As I type, we are mere hours away from Michael Jackson's official public farewell and subsequent burial, entombment, mummification and cryogenic storage.

The world's media have upped sticks from outside Jackson's palatial rental digs and parked themselves between the memorial venues. Los Angeles' police prepare to deal with a bizarre event of almost presidential proportions.
TV One here in New Zealand has pulled out all the stops. Paul Henry has his alarm clock adjusted and his sacred soapbox pointed to face the momentary Mecca in Los Angeles.
As a musical media event, it is so hard to ignore even Winston Watusi might be drawn to comment, were he available this week. In the process, he would no doubt draw some hitherto unknown link between Jackson and his beloved Bob Dylan.
I didn't shed a tear at news of Jackson's death. His earlier aims to employ all available technology to enable himself to live to 130 years old didn't suddenly seem any more ridiculous, nor did media talk of his death being, somehow, premature. I wasn't a fan, so why would I care?
To put this in context, I am too young to have mourned firsthand the three J's - Janis, Jimi and Jim. I am, however, old enough to have vague recollections of the family hubbub surrounding Elvis Presley's death. When John Lennon was shot I was ‘there' and spent the whole day in front of the radio recording as many of his songs as my dodgy C90 cassette tape could handle. The next notable musician death I recall is Kurt Cobain but nobody expected him to live long. Numerous other minor musical glitterati have popped their clogs but somehow Keith Richards has not been one of them.
So, is this it? The largest outpouring of grief the world's music press have ever had the opportunity to wallow in, is for an artist whose music I never bought, downloaded or stored in any way and most of which I didn't even like.
The reality is, despite my personal ambivalence toward Jackson's musical output, I – like much of the world – have absorbed a lot by osmosis.
Jacko may have been wacko but, as a performer and recording artist, he has been impossible to ignore. I struggle to forget the predominant feelings of revulsion and despair in the era he first rose to fame.
Ironic 80s revivals aside, they were dark musical times. Still, for an old guitar hound like myself, there was always the Beat It riff (Steve Lukather) and solo (Eddie Van Halen), both of which sparked numerous copies. And the vast dance troupes that became de rigueur behind any reputable soloist. Now there's a perplexing legacy for you.
Simply put, beneath the increasingly wobbly nose, scary chin cleft and ghostly-pale skin, the guy was musically impressive. He had perfect vocal pitch that you could tune your piano to, freakishly agile dance moves, a manic work ethic that put his backing bands through 12-hour rehearsals day after day and he was the consummate performer - always giving 100 per cent.
Even in the news footage taken from a dress rehearsal two days before his death, there he is. The ghostly, marionette-like king of pop, mesmerising – not just because of his imminent demise but because of his other-worldly intensity. There is no ‘rehearsal' here, no element of pretence.
Final undeniable proof of Jackson's impact must be in the farewell: 17,500 people attending his bye-bye party and millions more viewing it on TV. Crikey, I'd be lucky to gather 1700 (or even 17), though admittedly there'd be a slightly lower percentage of baying, frothing lunatics in attendance. And a musical back-catalogue that warranted its own recent You Choose Top 40 show on C4. Impressive. If only someone could do that with music I actually like.
derrin@tauranga.co.nz