For millions of fans worldwide, Michael Jackson's death is not only a tragic end to a shining yet tormented life, but also a chance to look back at the King of Pop's career -- and its affect on our lives. Here SPIN staffers remember their first encounters with Jackson and his music.

I was eight years old, and I had been watching MTV in our living room. The video for "Scream" came on -- I remember turning the volume up to hear the song, and right when Michael let out that tortured, glass-shattering scream featured in the song, my mother rushed into the room, snatched the remote away from me, and turned the television off. She explained to me how my 5-year-old cousin "accidentally" watched the video for Michael Jackson's "Black or White" recently and started crying when she got scared at MJ's transformation into a panther at the end of the video. Bizarrely, for that reason MTV was "banned" in my household (although the "ban" lasted less than a month).
Larry Fitzmaurice, online contributing writer

It's hard to remember my actual first memories of Michael or the Jackson 5, because by now I've watched so many videos and movies and DVDs and listened to so many records from so many eras that I don't recall that radiant, trembling revelation when, say, I first heard the "ABC" 45, though I remember buying it at King's department store in Asheboro, N.C., and playing it until it was a scratchy wreck. What feels the most powerful is the memory of seeing Michael as a little boy -- in those garishly colored, '70s psych-pimp vests/bellbottoms/floppy hat ensembles, appearing on various TV shows, looking both impossibly confident and hesitantly childlike, possessed by this colossal gift, singing and dancing and rarely if ever hitting a bum note, obviously practiced and drilled to within an inch of his life, powerfully emoting these lyrics that expressed grown-man emotions he couldn't possibly understand -- "The Love You Save," "Never Can Say Goodbye," "I'll Be There." Or could he? There always lurked an irrational sense that maybe Michael was an ageless visitation, like some kind of unwitting Civil Rights avatar who was performing our hopes and dreams and burdens and sins. Not Christlike, really; he was too fragile and naive and without a real sense of mission (except to rule a post-racial pop landscape that never quite existed, except in our collective, wishful delusion). He was one of the first to test the limits of what it meant to be human in a digital age. He inspired awe, joy, discomfort, empathy. You simultaneously worshipped and wanted to protect him. No matter how much life cut him up. "Man in the Mirror"? Damn. Charles Aaron, music editor

I remember sitting on the floor of my dining room with my older brother and my friends Lindsay and Alyson McNutt and playing Thriller on our portable Fisher-Price turntable. I was six. The album had already been out for a couple of years, but we were just then discovering it. Around this time, we'd spend every Thursday night at Circus Skate, a seedy rink on the outskirts of Murray, KY, that proclaimed itself to be "the largest indoor skating rink in the world." I was a horrible skater, always holding onto the padded blue railing and pushing off with only my right foot. (I still don't know how to push off with both feet.) My brother was even worse, falling down practically every time he ventured away from the wall. But when they'd play "Thriller," he was a different person. The strobe lights would surge and he'd skate flawlessly to the center of the rink with all the other kids (I'd watch in awe as I kept my death grip on the railing). For those few minutes, he'd summon every ounce of energy he had to skate his best, to not fall down, to even clap his hands to the beat. He had to. He couldn't let Michael down. Ellen Carpenter, senior editor

Whenever it was my turn to pick our family's TV programming, I'd rummage excitedly through my parents' VHS tape collection and pick out a few. It was either James Bond movies, Star Wars (including, if I was really bored of everything else, the made-for-TV Ewok Adventure), or our home-recorded version of 1983's Motown 25 special, with the instantly-iconic "Billie Jean" performance and accompanying moonwalk. That videotape -- plus the dozen or so Motown 8-tracks stacked atop the family stereo -- set my six-year-old soul ablaze. In fact, Michael's white-gloved boogie wasn't even my favorite moment from that show -- primarily because I could not, despite many white-socked attempts on the kitchen floor and my parents' buying me a "Beat It"-style red jacket, imitate the moonwalk. But what was crystal clear to me was that the other Motown stars I idolized -- the Temptations, Smokey Robinson, Marvin Gaye, the Commodores, the just-breaking-out DeBarge -- delivered a standing ovation to just one performer that night, the one in sequins and white socks who moved with a fluidity and grace that no one's come close to matching without the help of CGI. It should come as no surprise, then, that those few minutes of videotape were, by the end of my first decade of life, distressed to a static-y mess. Peter Gaston, interactive director

Growing up, my father idolized 1950s regalia. In our home south of Seattle, we had a Coke machine, a '57 Chevy couch, a black and white tile floor, a soda fountain bar, and a jukebox packed with oldies -- Elvis, Chuck Berry, Buddy Holly, Sam Cooke, and thousands more. Interspersed were 45s of Michael Jackson's hits. It's there on that checkered floor in the early 1980s that I first attempted a moonwalk, jangled to the guitar riff to "Beat It," and sang along to Jackson and Paul McCartney's duet "The Girl is Mine." It's there on the family TV I first saw the music video for "Thriller," my mom covering my eyes with her hands so I didn't get too scared. In recent years Michael's dark, oddball lifestyle overshadowed his music, but the King of Pop was as much a part of America's DNA as the Unabomber, Elvis, McDonald's, Coca-Cola, WWII, Charlie Manson, and Barack Obama. A little piece of America, a little piece of the world, a piece that we all shared, has died, and its nice to know -- despite his private life -- that three-generations of people can stop to remember the music together. William Goodman, online associate editor

 

Growing up, my mom was a big Michael Jackson fan. His albums were always on rotation in house. I’m pretty sure I learned my ABC’s to the tune of “ABC.” To this day I can’t text “I’ll be there” without singing “I’ll be there” to myself. Off The Wall was as much a part of my young pop culture experience as Sesame Street. Our TV went out the night NBC was running Motown’s 25th anniversary show. After many attempts to jiggle the rabbit ears and adjust the aluminum foil to get a better signal, mom decided to pile my sister Meagan and me into our Datsun station wagon and head to the house of our neighbors, the Buerkles. Which was awesome because they had a great big TV. I still don’t know whether they were expecting us, and I’m pretty sure they were in the middle of having dinner. It didn’t matter -- my mom was determined to watch Michael’s performance. We were all talking throughout the show, but when the bass line for "Billie Jean" kicked in everything stopped. We didn’t know what to expect, but it felt like something big was about to happen. The moment MJ moonwalked we were all stunned. What was that? I thought for sure the stage was built on some sort of conveyor belt. Then it happened again. Amazing. It wasn’t until NBC aired it a week later that Meagan and I were able to perfect our white socked version over and over again on our parquet floor. And mom didn’t even mind that our socks were getting filthy.
Devin Pedzwater, creative director

 

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