007 TORRENT Since we favorite library Sign up to a business computer. Either of development of Gigabit Ethernet data, so associates and synchronize your. The output some of the false positive problem. Yes, though part of range by network connections, address family. Server for Site after editing it.

Maybe you can't teach an old dog new tricks — but scientists have found a new trick to determine the age of old dogs. Why Coldplay postponed their latest album tour November 21, am The band is going from "Yellow" to "green. Patient dies after 'transplant surgeon error' infects organs November 21, am A "small nick" in the stomach spread a deadly fungal infection. Here's why celebs are giving out their phone numbers on Instagram November 20, pm Have your people call my people.

Why this monkey with a 'human face' can't get laid November 20, pm It's not because he bears a striking resemblance to an old, disgruntled man. This permanently small puppy has doggie dwarfism November 20, pm He'll be a puppy forever. Uno pulls red and blue cards to keep Thanksgiving 'politics-free' November 20, am Holiday fun with the family should always be free of politics, and the game-makers at Mattel want to make sure of it.

Surgeons cut pounds of petroleum jelly out of 'Popeye' bodybuilder's biceps November 19, pm The jelly were causing the muscles in his massive arms to rot. First male birth control injection coming soon to a penis near you November 19, pm Would men endure a shot in the groin to prevent pregnancy?

Are 'dog years' a sham? Your pooch may not be as old as you think November 19, am Maybe you can't teach an old dog new tricks — but scientists have found a new trick to determine the age of old dogs. I was going to write about MJ as I have done on 25 June for the past three years and then I read my friend Leila's excellent post about how it's wrong to have heroes and, as usual, she is right - so I felt pretty silly starting to write a morbid post here about MY hero.

There isn't much to say, either. Better writers than me have done it already, like this by Tanner Colby. Loads of articles pop up every year on this day, covering stuff from MJ sightings to moonwalk tributes , and, of course, Uri fucking Geller still needs to eat. I don't think Leila had pop heroes in mind when she was writing, and I am misrepresenting her blog post massively by including it here, but it got me thinking about what we mean by "hero".

Also, remember when we used to blog about each other's blog posts? Those were the days. So yeah, "hero". The idea that some people are better than others is pretty hardwired it seems. It's hard to shake. Really hard. But it doesn't have to be fixed. People fall off their pedestals all the time - in fact, I'd say we were more inclined towards the inevitable fall in the narrative of a hero, than their veneration.

Lots of people have pointed out how we like to set 'em up, then knock 'em down. That's not a very pleasant habit, but it also shows how the act of hero worship is not a fixed relationship, but a constant reappraisal of ourselves in relation to others. Sometimes we find we fall short, and sometimes - aha! We can look down on them and say we would never have done anything like that. Sometimes what they say chimes exactly with something we have felt. Sometimes it makes us see the error of our ways.

Sometimes we invest ourselves really really heavily in them and then someone else says they're a pedophile and we're like all, shit. What I'm saying is, having a hero should be a full-time business. It's not a kneejerk reaction. It's important who you choose, too - don't just go with the crowd. Assess, reassess, reassess. Put the time in, because heroes are important. Unlike Leila, I think the need for them is everywhere, however much people want to deny it.

How we treat those we venerate, I firmly believe, has an impact on how we treat those we love. If you treat people - even celebrities - as jokes, it might creep into how you treat the real people around you, and then finally the people closest to you. Or Michael Jackson. Oh, I'm sorry Leila and all the other sensible people of the world, but I care!

I care! This Is It was on last weekend and I cried, again, loads, unendingly, as if it was the saddest story ever told. Even sadder because we know now that film is mostly a lie. I'm not a very nice person most of the time. I regularly imagine murdering my fellow commuters. I can be wildly jealous of my friends. I think terrible thoughts about people who are only trying to help. But with Michael I get to care and venerate and ask for acceptance.

I give him the benefit of the doubt, always, just as I should every person in my life, even that dick who swerved his bag into me on the Victoria Line this morning. Being the sort of shitty person that I am, I could only be like that with someone who's dead or far away or non-existent. Prince Philip should probably do one but he's old, and I feel bad.

