It was my birthday of late. Grappling with the idea of a theme for a party, there was really only one that was appropriate this year - Michael. Jackson. On hearing of his death, I was gutted. The man was a genius. Crazy, but a genius. But there's a very fine line between the two anyway. Since he died there has been a constant stream of television programming that (often badly) hash together his life, trying to include all the elements: the family, the Jackson Five, the rise to solo fame, the album sales, the marriage to Lisa Marie, the kids. The only things I ever cared about were the tunes and the showmanship. No one could, or will ever be able to dance like that man. No one has transformed themselves through the eras of funky disco, 80s powerchords/guitar solos, geeky early 90s pop and (although it's the worst of his stuff), R n B.So in honour of the man (and my birthday) a few close friends and I celebrated the spectrum of his musical existence, with costumes, alcohol and cheap imitation moonwalking. The result was brilliant, side-splitting and often ironic. We had 'Don't stop til you get enough' Michael with bow tie and mega-fro. We then had late 80s Jacko complete with fedora hat, sparkly glove and aviators. Representing the 90s we had 'Earth Song' MJ, whiter than white with an even whiter vest/shirt combo. It was a quality state of affairs - so many representations of The King of Pop (and yes, he fucking WAS!) in one room that we totally blew the lame party in the flat above clean out of the water. Michael, I hope we did you proud.
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