Hard though it is to remember that far back, Michael Jackson used to be famous for making great pop music. He didn't need to let reporters follow him around so that we could see how normal he is. He didn't need to make his own documentaries to show how normal he is, once the reporters had focused on what we'll charitably call his eccentricities.
His life might have been full of pitiful delusion, his egomania might have been terrifying even back then. But who cared? Michael Jackson went into the studio with Quincy Jones and made insanely good records. It's amazing how many self-indulgences we can forgive in exchange for the perfect pop single.
In theory, then, 'Number Ones' should be a useful reminder of Jackson's genius, rather than his status as one of those celebrities more famous for their negotiations with fame than their professional skills. In theory, too, it's a much more compact, modest album than his last greatest hits, 1995's 'HIStory', since that was a two-CD set featuring one disc of rubbish new material. And was launched, subtly enough, by the record company sailing a giant statue of Jackson down the Thames.
But 'Number Ones' panders to Jackson's strenuous belief that he remains a potent artist. Out of 18 tracks, only half a dozen come from 'Off The Wall' and 'Thriller'. Unwisely, the songs are arranged chronologically so that, after a magnificent start, the decline is gradual and inexorable. If the idea behind 'Number Ones' is to highlight Jackson's gifts, it fails miserably.
Instead, it's a document of bad decisions and diminishing powers. 'Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough' and 'Rock With You' still sound marvellous, of course, unsurprising since Justin Timberlake has been reliving their magic with the help of all those Neptunes songs that were rejected by Jacko. The over-generous five songs from 'Bad' have aged poorly, though, save 'The Way You Make Me Feel'. And the '90s material is every bit as bad as you remember it.
Here, really, are the collected embarrassments of Michael Jackson - apart from the mercifully excluded 'Heal The World'. The misfiring stabs at contemporary relevance ('Blood On The Dancefloor', 'You Rock My World'). The shockingly mawkish ballads ('You Are Not Alone' and the new 'One More Chance', both written by R Kelly). And worst of all, Jackson's delusional attempts to relaunch himself as the balm to all global ills ('Black Or White', the hilarious 'Earth Song').
It's a modern fable. Jackson tried to become more than a pop star, to become some kind of latter-day saint. But in the attempt, he displayed his vanities so completely and patronised his audience so much that he only succeeded in alienating them. And as a result, he ended up as less than a pop star: as a celebrity defined by fame rather than art, and an international laughing stock. Buy 'Off The Wall' and 'Thriller' if you need them, and let this one rot.
