When I was five, my Aunty Julee sent me a blue cassette tape of Michael Jackson music.
From the first to the final song, I was hooked. Even though I had no clue what a “pretty young thing” was, or why Michael kept claiming “the kid is not my son,” the beats and melodies and punchy lyrics had me mesmerized. I played the tape at home on our cassette player, rewinding and fast-forwarding to my favorites. I had my parents loop the music when we were in the car running errands.
Michael Jackson was my first love affair with music, and he reigned the unchallenged King for me for years.
From the first to the final song, I was hooked. Even though I had no clue what a “pretty young thing” was, or why Michael kept claiming “the kid is not my son,” the beats and melodies and punchy lyrics had me mesmerized. I played the tape at home on our cassette player, rewinding and fast-forwarding to my favorites. I had my parents loop the music when we were in the car running errands.
Michael Jackson was my first love affair with music, and he reigned the unchallenged King for me for years.
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