Michael Jackson

摘要

First, the songs. The light, infectious lilt of "Don't Stop Til You Get Enough". The sheer, vicious swoop of "Speed Demon". The soft, syncopated sadness of "Billie Jean", or the raucous shouts of "Bad". His high, pure tenor was shot through with the little yips and sighs he had learnt from Diana Ross. And behind it lay the astonishing confidence of child-star Michael in "I'll Be There" or "Rockin' Robin", with each note treble-true and each time-change as natural as taking breath.rnNext, the dancing, springing from the music like a bird out of a trap. Pointing, jerking, thrusting, with rage in his feet, as Fred Astaire said once. He was at war with the floor as it slid away in the Moonwalk, and with the air as he spun through it. He danced with his knees, on tiptoe, hunching his shoulders to his ears. His splayed hand pulled at his crotch as if emasculation would be sweet to him.