I was sleeping.
While working at camp, I did a brief stint as a night watchman. My hours were from 8:30pm to 5:00am, so as soon as the minute hand made its 60th checkpoint at the hour mark, I was on my way back down to my cabin, in which I quickly went to sleep. During the day, I had no obligation to anything, so this particular realm of sleep was beyond delightful.
Around 6:30pm, on June 25th, I got a three consecutive texts from some friends.
• Text 1: “Nick! Did u hear about michael jackson?”
• Text 2: “Michael Jackson Is dead! Like, really…”
• Text 3: “Michael Jackson died today.”
…And I honestly froze, in motion and in thought.
I was not ready to hear this.
Allow me to back up a bit.
Way back when, in the wonder years of my youth, I was raised around a rather firm cul-de-sac of musical standards. Raised in a Caribbean household, my mom was a huge CeCe Winans fan. My dad was a devout listener to a popular jazz radio station, only alternating between that and the local Christian music station.
In the early nineties, hip-hop and rap music was picking up attention. Lest I remind you, with names like Tupac and 2 Live Crew running the scene, it wasn’t exactly inviting to youthful ears, especially under watchful eyes like my parents. The list of allowed artists was short.
Around this same time, some guy named Michael Jackson released an album called “Dangerous”. The first song off of this album that I had heard was entitled “Black or White”. And I can’t remember exactly how or the circumstances surrounding it, but I found myself in possession of this particular cassette.
Believe me when I say, I have never. Ever. Ever. Ever replayed or listened to one solitary album as much (before or since) Michael’s “Dangerous” album. More than 4th Avenue Jones “No Plan B pt. 2”. More than Mars Ill “ProPain”. More than J Period’s “The Best of Lauryn Hill” Mixtape. On cassette, my sister ruined it (she was at that playful stage where destruction is amusing). Once I got it on disc, I played it so much, the disc went bad. The second disc broke. Third is currently is heavy rotation in my car, and it’s starting to go bad now, only from a long life of overplay.
I’m not even going to speak about the first time I saw Michael dance. Everyone can echo emphatic adoration about The Moonwalk. We’ve seen Usher do/attempt it countless times.
But. I want to focus on a facet of Michael’s performing style that truly impacted me.
His energy.
I have never seen someone sing or dance or perform with such raw…energy. The first MJ music video I had ever seen was “Jam”, and I was blown away. It wasn’t even his best or my favorite. But in watching him move…you know how the story goes.
I had to try it.
And believe me when I say, I began to mimic what I saw. I had the moonwalk down pat in minutes. His patented side-step? I still do it. That complicated foot shuffle? It’s a part of my club scene repertoire. But that’s not really saying much. Aside from that, I can’t dance for crap, in my opinion. And I am but one in a legion of MJ aficionados who clamor for the “Beat It” dance number.
The main thing that stuck with me throughout the years? The energy.
It’s one thing to kick up your foot and squeal “Hee hee!”.
But I feel that a huge part of what made Michael so magical was how he almost existed on stage as a musical exclamation point. The simplest movements were sharp and on point. He felt it. He felt it, in every blood vessel, every sensory nerve, every bone in his body.
And he made me believe it.
When speaking about music, I frown whenever I hear someone say that it’s “just music.” I believe that that is one of the most sadly misinformed and ignorant statements someone can make. In the same vein, I can not listen to a good song and not…feel it.
I do more than bob my head. Many a time, I have gotten awkward stare and concerned glances from random passer-bys. Maybe they thought I had Turrets’ or something. Whatever. Doesn’t matter to me. Never has.
I can’t shake my borderline obsession with (good) music. And when I feel it, I can’t silence it or mute it. My iPod volume level stays on high. I would break out into a sad imitation of a breakdance if a particular Busta Rhymes track comes on. If Lecrae is spitting some hard truth, best believe I’m mouthing the words out, as if I was on stage with him. Timbo’s on the beat? Nick is on the street, frantically trying to match that…energy. (Don’t stop ‘til you get enough, I guess…)
And it all started with Michael.
The passion that I have for music, live instrumentals and raw delight was birthed with the first cassette tape I have ever owned.
And I know that this was a bit late. The world is moving on. People have already flooded Wal-Mart to cop Michael’s “Number Ones” album. Underground DJ’s have released tribute mixes, and have moved on to anticipate upcoming releases. The media will continue to feast on his stature. The world will continue to spin.
As will I. I’m looking forward to The Blueprint 3. Grad school classes start in less than four days. My siblings will continue to need my help more than they will ever know or admit. My parents will forever watch over me, as if I were still the baby boy they birthed 22 years ago. My friends and I will continue to ride out our growth.
But…that passion is a part of me. And God willing, I shall use it as he sees fit.
In saying that, I write this in urgency. To all who are reading this (my fellow Christians in particular), I implore you to grip onto something firmly and GO HARD BODY. Not for Michael Jackson. Not for your pastor. But for the Glory of Jesus, our Christ. While my introduction to this emotion came from a largely secular source, it would be amiss of me to not apply it in accordance to His Will.
Peace.
