by Joseph Vogel
Those sessions—which took place in London at BMI Studio and Abbey Road Studios in May and September 1981, respectively—produced two solid songs: “Say Say Say” and “The Man.” Both were cowritten by Jackson and McCartney and both ended up on McCartney’s 1983 album, Pipes of Peace.
They reunited in December 1981, this time to work on “The Girl Is Mine” for Jackson’s album. McCartney invited Jackson and Quincy Jones to his ranch in Tucson, Arizona, where they jammed in the studio and played around with the song for the next few days. It was in these sessions that they came up with the interlude where Jackson and McCartney playfully banter over the girl. Extensive home video footage taken by the McCartneys captures this trip, including Jackson riding horses with the McCartney family. The famous photo eventually featured on the single album sleeve for “The Girl Is Mine”—with Michael in a blue windbreaker jacket and Paul in gray fleece—was taken by Linda McCartney during this visit.
The song, of course, has long been maligned by critics for its corny lyrics and pedestrian production. Asked about it in 1982, Paul McCartney responded: “The song I’ve just done with Michael Jackson, you could say that it’s shallow. There was even a word—‘doggone’—that I wouldn’t have put in it. When I checked it out with Michael, he explained that he wasn’t going for depth—he was going for rhythm, he was going for feel. And he was right. It’s not the lyrics that are important on this particular song—it’s much more the noise, the performance, my voice, his voice.”
Indeed, the pleasure of the song is in those simple elements. It feels like a stroll in the park, a warm, spring morning, birds chirping, trees rustling. The melody captures a sense of weightless bliss. It doesn’t hurt, of course, that it features two of the most iconic vocalists in the history of popular music. The highlight of their exchange culminates in the bridge, as Jackson takes a line (“But I love you endlessly”) and makes it soar with euphoric conviction.
Incidentally, Jackson’s original demo captures some of these qualities even better. The guitar riff, stripped out of the final production, gives it more energy, and the pleading outro has more soul.
Still, whatever the flaws of the final production, the song has proved memorable. Decades later, its corniness is part of its charm. Jackson’s famous response in the rap, “Paul, I think I told you, I’m a lover, not a fighter,” a riff on the Kinks’ 1964 song, contains a wink and a smile, while the song as a whole evokes a sense of nostalgia and innocence.
It is strange to think of such a song as risqué in any sense. But it was for the time. As Newsweek’s Jim Miller observed in 1983: “[‘The Girl Is Mine’] sounds very pretty and perfectly innocuous—until you begin to think about the lyrics. Have American radio stations ever before played a song about two men, one black and the other white, quarreling over the same woman?” In this way, the song not only challenged segregated programming; it also helped normalize interracial love on the radio.
4. “THRILLER”
Written and composed by Rod Temperton
Produced by Quincy Jones
The transition from “The Girl Is Mine” to “Thriller” has to be one of the strangest, most abrupt shifts ever heard on a pop album. All the carefree light suddenly dissolves. We hear a creaking door, gusty wind, thunderclaps, footsteps, and howling (the latter effect performed by none other than Michael Jackson).
It takes the album into an entirely different sonic and thematic space. Some critics felt all the overt cinematic horror effects made it too campy. But this was Jackson’s intent. A lifelong fan of old classics like The Wolf Man, Invasion of the Body Snatchers, and House on Haunted Hill, “Thriller” was old Hollywood revived, updated with a potent brew of Gothic funk—a genre Jackson essentially invented.
It is difficult to think of another song in popular music history that conjures up its visual presentation as thoroughly as “Thriller.” “If ever a video killed the radio star,” wrote journalist Baz Dreisinger, “ ‘Thriller’ was it.” Far from killing the music, however, “Thriller” gave it new life. Album sales tripled after the video’s appearance on MTV. The video lured people to the music and the music lured people back to the video. They soon became inseparable in the popular imagination. Even today, when one hears the famous chorus, the instant mental image is of a young, radiant Jackson in electric red jacket and pants, flirtatiously circling Ola Ray, morphing into alter egos, dancing with effortless grace and funk alongside zombies while projecting an energy and magnetism that still leaps through the screen. The revolutionary fourteen-minute “Thriller” video essentially reinvented the medium. Music videos had been done before. But never like this.
