There has been very little bile so far. Frankly I expected more. Most of it is subtle, tepid (no links, I wouldn’t find it appropriate): “such unfulfilled promise,” “remember what he was, not what he became,” “I loved him as a child star.”

The first is a preposterous straw man. Unfulfilled promise? Every LP was a masterpiece, transcending musical genres. The second is thinly-veiled ad hominem: it doesn’t matter what he ended up looking like. He wasn’t a model, he was a singer and songwriter, and an exceptional one at that: one of the greatest in the history of popular music. The same is true for the charges of pedophilia, which by the way I don’t believe. The third is just condescending: he was so sweet! So precocious! Yeah? And “Smooth Criminal” is one of the greatest pieces of music of all time. So is Billie Jean.

On the subject of Jackson’s death, the alt-music world has produced nothing short of the sound of crickets. (Actually that’s not entirely true. An Aquarium Drunkard posted a succinct tribute after which I styled my own.) You can understand the motive: a snobbish indie music blog is well within their rights to watch this one from the sidelines. But we all know what “indie” is short for and there was no more fiercely independent a musician in the world than Michael Jackson. Oh, and, by the way? The music snobs all own a copy of Thriller. On vinyl.

Bloggers have thankfully used the P-word pretty sparingly, although the D-word is beginning to rear her ugly head. Who gives a damn if the man used painkillers? And is an injection really that much more horrifying than a pill? If I haven’t already established his psychological pain then I’ll hang it up as a writer. And it’s common knowledge that he was preparing for a comeback tour. Will you be able to dance like that without some pretty nasty pain at age 50? Would you now?

But most of all — for your mostly loving and reflective tributes — thank you.