By happenstance, I was in Hugh Hewitt’s studio yesterday when the news about the one-time Prince of Pop (that’s all I’ll give him, sorry) broke. We spent much of the next three hours talking about his death and what it meant. You can scan through and hear me jousting – all in good fun – with Hugh, James Lileks and others.
I focused on his creative output and what it meant to musicians and culture as best I could in our impromptu conversation. In other words, we didn’t dwell on the fact that it SURE seemed like he was a serial molester of male children. His music will stand alone. HUGE talent, obsessive artist, stratospheric career from childhood into his thirties. Iconic images and motion pictures of him, dancing and performing unforgettably at his peak, will probably always be tainted for our generation by what he became, by what many of us now know he was for a long time. His strange celebrity outran his music, but maybe now it will stop running… all this will be said better over the next few days and probably weeks by others.
What I’m looking forward to, after whatever period is gentlemanly to wait, is our own FBI undercover superagent, Bob Hamer dropping the…well, dropping his last name plus another “m” on the kind of man who SURE seemed like he built elaborate playgrounds to lure children to himself.
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