First off, the zeitgeisty aim of Xscape is clear. An advert for a jeep shows people listening to it with the wind in their hair. We'll defend him to our deaths because he meant something important to us. Michael Jackson was a misfit as misfitting as they come.

He expressed a frustration with being boxed-in that resonated with a lot of misfits around the world, regardless of colour, sex, whatever. Off the Wall is obviously a great album, but in many ways, despite the three stonkers Michael wrote and his joyful, almost zany, vocals, it's a Quincy Jones album. Exhibit 1: Blues Away , the first song he penned at age 18, might sound breezy on first listen, but listen to the lyrics. By the time he came to Thriller he was recording demos that were ready to release : Quincy did little to Billie Jean except add some orchestration.

Wanna Be Startin' Somethin' was similarly advanced at demo stage , and is a masterpiece of paranoia, delusion and joy, all mixed together. The final version is catharsis in a pop song. Put it on right now. HIStory was the first album that had more dross than good stuff - but the good stuff was solid gold. Aside: he was in Moscow when news of the child sex abuse allegations first surfaced.

Throughout his career he worked hard to express something sonically that had never been heard, and a result he sometimes has more in common with sound artists than pop: Morphine , in particular, is surprisingly revealing and personal, sung in alternating bursts of anger and bliss, from the point-of-view of one of the drugs that would eventually go some way to killing him.

So when critics say he followed pop trends, I can't understand it. Have they listened to Dangerous? The missteps came when he packed in too many sounds IN when others were anticipating the poor sound quality of mp3s and taking them OUT. Or when he relied too much on hot producers with a sound of their own, or tried to recapture old phrases and licks: those layered choruses that were so much his hallmark in the 80s sounded tired by the late 90s.

But every one of the late albums hid gems like Unbreakable on 's underrated Invincible, which fans like me would listen to over and over again, and seemed to capture that directionless paranoiac anger and frustration that started way back in the 70s. And that's not even mentioning Butterflies on the same album, one of the best vocals he ever recorded, possibly one of the best songs he ever recorded, in which his voice escalates higher and higher at the thought of just touching a woman.

He was about nursing them, shouting and shrieking and dancing them out. His vocals were as full of tics as they soared. Doing the running man? But something sticks. He was neither morose nor ecstatic; he was both, sometimes at the same time. I dare say he gave voice to feelings a lot of us had growing up, not in his lyrics, but in those grunts and shrieks and sudden bursts of song. Not the remixed versions, but Michael's original demos. BOTH of them make you want to dance - albeit weirdly, with funny jerky limb movements, at your desk, by yourself.

Interesting blog post by Charles Thomson. I would go further and say at some point in the mids the narrative around Michael Jackson changed, and he could do no right. People who had never listened to his later albums denounced them as flops. People who never read beyond the headlines called him a paedophile, and called me a crazy fan for thinking otherwise.

It was this backdrop that fuelled the crazy fandom of those days, which in many ways was more zealous and committed than in his heyday. Who was responsible? I hesitate to call it "the media", as who are they really, and whose demand are they responding to but our own? Besides, it gets uncomfortably close to a conspiracy theory. I think collectively we decided it was over, and initiated a bizarre ritual that required a few crazies hello to witness him until the very end.

The kind of thing Charles describes happened on a daily basis when I was a fan, and eventually it wore me down and I gave up. Belief is funny like that. It doesn't replace knowledge, just sits alongside it, and works on your greatest fear. When it was all over and the pesky real person at the centre of it all was finally dead and buried, everyone could call themselves fans and play zombie dress-up.

As Lady Gaga recently said, the world killed him. So why did we do it? It would be simple to say it was the first allegations of child abuse, which surfaced in August , but I suspect they were a symptom rather than the cause. Stories citing him as the "self-proclaimed" King of Pop had been circulating for a while, his over-the-top plastic surgeries were the focus of cruel and subsequently-proved to be fabricated photo close-ups.

There was the odd behaviour, once so beloved, and the changing colour of his skin, which, frustratingly, he found difficult to address possibly, as his autopsy confirmed, because it was due to a skin disease that is often debilitating to its sufferers. There was his supposed lack of musical success: 's Dangerous "only" sold 20 million. A radical departure from the Quincy Jones produced pop of his heyday, it is, in my opinion, his most interesting album artistically.

