Tito Jackson, brother of the late Michael Jackson and co-founder of the Jackson 5, has died. He was 70 years old.
His family made the stunning announcement Sunday.
“It’s with heavy hearts that we announce that our beloved father, Rock & Roll Hall of Famer Tito Jackson is no longer with us,” Tito’s sons TJ, Taj and Taryll said in a statement on Instagram. “We are shocked, saddened and heartbroken.”
While an official cause of death has yet to be determined, Steve Manning, former Jackson family manager, told Entertainment Tonight, he believed the pop icon died of a heart attack while driving from New Mexico to Oklahoma on Sunday.
Tito, born Toriano Adaryll “Tito” Jackson in October 1953 and the third of 10 children, was the least-heard member of the Jackson 5 as he was a backup singer and played guitar for the group, while his brothers Jackie, Tito, Jermaine, Marlon, and Michael were more prominently featured.
During their time as the Jackson 5, the family produced several No. 1 hits in the 1970s including “ABC,” “I Want You Back,” and “I’ll Be There.” They were inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame in 1997.
Tito was last seen in Munich, Germany, on September 9, prior to a scheduled performance with his brothers Jackie and Marlon Jackson. The trio have two more performances left on their 2024 tour, however it’s unclear how The Jacksons will handle the upcoming shows.
“Some of you may know him as Tito Jackson from the legendary Jackson 5, some may know him as ‘Coach Tito’ or some know him as ‘Poppa T.’ Nevertheless, he will be missed tremendously. It will forever be ‘Tito Time’ for us. Please remember to do what our father always preached and that is ‘Love One Another.’ We love you Pops,” his sons wrote on their own music group’s Instagram page.
It is devastating to hear the news about Tito Jackson. May he rest in peace, and may his family find comfort in knowing that so many people are thinking of them during this extremely difficult time.
I COMPLAINED ABOUT MY NEW NEIGHBORS’ HORRIBLE FOUNTAIN & RECEIVED A THREATENING NOTE FROM THEM.
The quietude of Elm Street, once a symphony of birdsong and gentle laughter, had been shattered. The arrival of the new neighbors, the Morlocks, had thrown the idyllic tranquility of their little community into chaos.
Initially, I had tried to be welcoming. A plate of freshly baked cookies, a warm smile, a friendly “Welcome to the neighborhood!” But my overture had been met with a chilling silence. The woman who answered the door, pale and gaunt, had regarded me with a suspicion that bordered on paranoia. “Ew, it smells awful,” she had muttered, her eyes darting nervously around as if I were some sort of disease.
Then came the fountain. A monstrosity of wrought iron and gargoyles, it stood imposingly in their yard, a constant, jarring presence. The incessant gurgling and splashing, day and night, had become the soundtrack to our lives. Sleep became elusive, replaced by the monotonous drone of the water.
The neighborhood, once a haven of peace and camaraderie, was now a battleground. Tempers flared. Arguments erupted at the weekly community meetings. Finally, a vote was taken – a unanimous decision to request the removal of the fountain.
And so, the unenviable task of filing the official complaint fell to me. I, the self-proclaimed peacemaker, the neighborhood’s unofficial ambassador of goodwill, was now the bearer of bad tidings.
That evening, as I returned home, a small, ominous package lay on my doorstep. No return address. A shiver ran down my spine.
Inside, a single sheet of paper, scrawled with menacing handwriting:
“I KNOW YOUR SECRET. YOU WILL BE POLITE TO YOUR NEW NEIGHBORS, OR EVERYONE WILL KNOW.”
Fear, cold and clammy, gripped me. Who was it? The Morlocks? Or someone else, someone watching, someone waiting for the right moment to strike?
The following days were a blur of paranoia and unease. I checked every window and door lock multiple times a night. I slept with the light on, the faintest sound sending shivers down my spine. My once peaceful neighborhood had transformed into a place of fear and suspicion.
The police, after much persuasion, agreed to investigate. They questioned the Morlocks, of course, but they denied any involvement. The woman, her face gaunt and drawn, maintained her innocence, claiming she was simply trying to enjoy her own property.
The investigation yielded nothing. No fingerprints, no witnesses, no concrete evidence. The threat remained, a chilling reminder of the darkness that lurked beneath the surface of our seemingly idyllic community.
I started carrying a small can of pepper spray, my hand instinctively reaching for it at every rustle of leaves, every unfamiliar sound. I avoided going out alone at night, my days filled with a constant sense of unease.
The incident had changed me. The once friendly, outgoing neighbor was now withdrawn, suspicious, constantly scanning the shadows for signs of danger. The peace and tranquility of Elm Street, shattered by the arrival of the Morlocks, had been replaced by a chilling sense of fear and uncertainty.
And the fountain, that monstrous, discordant symbol of their arrival, continued to spew its icy water, a constant reminder of the darkness that had seeped into the heart of their once idyllic community.I COMPLAINED ABOUT MY NEW NEIGHBORS’ HORRIBLE FOUNTAIN & RECEIVED A THREATENING NOTE FROM THEM.
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