My daughter and I went to see The Taking of Pelham 123 at a matinee today. I’d just seen the original a few weeks ago and as much as I enjoyed Tony Scott’s high-voltage remake, I think I preferred the 1974 version with Walter Matthau as the hapless MTA dispatcher. It had a kind of schlubby grace, an adherence to city filth and dexterity that this new one only aspires to. You could almost smell the passengers on the 6 train sweltering on the tracks.

Driving home, we kept hearing snatches of Michael Jackson’s big hits on the radio and Franny asked me about the importance of MJ’s music in my life. As much respect as I have for the man’s talent and as kind as I want to be about the memory of someone who clearly had some demons in his dance mix, I couldn’t really give her a very satisfactory answer. “Well I wasn’t really into that kind of music,” I said, a little lamely while adding something about his electrifying performance of “Billie Jean” at the Motown 25th Anniversary Special. (Yeah he’s lip-synching but the look and those moves — part Elvis, part Liza — are still something to see.)

But what did Michael Jackson mean to me? Nothing really. When John Lennon was killed it shook nearly everyone I knew, not just because of the senselessness of his death but because of the kind of sense he made of our lives. Whether playing peacenik or performance artist he captured something of the sixties and even the seventies. But what did Jackson say about the eighties? That it was cool to make money, lots and lots of money, and that making lots of money was more valuable even than friendship — like the one he had with John’s  erstwhile bandmate Paul McCartney, who was a little miffed when Jacko bought the rights to much of the Beatles’ catalogue… 

Now it looks like drugs may have been involved in the singer’s death (shocking, I know) which puts him in that sad string of American superstar novas with Elvis and Marilyn — did he choose this destiny? It’s very American of course — think of Citizen Kane, dropping his snow globe as he breathes his last, remembering the innocent joy of his youth — and tragic, no doubt. It just don’t move me.  

Now when Joe Strummer died of a heart attack at about the same age, I was devastated. But I didn’t hear his songs on the radio all day. I had to go home to listen.