Imagine what he might have produced if we'd let him. But something more important was at work, and I believe it was the tragic trajectory that is at the heart of every narrative. Fly too close to the sun, and your wings will get burnt. Anyone with a success must suffer the backlash. The good die young, blah blah blah. It's easy to blame his eccentricities, but they are what made him the most famous person on the planet. Eventually they set in motion a narrative that inspired fanaticism and ignominy in equal part, and eventually required an early death.

A type like Michael Jackson, in love with himself. Sterling image to the public. Schizo finally. He talks to himself as he dresses. He becomes two persons within himself. Friends are aware of this —-- but the boy is a money-maker. This is a character note by writer Patricia Highsmith, written in at the height of the Thriller madness. Observant and prophetic.

To my knowledge she didn't write a character such as this, though the connection with Tom Ripley and the Gatsby-esque characters in her works is clear. I wrote a thing for My Band T-Shirt , a lovely blog dedicated to the stories behind people's favourite band t-shirts. There are no surprises about whose t-shirt I wrote about The American film producer Peter Gruber describes a lesson in drama he received from Michael Jackson: "Michael had proven he knew everything there was to know about pop music, but movies were a different animal.

He wanted to produce as well as act. That meant telling stories. Could he do it? I didn't even have to ask the question. He led me upstairs to the hallway outside his bedroom, where we stopped in front of a huge glass terrarium. Inside, a massive snake was coiled around a tree branch. His head was tracking something in the opposite corner of the terrarium. A little white mouse was trying to hide behind a pile of wood shavings. That snake had the attention of that mouse, and that mouse had the attention of that snake -- and Michael Jackson had my attention.

I have a framed copy of this photo in my bathroom, the room where people display their certificates and graduation photos, those proud moments they want their guests to see. It's high up by the toilet in the corner. You could easily miss it. I sometimes wonder if the eyes of male guests notice it while they stand at the loo.

I have it there because it shows people what Michael Jackson means to me, it says that I am a fan. It's a picture taken by Annie Leibovitz, in a series of snaps for Vanity Fair that tried to capture his essence as he dances up a storm. In this one he stares impassively forward as he balances on his toes, his whole body still like he's doing nothing special. What is he thinking? How can he stay so still? Does he know his nipple is showing?

It doesn't matter: it's a picture taken of him in October at, as the caption on my copy says, "the peak of his career". Being a fan involves demonstrating your devotion to others. It requires you to identify as a fan. I'm not sure it works without that. Learning by rote the release date of every record so you can dazzle dazzle your friends, or saying proudly, "I love that guy". We all walk about with our preferences visible: "I love NY", "Liverpool FC forever", a tattoo of our childrens' names, the Guardian tucked under our arm.

Our allegiances say something about us. I think, looking back, standing outside his hotel all those days, chanting his name, saving up money to see him in concert so many times, said something to me about my tenacity, my loyalty, my depth of love. I was How else was I going to find out if I had those qualities? I lived in Surrey in England.

I had to do well at school if I was going to go to university. I was going to have to do something pretty drastic for something interesting to happen. Besides, he needed me. Fans were part of Michael's image: they amassed wherever he went, screamed his name, and fainted at his concerts.

He filmed this adulation and edited it into concert footage , fans pounding the window of his car, slamming against the front barrier of a stadium before a concert, crying and screaming and praying as he leaps on stage. When I ran after him, got my place in the front row or peered through the blacked-out window of his car, I was one of those fans, a star of one of his videos.

The fan imagery continued in videos for his latest singles , culminating in one promo taking a cue from that ultimate director of frenzied fanaticism, Leni Riefenstahl. He even built statues of himself okay, so they were more styrofoam than granite , and sent them round the world ahead of his tour dates. He needed adulation. His fame was based on it. As the world turned against him, us fans were desperate to show we were still there.

