Welcome To My Nightmare: JOE JACKSON VS. SUCCESS
On the second evening of Joe Jackson’s 1980 mini-American tour, both the mercury and the humidity are hovering close to 100, enveloping several thousand Central Park-goers in a cloud of water vapor, warmed-over booze and sweat. Uneasily pacing across the stage, Joe Jackson, becomingly attired in a black suit, is about to expire of heat prostration.
"I don't believe in music as an escape from real life."
Welcome To My Nightmare: JOE JACKSON VS. SUCCESS
by Toby Goldstein
On the second evening of Joe Jackson’s 1980 mini-American tour, both the mercury and the humidity are hovering close to 100, enveloping several thousand Central Park-goers in a cloud of water vapor, warmed-over booze and sweat. Uneasily pacing across the stage, Joe Jackson, becomingly attired in a black suit, is about to expire of heat prostration. He does not remove the heavy cotton jacket. He points at the audience, largely bare-chested and in cut-offs, saying, “That’s disgusting; LOOK SHARP!” and wobbles into his first album’s title track. He swigs at Gatorade, making more rude remarks but downing v the hulk-colored liquid regardless. When he finally does doff the suit coat, revealing a tailored red and black shirt beneath, the audience goes wild—he’s one of ’em at last! But Joe Jackson, several generations down from the Victorians, would not even admit to perspiring. “Skin leakage, ” he mutters a few times, a lone voice railing against the elements.