A few not-quite connected thoughts, after which I can resume normal transmission.

1. Two words: Quincy Jones. Sure, Michael Jackson had a great voice, could dance a hell of a lot, and for a time in the 70s and 80s he had all the ambition in the world. But he only made 3 great records – Off the Wall, Thriller and Bad, and the common denominator in all of them was Quincy Jones in the producer’s chair. Nothing Jackson released after Bad was worthy of the legacy created by these 3 albums.

Beyond Jackson’s remarkable voice, all the best musical moments in his catalogue are Quincy Jones moments: the crystal-clear orchestration of Rock With You, the synth stabs that announce the arrival of Thriller, and the classic soundscape of Billie Jean (undisputably Jackson’s most perfect song).

2. My generation essentially can’t remember a time before Thriller. Alongside fighting with lightsabres, dancing to Michael Jackson is something we’ve been doing since we were in nappies. Bubbles the chimpanzee was the common currency of  playground chatter, and when we danced to Beat It in my kindergarten girlfriend’s lounge (dodging scattered Lego blocks), we discovered for the first time that if we danced hard enough, we could make the needle jump off the LP turntable.

3. I was about 10 years old when Moonwalker came out. I can’t remember if I saw it in the cinema or not. But during a wet holiday with my grandparents in Taupo, we hired it on VHS. The Smooth Criminal dance sequence completely blew my tiny mind.

And even during my most annoying teenage jazz-fundamentalist phase, when good Michael Jackson albums were a phenomenon of a previous decade, there was still a part of me that thrilled to that singer who could tip his fedora forward and moonwalk across any stage he cared to.

Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.