Dan Wright, with his highly controversial and misleading title, attempts to lure all the Whacko Jacko conspirators under one roof and, Guy Fawkes-like, burn them all down with a fiery yet funny defence of M.J’s innocence. His autobiographical account of this still smouldering obsession for a long faded shooting star is, at times, caustically hilarious and at others endemically sad.
Early on Dan admits that he was only ‘touched’ by Michael Jackson in a non-physical way and so either disappoints or disarms, depending on the reason for going. In a seeming act of confession, he recalls the highs and lows of one half of a one-sided love affair with a man who, metaphorically speaking, reached out and grabbed him as a mesmerised 8 year old and has since never let go. Women, friends and teaching professionalism have all been sacrificed at some stage or another, to protect the icon that is, or was, Michael Jackson. The audience laughed, more than he would have liked at times, but it’s a difficult thing to do: to pay due respect and homage to someone who is the vehicle for your humour. This feels like therapy - funny therapy, but therapy nonetheless. Jacko once sung ‘don’t stop til you get enough,’ but even here, in Edinburgh for another twenty-or-so nights, bowing down to worship at the shrine of Whacko for an hour a day might just not be enough.
