Like everyone else who lived through the ’80s, I felt a jolt of surprise when reading about Michael Jackson’s death. The coverage has been painful to follow, because a lot of the news is a self-generating loop about how people are reacting to the news. That, and his most dedicated fans, the ones they’re interviewing for context, are barking mad. When Tori Amos dies in about 40 years there will be small, sobbing crowds of poets with names like Trixie Peablossom Spacedog, wearing pixie wings and clutching copies of Little Earthquakes.
Anyone under the age of, say, 25 would be unable to remember a time when Jackson was actually relevant to pop culture. They must be wondering what the fuss is about.