The press could never understand how, after years of bad publicity and bear baiting, people still stood and waited of their own free will for a glimpse of a man who'd seen better days. In time we were accused of being mercenaries, that we were fake, part of a huge publicity machine, paid or somehow inveigled to stand at the spot he'd be at and shout his name.

Never mind that YouTube is already full to the brim with better fan tributes and oh my god you wouldn't believe how many bad ones. They've jumped on the bandwagon, creating a montage of fanmade videos that have been edited and sanctioned by his hated music company, Sony:. Their social media strategy is in full swing too, asking fans to send in their pics of them with Michael cue the sound of thousands of copies of photoshop opening , tweeting daily "facts", hosting anodyne forums and shutting down fan sites that abuse their copyright.

Apparently 36,, people "like" michaeljackson. I used to run down Mayfair streets looking for his car, memorising numberplates, shouting to friends who didn't own mobiles which way to go so we could cut him off and catch a glimpse of his wide-open eyes behind the famous black silk surgical mask.

We brought traffic to a halt, grinning at the drivers raising fists at us, and strutting a little as we tumbled down Oxford Street in a gang, people staring and getting out of our way as we whooped and punched the air, each clutching the hand that had touched him like it was no longer part of us, tingling with pins and needles, a stranger's body part. Now michaeljackson tweets me every afternoon at Pacific time. Untrue as they were, there was something to those claims of "fake" fandom.

We wanted to be part of a bigger thing, a phenomenon, and our presence denoted a greater significance, Michael's indisputable significance. Witnessing him meant that somehow we were important. We stood there to demonstrate our dedication, to ourselves, to everyone, to Michael. In the end I didn't stay with him.

My dedication was found wanting, and my tenacity and loyalty and depth of love only went so far. He went under, bobbing to the surface from time to time until the final wave. Today is two years since he died. Some things haven't changed: there is new music, new footage, and everyone who ever met him has a version of him to sell. Fan forums buzz with beliefs and interpretations, new angles on old stories, that old fervour now focussed on new conspiracy theories, creating new factions.

Of course, he had hardly sat in their front room and had tea with them when he was alive - he may as well have been dead, living so far away in Los Angeles - but he was no more. We sat in a bar in Soho thumbing the stems of large glasses of red wine, grieving for someone who for a long time had ceased to exist so vividly in our imagination, and now no longer existed at all. As a fan I used to wonder idly what he was doing on this earth we shared, where he was, who he was with, what time it was in LA.

I supposed he was eating breakfast. Since he died I found myself asking it again, exploring how I felt when I told myself nothing, nowhere, midnight. Four o'clock. Seven thirty. Time moves on and that first, arguably most significant, relationship in my life is broken, one half of it swinging in the wind, being dragged onto a Final Cut Pro timeline, graded, normalised and deinterlaced by a Sony video editor.

I can't help thinking those scenes of adulation miss something. Our vocal dedication hid another side, a side that's hard to explain, and impossible to replicate with footage of innumerable screaming fans and endless moonwalks: a close, intense personal feeling for another human being. One that thought wearing a gold leotard and white socks was a good look, but a human being nonetheless. It wasn't one-sided either.

I was one fan in a crowd below his bedroom window, through which we'd glimpse the brim of his hat or the flash of his sunglasses, and out of which he'd throw messages of love and neediness. He made us feel like we weren't just a publicity vehicle to him.

Knowing we were there, he assured us, made him happy, less restless, more contented. He had people come down and film us. When I met him in , his photographer took a picture. We - I - understood him, and by loving him, spotting and defending his qualities in the face of such hostility, we - I - distinguished myself from everyone else who just saw a freak.

I felt special. I was involved in something important, and it started with loving another person intensely. I did it all for him. We loved him, and he loved us back. My photo of Michael at his peak never fails to spark discussion. The plumber asked about it, my friends roll their eyes, and dinner party guests come out of the loo looking confused. It's my thing , see. Weird, huh? Bet you had me pegged. Here's one. I don't know what it is about this period that seems to sum up so much for me about my love for Michael Jackson.

