I didn’t make it to Woodstock, the biggest, baddest concert of my (and maybe anybody’s) generation. My college roommate went instead.
But I saw Michael Jackson.
In his moonwalking, white-gloved prime.
He was nothing short of spectacular. Dare I say it? A thriller.
Jackson’s 1984 “Victory Tour” concert in Atlanta’s Fulton County Stadium is right up there among the most memorable family outings we ever had.
Yes, you read that right. I said family outing.
Our girlchild had just turned “a perfect 10” and when a co-worker of her dad’s came up with tickets, we decided on impulse to, well, just beat it to the concert, a celebration of her new status in double digits, age-wise. The tickets were $30 each, an outrageous sum for that time.
It was worth every penny.
The man could sing. The man could dance.
Like nobody else.
He and his talented brothers put on a sensational show - full of drama, special effects, fireworks, amazing dancing, great music. All sorts of people - not just diehard Jackson fans - were absolutely blown away by it.
I clapped until my hands hurt. The children - the boychild was 6 - couldn’t stop smiling. I knew they were afraid to pinch themselves, lest they awaken to find themselves at home, playing Monopoly with the same old, boring parents they’d always had.
Yes, my offspring were as amazed to be at a Michael Jackson concert with us as you probably were to read that we went. Rock concerts were not something we did every day.
Matter of fact, it was their first real concert and, unless you count the symphony or the Kingston Trio, it was her dad’s and my first concert, too.
Since the shocking news of Jackson’s death came Thursday, I have talked with both my now-grown children about their memories of that long ago night. All of us recall the electric atmosphere, the huge stage, the astonishing pyrotechnics.
The main man was very late appearing, and the crowd went crazy every time the lights rose or the curtain moved. Once, one of the Jackson brothers strutted onstage to wild applause only to have it die immediately when the audience realized he wasn’t “the one.” I remember wondering how deflating it must have felt to be one of the “other” Jacksons.
Many in the crowd wore red leather jackets. And sequined gloves.
Not us. I drew the line at that, and the boychild didn’t object. The concert was fun but the only glove he wanted was a baseball mitt.
My girlchild remembers a woman on our row had flown in from California for the concert. The expensive program she had bought had a tiny speck on one page and she was outraged that they were sold out and she couldn’t get it exchanged for a “perfect” one. The girlchild would have been happy to have it - we’d declined to spend the $12 for one - but Ms. California wasn’t disenchanted enought to part with her smudged souvenir.
My offspring remember being briefly embarrassed as their parents rocked and swayed to the compelling beat of “Billie Jean.” They got over it fast, they said, because “all the other old folks were dancing, too.”
But mostly, we just remember it was great entertainment - eye-popping, jaw-dropping, head-shaking good.
It pained us, over the years, to see and hear of Jackson’s downward spiral, his bizarre changes in appearance, his financial calamities, his seriously troubling personal history.
I wouldn’t have bought a ticket to the “comeback tour” that was to have started next month, wouldn’t have even thought of taking the grandchildren, even if money were no object.
But I’m glad I saw Michael Jackson in his supremely gifted prime.
They called him the King of Pop for a reason.
Readers may contact Andrea Lovejoy at editor@lagrangenews.com
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