Yet the song itself has plenty to offer. That famous synth blast in the introduction was inspired, in part, by the brass opening that ushers in Prince’s “1999.” According to synth programmer Michael Boddicker, it was created with a Roland Jupiter-8 synthesizer in double four-voice mode, giving it an enormous sound (unsurprisingly, Jackson wanted it bigger than Prince’s). It works as intended, exploding out of the speakers as it announces the epic song about to unfurl. Part of its impact comes from the dramatic build that precedes it—that heartbeat drum part; the subtle, galloping ride cymbal; the intensifying synth pads. Then—da da—the brass hits, kicking off some of the most memorable synth-funk of the decade.
“On the intro,” revealed recording engineer Bruce Swedien, “there’s a little rhythm track that commences the music, and I purposely limited the bandwidth on it so that as you listen to it your ear adjusts to that spectral response. Then, all of a sudden, the real bass and kick drum come in and the effect is really startling.” That bass sound, created by two Minimoogs playing in unison, runs through most of the song, as does the intricate percussion, programmed on a classic Linn Drum Machine and featuring a combination of handclaps, conga, and cowbell beneath the kick drum.
That iconic one-note bass during the rap (or in the video, during the zombie dance), meanwhile, was created by layering the Minimoog with the Roland Jupiter-8, giving it that textured, croaking sound that makes Michael’s shoulders twitch. The bridge is one of the highlights of the song as the pulsing bass is surrounded by a cross-current of sounds, including that fantastic staccato rhythm guitar pattern by David Williams.
In the verses, Jackson stretches out his lines (“It’s close to miiiiiidnight”), allowing his descriptions to build tension as they unfold, before bursting into the chorus (“ ’Cause this is thriller!”). Over the course of the song, a grotesque narrative emerges in which evil lurks in the dark, the narrator feels trapped with “Nowhere left to run” and has visions of the living dead. Just as in the short film, the narrator has a split identity: part terrified human, part terrorizing monster.
As music critic J. Edward Keyes noted, the lyrics are surrounded by “such spectacular robo-funk—that simple six-note synth riff rolling over and over, unmistakable and unforgettable—that it’s easy to miss the skeletons crouching in its shadows….This is, after all, a song that begins with something evil lurking in the dark, [and] makes a brief stop at demon possession before ending with an army of zombies descending on their prey.” It’s pretty dark stuff, particularly on the heels of “The Girl Is Mine.”
But there is a campy playfulness to it all that softens the horror elements, as, for example, when Vincent Price warns that those “Without the soul for getting down” will probably “rot inside a corpse’s shell.” Consider this Rod Temperton’s warning to those standing on the sidelines of the dance floor when “Thriller” comes on.
“Thriller” couldn’t have been a better fit for Jackson, embodying his interests in horror, spectacle, and cinema, while allowing him to playfully explore his darker side.
5. “BEAT IT”
Written and composed by Michael Jackson
Produced by Quincy Jones; Coproduced by Michael Jackson
“Beat It�
� was the “Johnny B. Goode” of the ’80s. It was a game changer: when it stormed the airwaves and MTV in the spring of ’83, there was no doubt it signaled a new era in music. That iconic guitar riff not only announced Michael Jackson as the biggest force in music; it officially shattered the arbitrary barriers between black and white music and ensured that African American artists would never again be relegated to the margins.