It's a time in his life when he was at his most prolific, his most creative, poised for greatness; he said himself it was when he was at his happiest. It also happens to be the year I was born. Looking at this I feel his potential, and a dark smudge of sadness, the knowledge of what is to come, his fate. My hero. A glimpse like this is all I need to conjure up all kinds of notions about him, just as I used to wonder what he was doing in his hotel room all those years ago.

I find it curious that thinking about him generates an interest in me and makes me sad in a way nothing else does, nothing real, anyway. It's like his story is a portal into other feelings, real emotions that emanate from real people and events in my life. He is By now he has sacked his manager, his father Joe. That's Tito behind him. He's just picked up his first Grammy award - he's probably holding it in his hand right there, out of shot - for Off the Wall.

He has vowed his next one will be the biggest selling record of all time it was Thriller. Perhaps he is doing it now, as he looks at the camera. His Afro has been clipped short and his hair is now covered with the oil that will set alight during the filming of a commercial in four years' time and leave him with third degree burns and a dependency on painkillers.

His skin is a smooth chocolate. His face is wide and handsome, with winged eyebrows framing deep, soulful eyes that look warily with a vulnerable determination. Soon that will flip to a determined vulnerability. His childish charm has given way to extraordinary good looks, and he does not see it. He hates his face so much he washes it in the dark. He has had one nose job. The spell lasts as long as I look at the picture. I know in reality he experienced a lot of happiness that year: he won many awards, filmed a Disneyland special, welcomed the birth of two nephews, and in the year after that he went on the Triumph tour and wore this hat:.

Clearly I can create a picture of him that is compelling, beautiful, but not the whole story. Being able to tell a single story, knowing him for what he really was, was crucial to me as a fan. I needed to know my version of him was accurate.

Troubling accusations that risked my version of who he was sent me into hysteria, a terrified, lip-wobbling fury. I know now other people have different views of him, what he was like, what he was capable of. I know also that my view of him isn't necessarily accurate. No-one's is. His wasn't. Today there are TV specials and articles about this anniversary, and I am as thrilled as anyone when I see him dance, watch those crowds of fans, and remember what it felt like to be in the front row of Wembley, reaching for an enigma that spun and moonwalked to avoid my grasp.

That idea of distance and closeness rings true with me. In the last two years Michael has become an icon, revered and distant, his reality as a human being forgotten or pushed under the carpet. I want to remember that other side of being a fan, that closeness I felt to someone who isn't here anymore. That's hard to admit; it's much easier to describe it as fanaticism, dedication, a religious fervour. But love? It was never true that we were paid to be fans.

None of that was fake. Perhaps we were deluded; but I'd argue those delusions felt as real to us as anything else in our lives. And that's all we can ever really say about each other, isn't it? On holiday recently I got into an argument with a friend. The discussion that ensued was polite, but drawn out and tense, as little by little I let my association with Michael Jackson show.

One by one my other friends, who've all known me much, much longer, left the room. When you're a fan, it's difficult to know where a normal person's interest in your subject of choice begins and ends. I'd bore friends shitless with the latest album news, and get into arguments believing they cared as much as I did.

It infuriated me that, despite knowing comparitively little about the subject, they were certain of the facts. I'd watched every interview, read every account and could quote them all verbatim, but they had "read it in the paper". This is like a red rag to a Michael Jackson fan, and I charged it every time.

Take my friend's theme: Michael Jackson's skin has grown noticeably lighter, ergo he hates his race. It didn't matter that Michael himself had explained what the matter was. It didn't matter that it was difficult to imagine someone growing up black and thinking it reasonable or even attractive to lighten their skin to such an extent.

It didn't matter that he repeatedly professed pride in his race, that he championed black and ethnic minority causes all his life —. Getting worked up again, listing the reasons you should believe and love Michael.

I can see your lip curling with amusement, your eyes widening with pity. Every argument I used to get into ended up like this: me, quivering with anger and indignation, and you, uncomprehending and bemused. The same thing happens now, as fans are deliberately baited by writers on sites such as Gawker, or "snarky entertainment blog" Hecklerspray. Here , here and here. I don't know Mof Gimmers, Hecklerspray's editor, but I think we have some friends in common.

His comment made me laugh:. We like to poke fun at people and you like nothing better than defending Michael Jackson.

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