the albums of my life: michael jackson’s thriller

The first two albums I purchased were “Picture This,” by Huey Lewis and The News and “Different Light,” by the Bangles. They were purchased on cassette at a time when albums were still king and cassettes simply shrunk down album covers and placed them above a color block onto the cassette cover. So there, sitting on my bed, as I listened to the cassettes on a knock-off Walkman, were tiny reproductions of the album covers that took up only half of the cassette’s available portrait layout. Susanna Hoffs, sadly, was unrecognizable.

I have no idea when I bought these albums — although it had to have been on or about 1986 when the Bangles released “Different Light.” More importantly I have no idea why I purchased these albums. I had, and still have, no real affinity for these artists. “Picture This” stands as the only Huey Lewis album I have ever (or will ever) own, and even in 1986 I could recognize Lewis as a cheap and cheezy knock off of Bruce Springsteen or a less talented version of schlock artist Billy Joel. The Bangles had a certain sex appeal that appeals to a ten year-old, but even then their music was too for me. Hoffs seemed a bit mysterious and somewhat deeper than the rest, but truth be told, the Bangles weren’t too far off from cartoon rockers Jem.

It’s likely that I bought these albums because they were safe and unlikely to offend my parents sensibilities.

My mother had — and still seems to have — absolutely no interest in music whatsoever. As far as I can tell, she could just as easily be into speed metal as classical baroque. I don’t think she has ever purchased a piece of music or owned a device to play music in her life. To give you an idea of just how little my mother cares about music: Somewhere in the late 80s, early 90s, she bought a Chevrolet Celebrity. She had the dealer take out the standard AM/FM stereo and put in one that only received AM signals. If she could have had them put in a plastic brick, she would have. Why pay for something you’re never going to use?

My father, on the other hand, was a confirmed music lover. However, at the time he only had ears for classical music and, when he was feeling a little loose, 1950s rock — Bill Haley and the Comets, or if he was really getting really crazy, Chuck Berry. Over the years, his musical taste has gotten much deeper and wider, but in the 1980s he was still listening through a narrow bore.

In my parents eyes, a ten year-old buying music of any kind was questionable. It was borderline. Something that had to be granted permission. Plus, because we lived in the small, one-light town of Danville, Pennsylvania, the only place to buy music was the Susquehanna Valley Mall, a 45-minute drive away. If you were given the chance to buy an album, you better choose one that would be granted approval.

All of these factors combined in my head somehow so that — as I flipped through the bins of cassettes at the record store after sitting for an hour in the Star Wars cockpit at the arcade — I went past the album I truly coveted “Thriller,” and choose instead, the two-for-one deal of “Different Light” and “Picture This.” The latter included in the deal as a back catalog album being jettisoned to make room for the upcoming “Fore!” which was sure to be loaded with hits.

In retrospect, the choice was clear. Huey Lewis and the Bangles were part of my world — safe, white, unflashy and altogether wholesome. Huey Lewis, was someone my father could relate to — he even looked a bit like Bill Haley, or some other 50s sock-hop.

In 1986, my family was missing the MTV pop-culture revolution. We had one television set that received a total of 4 channels from an over-the-air antenna. We did not have a VCR and our hi-fi was called a hi-fi and had an eight-track player. We lived on a five-acre lot in the woods, on a hill in a tiny town, smack in the middle of Pennsylvania, a full five hours from any metropolitan area. Huey Lewis looked like the owner of a local gas station. Michael Jackson represented everything that was outside and foreign from my world.

For all of my family’s pop-culture ignorance, Brian Crane, my best friend and neighbor, was a pop-culture sage. The Cranes had cable television. They had MTV and Home Box Office. They had a VCR (and later a LaserDisc player). They had a finished basement that was turned over to the kids for playing whatever games they pleased and watching television unsupervised on a big screen TV. They took trips to New York City where they saw Broadway shows. They had a panel van with a television in it. Brian knew how to ride a minibike and was encouraged to do so. I believed he had seen rated R movies.

Although he was a full year younger than me, Brian Crane was my idol — and Michael Jackson was his idol.

My first memory of Michael Jackson was receiving an invitation, to the Crane’s house for an exclusive viewing of “Thriller” — the long-form video. We watched it on their big screen, off a VHS tape, with the light’s out just like in a movie theater. There were bowls of popcorn, cans of soda and blankets and pillows piled on the floor. All of the neighborhood kids were invited and we sat with our noses nearly pressed against the set, enthralled. The film was everything a 10 year-old boy could hope for — a hero convincingly transformed into a werewolf; zombies breaking through the soil of their graves, attacking a home, then dancing; a beautiful woman (a former Playboy model we learned later); a hint of sex and of course a fantastic soundtrack.

After everyone had left, Brian and I watched the “making of” selection at the end of the cassette. We saw how John Landis directed the film, watched Michael learn his choreography, and how the make-up artists transformed the dancers into zombies. We studied every detail and Brian, who was far more coordinated than I was, dove into learning Michael Jackson’s dance moves. Within a week he could do a passable moonwalk.

From that moment, “Thriller” was cut and remixed into the official soundtrack of our childhood. When we needed a scary voice for a haunted house we constructed out of blankets and couch cushions, we used Vincent Price’s voice break. When we wanted to pretend we were in a gang, there was “Beat It.” If we wanted to be completely confused about the adult world and ask our parents difficult questions, there was “Billie Jean.”

Our fascination with Jackson led to movies like Beat Street and Breakin’. We translated the dance moves we learned from them to routines set to Michael Jackson songs. Brian performed a well-choreographed break dance routine for his brother’s birthday. I danced for my sister’s catholic school friends to “Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’” — a spectacle that produced gut busting laughter, tears and the crashing end of my break dancing career.

All of this happened under the country sun and buzzing cicadas of Danville — a tiny, failed mining town nestled in the central hills of Pennsylvania. It happened because, despite our remote location, there were roller rinks, movie theaters, VCRs and Home Box Office to beam the culture of the world into our little universe. We were white country kids emulating a black man with a penchant for baby tigers, chimps and small children. We were, as it turns out, dancing on the vanguard of a new era of race relations, cultural identity and sexual orientation. We were being taught to look at people and judge them by their talents and not their race or strange proclivities. But mostly, we were enthralled by one of the best pop albums ever recorded.