I’m here in Paris for three weeks, in the city of the spectacle. Everywhere I turn to look, there are splendid sights to be savored -- the grand boulevards, the graceful buildings carved from pierre de taille, the dynamic crowds of Parisians and visitors who flow through the streets in endless streams. And for a little while longer, there is a new sound added to the hum of Paris – Michael Jackson songs busting out from bars and clubs, compact cars, and cheap boomboxes. 

I was in an intimate and thankfully cheap bar called le Chameleon the night (my night, morning in LA) that Michael Jackson died. I was sitting with friends, chatting about anything and everything. We sat back as the bartender cleaned up the last round from the table, and almost casually said, “Michael Jackson est mort.” We all blinked, looked around uncertainly, gave a chuckle and said, “Are you joking? No? Oh.”

The news had a palpable, visceral impact. On me, as I thought, it’s happened, finally, nothing surprising about it, but still shocked into sadness. On my friends, one who sat back in a combination of horror and protest, instantly in deep mourning for a childhood hero, the other who took the “he’s a pedophile, who cares?” approach. On the city, as people poured out of clubs and bars into the streets, a ragged chorus from “Bad” raising in one corner, and few vestigial dance moves from “Thriller” in another. 

All night and all day and all night again, Paris has performed a ritual of mourning they’ve become intimately familiar with in the wake of internationally felt tragedies that have taken place here, the most recent perhaps being Princess Diana’s death in a tunnel near the Eiffel Tower. Michael Jackson’s life is being memorialized throughout the city as Parisians and tourists alike unite in remembering and celebrating the life and works of Michael Jackson. We are all eulogizing him in a spontaneous citywide, worldwide act.

To the people who don’t understand why so many of us mourn? I know there are critical pieces to be written about the spectacle his life became, his warped perspective, bizarre habits, and the crumbling shambles of his lifestyle. And I’m sure we’ll see more written on the fan mentality and about the toxicity of an entertainment industry that warps children into black holes of insecurity and self-destruction.

But for those of us who have embraced music with our gut and our brain, and who have built up a soundtrack of pop music that has shaped our childhoods, adolescences and adult lives, Michael Jackson may as well be part of our DNA. And his brilliant musical talent was augmented by a consummate showmanship. The snarls, the fierce, fiery gaze, the legendary dance moves, and the almost inhuman striving of his performances all brought us closer to him. In those shows, he gave everything he had to his audiences, and we were always left begging for more.