There are certain historic celebrity deaths forever held as "where were you when?" moments. For those before I was cognizant, of course, the ultimate is JFK.
Within my life, first there's Elvis Presley. And I do remember when. Aug. 16, 1977: I was 15, in the summer following ninth grade. I was in the basement playroom of my home, working on my model railroad, listening to the radio (that's what we did back then). Programming was interrupted to report his death from prescription medications—and though I was too young to have an appreciation for his music, I recognized the caliber of the moment.
Next: John Lennon. I was a freshman in college
at James Madison University in December 1980 when the artist was gunned down in New York. Honestly, I was never a fan of the Beatles. I always believed that the real hero was producer George Martin, who molded a listless rockabilly quartet into disciplined pop royalty. Their songs were good—once Martin added requisite pop instrumentation and tamed their voices into a harmonic trademark.
That stance made me the most-hated man on JMU's campus in 1981 when, as features editor for the campus newspaper, "The Breeze," I initiated a weekly column... and after writing the first two about topics that fell flat, I met with the editor, who asked, "What's something you're really passionate about that might be controversial?" "Well, I don't get the Beatles..." Score! I wrote 350 words basically stating the above and struck a nerve on campus... this, in the early 1980s, long after the Beatles' heyday... I would walk across the mall and folks would yell from their window, "Fuck you, Chuck Taylor! John Lennon lives!" It reached a point where the paper actually published a cartoon with a perplexed young Chuck standing behind an angry gang holding signs saying the likes of "Down With Chuck," "F*ck Chuck" and the like. (I searched all over the apartment to find the clip, with no luck). So, it worked... after that, my campus column became the best-read weekly feature in "The Breeze."
Moving on, then came Princess Diana. I was at a party at the New York apartment of pals Bob and Tim, when they lived in a high-rise in Chelsea. Bless the boys, they seldom entertained at their home, and this warm summer night—Aug. 31, 1997—we were all enjoying the rooftop view... when someone shows up and says, "So didja hear that Princess Di was in a really bad auto accident?" We all speed back to the apartment, TV comes on, Di dies and the enthuse of the party goes down the toilet. Everyone makes a hasty exit, heads hung down... and Bob and Tim have not hosted a party since...
Next in line, of course, came O.J. Simpson's thrilling Ford Bronco chase in June 1994, followed by the trial of the decade, when Simpson murdered ex-wife Nicole Brown Simpson and her friend Ronald Goldman, and was found not guilty after four hours of deliberation. The verdict was announced Oct. 3, 1995—
my second day working at Billboard magazine. So the entire editorial staff gathers in the managing editor's office... except for me... because no one knew who the hell I was... so I sat quietly at my desk. I heard a loud cry of disbelief, so was able to guess the outcome... but it was a fairly pitiful moment for me, friendless and alone. Sob... Mind you, there was no Internet, so no way to get instant details other than communicating with real people.
And now... Michael Jackson. I truly regard this as another of those momentous "where were you when?" goalposts. So I was sitting here at home, tooling around e-mail, TV off, not on Yahoo! for a while. Phone rings just after 6 p.m., it's Perry Ra Payne, announcing, "Michael Jackson... is he dead?" She was hosting a real estate open house, also TV off, but knew more than I did. I immediately starting scanning the Web, Facebook, Twitter... which was absolutely inundated with information... P and I exchanged mutual enthuse, then I quickly called Ayhan, who had just left to work at the theater—caught him on the way to the subway—announced, "Michael Jackson is dead!"—continued scanning the Web, started the post below... called Perry back, called the parents—who were up on the news—and then continued blogging... which I'm finished with now, so that I can cook some spaghetti and get on with life. So there.
I'm hard-pressed to remember a more thrilling day, packed with one highlight after another. First, for once, the New York weather cooperated. Here, in the Seattle of the East this past month, the sky was blue—that in itself was a triumph. The destination: Central Park's Summer Stage.
After the show, we said our hellos to Emre, and Tinatin and her fucking fabulous mamer, who is visiting from Moscow.
Meanwhile, Ayhan saw just about every Turkish friend residing in New York that he knows at the event... Here, the other Emre, a graphic designer who conjured the artwork for Ayhan's latest album, "Zorba," from Mitch Zorba... so handsome that he merits two picolas. Damn, cool, cats, the face is handsome enough... and then check out those dreamy eyes. Sigh.
Third from right is Emre (the artist's) aunt... to the right, Ayhan's longtime friends (for more than a decade, when he still lived in Turkey) Kamu and Serap.
And Ayhan's biz associate and friend Shidan, who works with famed theater producer Cameron Mackintosh.
And then... the main event! We visited with Sertab and Demir backstage just before they took to the stage.
The pair absolutely electrified the crowd. The audience was obviously primed for Turkey's biggest superstar. Here is my 47-second video of her phenomenal song "Ask"!!!And then... the photos.
A perfect day, indeed. God, life is good.
