Remembering Tito Jackson on this most poignant of days.
Curiously, the Jackson 5 singing guitarist was the only member of the family I’d seen perform other than his more famous brother. In fact, there was a nice circular thing that October 2009 night at Wembley Arena, as Tito’s accomplished new band was in support slot mode as the opening act to erstwhile Motown colleague Gladys Knight — the legendary lady who actually discovered the band of brothers rather than than the label’s PR machine deciding it was the rather more bankable Diana Ross.
Team Tito turned in a solid set that was part blues, part Tamla and part tribute to the J5/Jacksons where he was backed by a tasty trio of female singers including Nicole Jackson, cousin of the singing siblings. And all this just three months after MJ’s untimely demise. Matriarch Katharine Jackson was sitting in the tier directly above us and looked somewhat uncomfortable when Tito pointed out publicly where she was sitting, forcing her to take a bow to the sympathetic squeals of many in the audience.
Picwise, what I posted on the socials today was a brief pitstop I made six years later, on the 3rd of July 2015 outside the Jackson family home in Gary, Indiana — quite literally the 2300 Jackson Street of the song, and no, the name was nothing more than a coincidence: the street is named after President Andrew Jackson and not Gary‘s most famous family.
Forty-five minutes from Chicago and three and a half hours from Motown HQ in Detroit, this was the two-bedroom bungalow in the steeltown area of the Hoosier State where Rebbie, Jackie, Tito, Jermaine, LaToya, Marlon, Michael, Randy and Janet lived until May 1971, when Jacksons moved to the Hayvenhurst compound in Encino, California — scene of that infamous awkward meeting with George Michael in the 1980s.
The house has been fixed up quite a bit, with flower gardens and a large, loud “King of Pop” stone monument dominating one corner of the front yard.
Word of warning, Gary is among the more dangerous cities in America, and numerous abandoned buildings can be seen on neighbouring streets, so you definitely don’t want to go wandering around aimlessly. In fact, I texted Kris Wolford, a lovely man I’d been having a summer romance with in Florida, to tell him where I was, mainly because he grew up in Indiana.
“What the hell are you doing there? I’d get out of there as quickly as you can. It’s not safe.”
I did as I was told but then I was in a bit of a hurry anyway, as I was determined to catch Aretha Franklin live at a 4th of July festival in Sioux City, Iowa the following evening. In fact, I’d been driving solidly for an average eight hours a day since I left my sister’s house in Toronto and picked up a lovely white Mustang convertible in Detroit.
To cut a long story short, happily, I did indeed make the concert, and by the time the road trip was over I’d clocked up over 5,500 kilometres in exactly one week, passing through 17 – count ‘em! – at break need speed for much of it. In fact, just the day before I had to give the car in at LAX in California I was ploughing along Route 66 in New Mexico, having come from Oklahoma, ie the very reverse of Tito’s last fateful journey at the wheel.
Gee, this life’s a funny thing.
Steve Pafford
Toriano Adaryll ‘Tito’ Jackson, 15 October 1953 – 15 September 2024
