Michael Jackson, RIP.

A weird life in almost every way, all in all. Massive stardom, huge controversy, the biggest selling recording artist of all time and the owner of a monkey. Man, woman, black, white, he was all of these things in one way or another - genetics, botched plastic surgery, genetics again, skin disease, more botched surgery, respectively. The original metrosexual or just impossible to define?

The truth is that he couldn’t be defined. He helped invent a staggeringly catchy version of black pop that ticked boxes for anyone who liked a bit of funk, soul or rock. If you also liked a good tune, a great voice, brilliant production and the kind of moves that defy the laws of hip-physics then Jackson products probably floated your boat, or more likely propelled it into space. More than that, he invented Michael Jackson – the modern megastar. It goes Elvis, The Beatles, Michael Jackson and while others have been suitably impressive and important - Bowie, The Clash, Dylan, Pearl Jam (ahem) - they have never united quite as many people in their unadulterated fandom. We must take a moment to recognise the part played by his collaborators, Quincy Jones the producer and a co-songwriter called Rod Temperton (rather hilariously from Cleethorpes).

He may also have been a psychiatrist’s wet dream, a star since the age of 6, strict dad with a stricter dad, yada, yada and yet perhaps the most remarkable element was that Jacko had the showmanship to match the juicy records; can you be a man that dances like a demon and sings in the soprano side of manly yet still drown out any homophobic sniping with your success? Yes you can.

My favourite? Possibly, “Can You Feel it?”, simply for the whooshy noise that comes after the later choruses. It’s not just a gift from God, it sounds like a gift from God, and the Michael’s vocal embellishments are him at his soaring best.