It's fairly quiet on the bus in to work. Obviously, we're all still reeling from the news about Michael Jackson. I'm particularly quiet, absorbed as I am in pondering how on earth I'm going to be able to afford the plane fare to get over there for the funeral. I'd expected a bit more to be going on out in The Streets but, sadly, there are few spontaneous re-enactments of the zombie dance routine from the Thriller video taking place in the airport corridor; no anguished, wailing crowds of mourners filming themselves on their mobile phones to assist the BBC's blanket coverage of The Death of Michael Jackson: Day One- at least, none that I can see in the vicinity of Cranford and the Heathrow hinterland. Perhaps it's too early for them - or, given the perilous amount of sunshine around, maybe it's too light. They've no doubt all climbed back into their silk-lined boxes until nighfall, when the festivities of necromancy can begin again.
I have it from a reliable source that many who've forked out astonishing sums to ticket touts ahead of the late Mr. Jackson's concert tour may well lose out - at least, that's what it says in the Metro newspaper I 'm reading over the shoulder of the lady sitting in front of me. It's also feared that swine flu may now be 'out of control' (I'm afraid I couldn't read anymore as she got off the bus at West Drayton Station.) I'm reminded of Greil Marcus's account of the ticket scam in operation ahead of the Jacksons' Victory tour. Callers, having first been vetted according to their postcodes (strangely, those from the wealthiest areas were dealt with first - which is why you see so many gormless white people skanking along rhythmlessly in most of the concert footage and why so many poor black families missed the chance to see their hero[es] in the [it's mostly] flesh) were then expected to purchase $100 tickets in blocks of at least four, all of this several months before the concerts in order to allow maximum interest to accrue on the substantial instant ticket sale revenues. This is now a customary part of the manner in which pop concerts are aggressively profitised, but back then it was razor sharp practice. Still, mustn't speak ill of the dead...
A young schoolgirl, convent-educated if the Mitre festooned badge on her uniform is anything to go by - is the first to break the mood of mournful introspection. "My dad's like well gutted. I liked Michael Jackson, but I'd like top myself if Enrique ever died". So, if you think this is bad, brace yourselves for a Holocaust of fifty year olds when Sr. Iglesias finally pops his clogs. Somehow though, the planet staggers on. And, inexplicably, I have 'Rock with you' running through my brain for the rest of the day...
xxx
Mort
No comments:
Post a Comment