I got back from work on Thursday June 25th to find out from BBC online that Michael Jackson was "seriously ill" and being rushed to hospital. The beeb was reluctant to speculate but various West-Coast media sources quoted his death. I zipped on to 'The Drudge Report' and it reported that he was dead. When 'The Drudge Report' says that you're dead, I thought, you might as well already be 6 Feet underground but, still, I dared hope otherwise.
An hour or so later, as I was walking through Times Square, heading toward nearby Hell's Kitchen, I assumed I would find some kind of confirmation. A sizable crowd had formed around the abcnews ticker-tape screen.
Times Square is New York's answer to Piccadilly Circus in many ways: it has massive florescent lights, nearby theatres, McDonalds, no locals and a million tourists. It is much bigger though and New Yorkers hate it. I don't like the tourists around it and that tacky stuff being sold:WTC statuettes, "I (L) NYC T-Shirts", dodgy-looking kebabs and too many people hoping to pick up a spare dime. Another difference is its huge military recruitment station right in the middle, replete with large red, white and blue lighting, something you DEFINTELY don't get on a prominent platforin central London.
Nonetheless, at the risk of being looked down on as a tourist myself, I can't deny loving Times Square. I always find it reasonably exhilarating to walk through - especially at night - and do so, given half an excus. It was here - well two condensed blocks of revellers away - in-8oc cold, that I started 2009.
Any way, that evening, lots of people were hanging around outside the abc studios, waiting for their news and giving their upset reaction to a large retinue of reporters. I went over and had a look.
They were on an area that had recently been pedestrianised with deck chairs and there was a real variety of onlooker: a black lady with a Southern-sounding accent hugging her son, some loud tourists, unmistakably from the English Midlands, and another family arguing in Spanish as they took pictures of themselves in front of the huge Coca-Cola advert screens.
Very suddenly, ABC announced with certainty that "the king of Pop is dead at 50" on its rolling news screen and the tears and upset were released in the crowd around me.
My love of "Beat It" notwithstanding, I never considered myself a great fan of Michael Jackson, but - still, somehow - I felt like the world was suddenly a lot more empty than it was before. A true star in his hayday and an endearing freak for twenty years since, he was truly unique and one for whom millions of us had an intense curiosity. Like with the passing of George Best a few years ago, his death gave an opportunity to erase his ugly recent past from our minds and to focus instead on the youtube-worthy artistry of his prime.
Fame-averse though I am, I could not say no to the lovely Romanian TV Reporter when she asked me for my reaction to the news. Struggling for a soundbite, I said something about him being an "unforgettable" and an "entertainer". I don't know of anyone in Bucharest, so not sure if I made it on TV, despite my efforts to navigate their website.
Enjoying a Happy Hour and cheap burger a little bit later, the sleepy bar I was in was shaken up as "Smooth Criminal" was put on the stereo and the people in the bar put up a collective cheer. Suddenly, joining other members of the premature dead crowd, he was able to sing from beyond the grave and his star rose.
Whilst there was some level of grief, there was no hysteria. New Yorkers don't really do sentimentalism, It doesn't have the time. They do have time for fair cynicism though. At the Pedestrian Crossing later, I walked behind two New Yorkers debating his relative legendary status. "Well he was The King of Pop, but at least Elvis was no paedophile..."
As I walked towards my Jersey-bound PATH train later on in the evening, I passed a Broadway ticket seller at 42nd Street who summed up the mood: "Jackson's gone but the show goes on".
An hour or so later, as I was walking through Times Square, heading toward nearby Hell's Kitchen, I assumed I would find some kind of confirmation. A sizable crowd had formed around the abcnews ticker-tape screen.
Times Square is New York's answer to Piccadilly Circus in many ways: it has massive florescent lights, nearby theatres, McDonalds, no locals and a million tourists. It is much bigger though and New Yorkers hate it. I don't like the tourists around it and that tacky stuff being sold:WTC statuettes, "I (L) NYC T-Shirts", dodgy-looking kebabs and too many people hoping to pick up a spare dime. Another difference is its huge military recruitment station right in the middle, replete with large red, white and blue lighting, something you DEFINTELY don't get on a prominent platforin central London.
Nonetheless, at the risk of being looked down on as a tourist myself, I can't deny loving Times Square. I always find it reasonably exhilarating to walk through - especially at night - and do so, given half an excus. It was here - well two condensed blocks of revellers away - in-8oc cold, that I started 2009.
Any way, that evening, lots of people were hanging around outside the abc studios, waiting for their news and giving their upset reaction to a large retinue of reporters. I went over and had a look.
They were on an area that had recently been pedestrianised with deck chairs and there was a real variety of onlooker: a black lady with a Southern-sounding accent hugging her son, some loud tourists, unmistakably from the English Midlands, and another family arguing in Spanish as they took pictures of themselves in front of the huge Coca-Cola advert screens.
Very suddenly, ABC announced with certainty that "the king of Pop is dead at 50" on its rolling news screen and the tears and upset were released in the crowd around me.
My love of "Beat It" notwithstanding, I never considered myself a great fan of Michael Jackson, but - still, somehow - I felt like the world was suddenly a lot more empty than it was before. A true star in his hayday and an endearing freak for twenty years since, he was truly unique and one for whom millions of us had an intense curiosity. Like with the passing of George Best a few years ago, his death gave an opportunity to erase his ugly recent past from our minds and to focus instead on the youtube-worthy artistry of his prime.
Fame-averse though I am, I could not say no to the lovely Romanian TV Reporter when she asked me for my reaction to the news. Struggling for a soundbite, I said something about him being an "unforgettable" and an "entertainer". I don't know of anyone in Bucharest, so not sure if I made it on TV, despite my efforts to navigate their website.
Enjoying a Happy Hour and cheap burger a little bit later, the sleepy bar I was in was shaken up as "Smooth Criminal" was put on the stereo and the people in the bar put up a collective cheer. Suddenly, joining other members of the premature dead crowd, he was able to sing from beyond the grave and his star rose.
Whilst there was some level of grief, there was no hysteria. New Yorkers don't really do sentimentalism, It doesn't have the time. They do have time for fair cynicism though. At the Pedestrian Crossing later, I walked behind two New Yorkers debating his relative legendary status. "Well he was The King of Pop, but at least Elvis was no paedophile..."
As I walked towards my Jersey-bound PATH train later on in the evening, I passed a Broadway ticket seller at 42nd Street who summed up the mood: "Jackson's gone but the show goes on".
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