Last night should've been Michael Jackson's first concert at the O2. Tragically he couldn't make it, which has left the Dome's owners with a rather large hole in their financial canvas. So I thought I'd pop down to North Greenwich to report on the echoing emptiness of the opening night, and maybe take a few shots of tumbleweed in front of the MJ memorial before they cleared it all away. How wrong I was.
I missed the call to action. I'm not on Facebook, and I don't spend the day glued to entertainmentnewsfeeds, so I never saw the invite. I was therefore surprised, on arrival, to discover a rather large crowd milling around in Peninsula Square. They were massing by the makeshift Jackson shrine, over in the corner by the big spike, beneath a videoscreen showing a sequence of images of the dead singer. Not enough to start a revolution, but several hundred all the same.
Many of the crowd had come dressed in at least one item of MJ apparel. Black hats were especially popular, although I looked around in vain for the street vendor knocking them off at a fiver a time. One or two wore white gloves, a couple sported rather more sparkly gems than is socially acceptable, and there was even one red satin tour jacket circa 1984. But the main item signifying membership of the Jackson cabal was the commemorative t-shirt. Be it respectful, exuberant or a bit cheap - the message was more important than the material. My favourite was the plain white t-shirt with the slogan "I HATE MARTIN BASHIR". Martin, thankfully, had had the sense not to turn up.
One girl had brought a single red rose wrapped in petrol station cellophane, which she laid respectfully within the fenced-off tribute zone. Others added their comments in marker pen to the wall of whiteboards behind - "King of Pop Forever", "This girl is yours", "Micheal We Luv U", "Thank you for making me want to dance". There was no intense grief on display, more a feeling of muted celebration, and nothing especially emotional or coherent either [see Darryl's report here]. I was surprised to see how many of the crowd appeared far too young to remember Michael Jackson in his heyday. Most would still have been at infant school the last time he had a number 1 record, although there were a fair few older souls and parents dotted about who'd probably moonwalked back in the day and bought Thriller on vinyl.
So, having travelled far and wide to be here, what were the crowd to do? Most gravitated towards the stage, or indeed onto it, and stood in proud solidarity occasionally chanting or bursting into song. Few seemed to have brought candles to wave, and it was too light for that anyway, but some had photos of Michael on inkjet paper and wielded those above their head instead. As 7pm approached a countdown began, ending in an uncoordinated silence, a few waved arms and a fizzled-out cheer [photo]. Had things worked out differently and last night's concert taken place, the yelling would no doubt have been rather more hysterical.
As the on-stage teens held hands and filed off round the square in a celebratory crocodile, I edged out of the crowd to take a look inside the Dome proper. I was expecting bleak emptiness, given that the O2's website was announcing "No Events found on this Date". Not at all. A steady stream of entertainment seekers were filing past security, not all of them MJ fans on the lookout for something to do. Many of the restaurants (notably Pizza Express) were doing good trade, although others (yes Wasabi, I'm looking at you) remained stubbornly empty on a night they might have hoped would be a takings bonanza.
A medley of Michael Jackson hits accompanied the Roller Disco in the London Piazza, although few of the evening's special visitors had taken up the offer to don wheels and enter the rink. Maybe the £7.50 charge had put them off. Few showed any interest either in the Body Worlds exhibition (£12) or the British Music Experience (£15). I was struck by how little there is within the O2 to keep cash-poor teens occupied, bar a single newsagents at the far end selling chocolate and Coke. Owners AEG have deliberately targeted a more discerning crowd to keep the riffraff out - there's no McDonalds or KFC here - but most youthful visitors seemed happy to stroll up and down Entertainment Avenue all the same.
The first night of the "This Is It" tour therefore passed off with rather more incident and enterprise than I'd expected. Not all of the remaining 49 lost concert nights may be quite so busy.
I missed the call to action. I'm not on Facebook, and I don't spend the day glued to entertainment newsfeeds, so I never saw the invite. I was therefore surprised, on arrival, to discover a rather large crowd milling around in Peninsula Square. They were massing by the makeshift Jackson shrine, over in the corner by the big spike, beneath a videoscreen showing a sequence of images of the dead singer. Not enough to start a revolution, but several hundred all the same.
One girl had brought a single red rose wrapped in petrol station cellophane, which she laid respectfully within the fenced-off tribute zone. Others added their comments in marker pen to the wall of whiteboards behind - "King of Pop Forever", "This girl is yours", "Micheal We Luv U", "Thank you for making me want to dance". There was no intense grief on display, more a feeling of muted celebration, and nothing especially emotional or coherent either [see Darryl's report here]. I was surprised to see how many of the crowd appeared far too young to remember Michael Jackson in his heyday. Most would still have been at infant school the last time he had a number 1 record, although there were a fair few older souls and parents dotted about who'd probably moonwalked back in the day and bought Thriller on vinyl.
