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Platial | Who and What's Nearby
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I got up before anyone else this morning to burn a CD for my workout. I fiddled around with playlists on iTunes, playing snipits of songs to find just the right motivation for this frigid snowy day. “Oh cool, iTunes.” Andrew’s voice startles me. “Sorry to scare you, Mommy,” he says with a smile. “Can I pick your workout songs? I promise you’ll rock out.” “Sure,” I say. “But, I’m in the mood for a little old school. Can you do that?” “You got it,” he says as he sets to work clicking, dragging and dropping.
He knows what I mean by old school—80’s pop—the music I cranked on the car radio as loud as it could go when I finally had a license to drive; the songs I recorded on my jam box; the ones I danced to alone in my room with the cords to my Sony Walkman flapping against my hip. It’s Michael Jackson and Tina Turner, Pat Benatar, Men at Work, Devo and Duran Duran, or Prince. Yeah, Prince was my favorite. Andrew never cared for the music of Sesame Street or other children’s music when he was a toddler, so instead he was raised on the Monster 80’s CDs. I trust him to hook me up.
A few hours later on the treadmill I am not disappointed. He chose a good mix of songs. The sweat beads on my forehead as the sounds of Michael Jackson’s “Billie Jean” blast from my earplugs. This was a good one.
I see myself sitting in front of the TV in the living room of The Brown House (our term for my childhood home). I sit anxiously on the edge of the sofa. My brother and parents are in chairs at the other end of the room. We are watching Michael Jackson at the 1983 Grammy Awards. He will own the night by the end of the show. He will win for Best Male Vocal Performance in Rock, Pop and R&B. He will win for Best Album and Best Producer. But it is his live performance of “Billy Jean” when he does the moonwalk that will rock the house.
Michael Jackson, in 1983 looked youthful and handsome—no plastic surgery, no skin bleaching, no baby over the balcony, no sex abuse scandals. He looked innocent and human. It was performances like this where the comparisons to Elvis Presley were born. Michael Jackson did have the unmistakable gyrating hips of Elvis, yet he borrowed the break dancing pops and locks or the pirouettes of ballet to make his grooves unique. He would grab his belt and kick up his foot then twist his body like a rubber band. Sometimes he tossed in a stiff shoulder thrust or head snap that no one had ever seen. Crowds went crazy for his ingenuity. I sat in my living room mesmerized.
Under the stage lights, his sequined jacket glistened at every paddle of his feet or pop of his hand. It was this performance where he wore the lone white glittery glove that became a trademark of his for so long. There’s an instrumental portion in Billy Jean near the end and that’s where it happened. Michael, alone on stage—no back up dancers or hip hop entourage like today’s performances—just Michael and his moves. On the edge of my seat, I could see it in his eyes; he was in his element, in the zone. The beat thumped out and it looked like he just did what comes natural: he grabbed his belt, pumped his pelvis a few times then slid backwards on his penny loafers; a move that made him look like he was gliding on air. The crowd erupted. I remember my dad said, “Well, would you look at that?” “Yeah, look at that!” I yelled.
When I think of Andrew compiling this playlist I smile at the meeting of the past and the present: the way my memory of Michael Jackson sliding across the Grammy stage morphs into my husband’s funky display across the kitchen tile as Andrew yells, “Daddy, that was awesome will you teach me how to do it?” How can you not be impressed by the moonwalk the first time you see it? I smile at the thought of my son in his closet in front of the mirror trying to pop, lock, and snap. I’ve shown him a few moves, but his dad is better at this, too. "Just close your eyes and feel it," my husband suggests. I wonder if Michael Jackson ever looks back to the 1983 Grammies at his youthful innocence and his passion for the beat. I wonder if he ever stands with one of his children in front of the mirror and says, “You snap your foot like this then pop your shoulder like this. Now you try”
I got up before anyone else this morning to burn a CD for my workout. I fiddled around with playlists on iTunes, playing snipits of songs to find just the right motivation for this frigid snowy day. “Oh cool, iTunes.” Andrew’s voice startles me. “Sorry to scare you, Mommy,” he says with a smile. “Can I pick your workout songs? I promise you’ll rock out.” “Sure,” I say. “But, I’m in the mood for a little old school. Can you do that?” “You got it,” he says as he sets to work clicking, dragging and dropping.
He knows what I mean by old school—80’s pop—the music I cranked on the car radio as loud as it could go when I finally had a license to drive; the songs I recorded on my jam box; the ones I danced to alone in my room with the cords to my Sony Walkman flapping against my hip. It’s Michael Jackson and Tina Turner, Pat Benatar, Men at Work, Devo and Duran Duran, or Prince. Yeah, Prince was my favorite. Andrew never cared for the music of Sesame Street or other children’s music when he was a toddler, so instead he was raised on the Monster 80’s CDs. I trust him to hook me up.
A few hours later on the treadmill I am not disappointed. He chose a good mix of songs. The sweat beads on my forehead as the sounds of Michael Jackson’s “Billie Jean” blast from my earplugs. This was a good one.
I see myself sitting in front of the TV in the living room of The Brown House (our term for my childhood home). I sit anxiously on the edge of the sofa. My brother and parents are in chairs at the other end of the room. We are watching Michael Jackson at the 1983 Grammy Awards. He will own the night by the end of the show. He will win for Best Male Vocal Performance in Rock, Pop and R&B. He will win for Best Album and Best Producer. But it is his live performance of “Billy Jean” when he does the moonwalk that will rock the house.
Michael Jackson, in 1983 looked youthful and handsome—no plastic surgery, no skin bleaching, no baby over the balcony, no sex abuse scandals. He looked innocent and human. It was performances like this where the comparisons to Elvis Presley were born. Michael Jackson did have the unmistakable gyrating hips of Elvis, yet he borrowed the break dancing pops and locks or the pirouettes of ballet to make his grooves unique. He would grab his belt and kick up his foot then twist his body like a rubber band. Sometimes he tossed in a stiff shoulder thrust or head snap that no one had ever seen. Crowds went crazy for his ingenuity. I sat in my living room mesmerized.
Under the stage lights, his sequined jacket glistened at every paddle of his feet or pop of his hand. It was this performance where he wore the lone white glittery glove that became a trademark of his for so long. There’s an instrumental portion in Billy Jean near the end and that’s where it happened. Michael, alone on stage—no back up dancers or hip hop entourage like today’s performances—just Michael and his moves. On the edge of my seat, I could see it in his eyes; he was in his element, in the zone. The beat thumped out and it looked like he just did what comes natural: he grabbed his belt, pumped his pelvis a few times then slid backwards on his penny loafers; a move that made him look like he was gliding on air. The crowd erupted. I remember my dad said, “Well, would you look at that?” “Yeah, look at that!” I yelled.
When I think of Andrew compiling this playlist I smile at the meeting of the past and the present: the way my memory of Michael Jackson sliding across the Grammy stage morphs into my husband’s funky display across the kitchen tile as Andrew yells, “Daddy, that was awesome will you teach me how to do it?” How can you not be impressed by the moonwalk the first time you see it? I smile at the thought of my son in his closet in front of the mirror trying to pop, lock, and snap. I’ve shown him a few moves, but his dad is better at this, too. "Just close your eyes and feel it," my husband suggests. I wonder if Michael Jackson ever looks back to the 1983 Grammies at his youthful innocence and his passion for the beat. I wonder if he ever stands with one of his children in front of the mirror and says, “You snap your foot like this then pop your shoulder like this. Now you try”
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