It’s an epochal day for the tabloids, as they say goodbye to an enduring obsession. On their way to work on this gray and humid morning, the people of Great Britain were greeted by two stark words in big white block lettering on multiple front pages: Jacko Dead. (I've got more on MJ at the bottom of this post, if you're interested.)
Gracing the other side of the London papers today is a distinctly happier story: The sudden rise to brilliance of Andy Murray. The pundits, naturally, keep his 88-minute second-round win over Ernests Gulbis in level-headed perspective:
“We’ve Seen the Real Murray,” says the Sun’s Steven Howard
“Murray is the Magic Man: Andy Shows He is No Illusion,” says the Express’ Bob McKenzie
“Awesome Andy Shows Gulbis What Happens When You Call Him a Cheat,” says the Mirror
“Murray Hits the Heights: His Show Screamed, Stop Me if You Can,” says the Mail’s Mike Dickson
“It’s Quite Simple to Me and You, This Guy is Quality,” says the Mail’s Martin Samuel
The Mail, just to make you sure you get the point, adds an unsigned article at the bottom of its Murray page: “He Was Unbelievable Today”
Was there anything other than Murray worth talking about here yesterday? Oh yes:
—It's the age-old question: What it is it about Sam Querrey that the indigent don’t approve of? The laid-back Californian was punched in the arm by a homeless man in Wimbledon at the start of the tournament, and yesterday he sent this tweet out: “On my return home from my close, five-set loss, I was struck, yet again, by a drunk vagrant in Wimbledon village, this time in the gut.”
—Marital strife might soon be in the air for Andy Roddick. He had tweeted recently about how bad his wife’s taste in music is, so she avenged herself by revealing that Andy’s IPod includes '80s camp-dance classic “Never Gonna Stop Me Now,” by Rick Astley. As you might expect, Andy was asked about this by the British press yesterday. He didn’t take it all that well. “I bet Rick Astley is in your IPod, too, so shut up,” was his final answer on the subject. But he came back to it unsolicited later. Asked where he likes to go in London, Roddick said, “The Ivy, it’s nice. But I go wherever Rick Astley is going.”
(Don’t feel too bad, Andy, I recently downloaded a relic from the same decade: “In a Big Country.” As the kids say, not proud. But it sounds good.)
—The Sun’s verdict on Tim Henman as a broadcaster: “Tim’s Nice, But Dim”
—Svetlana Kuznetsova still doesn’t love grass, even after her second-round demolition yesterday. Playing on the surface, Kuzzie said, is like “a person who dives in a pool to play water polo after finishing handball.” But she was motivated yesterday. She wanted to finish early so she “could go shopping.”
—Rafael Nadal put down 10,000 pounds on a house in Wimbledon and didn’t bother to get his money back, the Sun reports. It’s being used by other Spanish players now, who, as you might expect from those crazy Spanish, are having a "party."
—There’s a theme developing when it stories about Ana Ivanovic. I can't quite put my finger on what it is, but it's there, I know it. Maybe you can help.
The caption on her photo in the Mail is very simple: “Ivanovic: pin-up.” The headline to the accompanying story is: “It’s Not Pretty But Ana Wins.” This may be a step up from the Mirror and Sun, which rarely mention her name without preferencing it with these two words: “Serbian babe.”
—Here's my favorite ongoing tab story from this year’s Wimbledon. John McEnroe is incensed that he doesn't have access to the player’s locker room this year. It’s the first time he hasn't been entered in some sort of senior draw, so the doors have been shut—apparently Federer and Nadal themselves had requested tighter restrictions this year (not on Mac, per se, just in general). McEnroe went so far as to call the president of the All England Club himself about it, who said, in these beautiful words, words that come 30 years too late: “We can’t have a rule for John McEnroe and a rule for everybody else.” Don't cave, All England, you're renewing my faith in justice.
Rain is on the way, we’ve heard, and the roof may be closing soon. Naturally, it looks like it will be Roger Federer who plays the first match under it. I was hoping it would be the second match scheduled there today, Victoria Azarenka vs. Sorana Cirstea, so those two fabulous names would live in history.
First, let’s see if this thing works.
*
Michael Jackson was 50, a number that might come as more of a shock than his early demise—did we see another way out for this black man who made his body white, who lived so deeply within his childhood memories of the Beatles that he decided to buy their songs as an adult, this ultra-expressive human who was at sea everywhere but the stage. In a Rolling Stone profile from the early 1980s, Jackson is described ordering a quiche at an expensive Manhattan restaurant and then eating it with his hands. My favorite bit of his music, and it rolls through my head at odd moments, are those sparkingly luxurious words from his early song “Off the Wall”:
So tonight, gotta lay that 9 to 5 up on the shelf,
and just enjoy yourself
Let the madness in the music get to you
Life ain’t so bad at all
Jackson, who was the furthest thing from a regular guy, knew little about the 9 to 5, and it’s hard to see him laying back and just enjoying himself at any time. But no singer has ever caught the feeling of abandon that comes with throwing work out the window the way he did in that song.
I remember Jackson most from an awards show in 1983—the Grammy’s?—when he sent his brothers off the stage, told us he’d had enough of the “old songs,” and basically invented the '80s by tearing down the house with “Billie Jean” and introducing the world—or maybe just the white world—to the moonwalk. It was, indeed, a thrill. Even by then, though, his best—or at least his freest and most joyful—dancing days were behind him. See the clip below with his brothers, as well as a struttin’ Red Foxx, on their variety show in 1977. "Enjoy Yourself" is the name of the video. Michael Jackson struggled to do it himself, but he gave everyone who watched him a chance.
RIP, MJ, your demons are behind you now.