It was 1972 and I wasn’t even seven years old yet. I spent the better part of my time in those early days staring off into space, reading comic books, bouncing on my bed, and staring into the mirror mouthing the words to songs on the radio using my hair brush as the microphone. I loved Rocket Man, and Backstabbers, Ventura Highway, Why Can’t We Live Together, and Doctor My Eyes, Alone Again (Naturally), All The Young Dudes, and I didn’t understand what Mac Davis meant by “Baby, don’t get hooked on me…” My brother liked Donny Osmond and he had the coveted “Sweet and Innocent” 45, but I had Michael Jackson.

I swear to God when he sang it was myvoice coming out of those speakers. I learned all the words to Ben, Rockin’ Robin, ABC, Stop the love you save may be your own, and every single 45 I could get my hands on by Michael Jackson, or the Jackson 5. Michael’s voice somehow resonated within me in a way that I don’t even think I can explain today, some thirty seven years later. But I loved him, and he sang to me.

Soon I would forget all about Michael Jackson. I let go of my 45′s and forgot about the radio. The summer of 1977 was all about LP’s, Punk Rock, and fuck you. That was true on the outside, and I would have rather died than let anyone know just how much I loved disco and how little I actually liked rock music of any kind. Still, punk rock was a lifestyle, a beautiful way of giving the world of the Dorothy Hamil wedge, the polyester pant-suit, and the attitude of “if it feels good – do it,” the meaningless sex of swingers, and the fuzzy, filthy, long-haired world the middle finger. So I went with it.

By the end of the 70′s there was no holding back. Off The Wall was far and away one of the greatest albums ever produced. Michael’s voice had matured, and the sound was orchestrated, Quincy Jones had his hands all over this sound, and it was beautiful. Off The Wall was an album I played after the record store closed, when everyone was gone, I could get out my hair brush again, and dance in the mirror, letting that amazing voice sing from within me. I loved it. I loved him. Disco saved my life.

As the 80′s arrived, there was no denying that dancing was back in style. Disco was definitely dead, but something new had replaced it. Rock was stupid, overdone, insincere, and so was punk. The angry man-feelings of popular music was rote by then and I wasn’t paying any attention. Thriller was released and I listened to a promotional copy about a month before it was on the shelves of the stores. What an incredible album. Every single song on the record was amazing. No filler, no bullshit — it was fantastic. Then came the videos, the dance moves, and suddenly everyone was walking around with a fedora on, one white glove, and patent leather shoes with pleated trousers and a watch chain. The world had changed, and there was Michael Jackson’s beautiful voice again right out in front of it all.

From there I have to admit that he lost me. I didn’t follow along as he surgically removed his instrument, and made a spectacle of himself. I held onto that beautiful man from the inside of the album by the Jacksons where he was a radiant black man with beautiful eyes, and an amazing voice. I celebrated the story of a very young man, barley older than I was who had escaped poverty, abuse, and self destruction and rose to the top of the world.

Thank you Michael for your mirroring of my own inner voice. Thank you for letting me know it is ok to sing, to let it out, to step forward, and most of all, to dance.

Good night my beautiful brother. I will miss you until the end of my days.

Off The Wall – Michael Jackson