From LA to New York, “Beat It” blasted from boom boxes and Walkmans, in clubs and aerobics classes. Listeners in the early ’80s described it as “electrifying” and “invigorating” as they “hip-hopped to it in clubs and break-danced to it in the streets.” In its 1982 review, Rolling Stone called it a “this-ain’t-no-disco AOR track….Jackson’s voice soars all over the melody, Eddie Van Halen checks in with a blistering guitar solo, you could build a convention center on the backbeat, and the result is one nifty dance song.” Nifty was a patrician way of describing it. In terms of overcoming racialized programming, where “The Girl Is Mine” charmed with a bouquet of flowers, “Beat It” knocked the door down and demanded its due (you can literally hear a knocking sound before Eddie Van Halen enters with his guitar solo).
“Beat It” was the last song Jackson wrote for Thriller. Soon after revealing the demo to Quincy Jones, the A-Team went to work on the track. Ironically, it was members of Toto—the group rock critics derided as too soft—who were among the most important players on the track. Unbeknownst to most casual fans, the famous guitar hook is not played by Eddie Van Halen; it’s Toto guitarist Steve Lukather. Lukather not only played the bass line; he played all the rhythm guitar parts. Meanwhile, Steve Porcaro, the man who wrote “Human Nature,” did the synth programming, primarily using the Synclavier, an early, polyphonic digital synthesizer.
Much folklore surrounds Eddie Van Halen’s guitar solo on the track. Was it Quincy or Michael who came up with the idea? (It remains unknown, though Quincy was the one who reached out to Van Halen.) Did Quincy really bring a couple of six-packs of beer to the studio the day Eddie came in? (Probably yes, recall sources, though Quincy is notorious for embellishing stories.) Were Quincy and Michael present during the recording? (There are mixed accounts on this, but, according to Van Halen, Quincy was there, and Michael came in during the second take.) Was the knocking sound at the beginning of the solo someone inadvertently interrupting the take or Eddie knocking on his guitar? (Neither; it was actually Michael, knocking on a drum case.) Was Eddie really not paid for his contribution? (He was not; he did it as a favor, which his manager and fellow band members thought was crazy.)
According to all accounts, Eddie was sent the track ahead of time and given the freedom to improvise in the studio as he wished. He completed it in two takes. Eddie had no idea what Jackson would make of it. “In my mind,” he recalled, “he’s either going to have his bodyguards kick me out for butchering his song or he’s going to like it. And so he gave it a listen, and he turned to me and went, ‘Wow, thank you so much for having the passion to not just come in and blaze a solo, but to actually care about the song, and make it better.’ He was this musical genius with this childlike innocence. He was such a professional, and such a sweetheart.” As great as the solo was, it was accidentally recorded in the wrong place, so Steve Lukather and Jeff Porcaro were tasked with grafting it where it should be.
The sound of “Beat It” was huge. Some called it “black rock”; others called it “dance metal.” Time described it as an “asphalt aria.” The consensus was the idea of fusion: it represented something fresh, something new.
The title was a play on words. To “beat it” meant to split, to get out of a situation. It also meant to overcome, to beat what’s holding you back. The beat, of course, is also associated with music, implying that you can beat what’s holding you down with the beat. This was the message of the iconic music video, in which Jackson mediates gang violence with music and dance.
This messaging is an important part of the song—often overlooked because listeners (understandably) get caught up in the music. In a time of escalating gang warfare (and inflammatory Cold War rhetoric), it was a call for cooler heads to prevail, for peace over violence. It defied the “macho” posturing of most rock (and, later, hip-hop), offering instead a warning against pride and ego-driven conflict. You want to be tough? You want to be a man? Then be smart, not macho, the lyrics suggested.
“Beat It,” in this way, was the ultimate “crossover” song, bridging gangs and adversaries; bridging black and white, rock and R&B—hell, even bridging geopolitical enemies. While the Kremlin officially denounced Michael Jackson as a strategic tool of Western capitalism and banned his music in the early ’80s, songs like “Beat It” nonetheless managed to seep through the cracks, shared enthusiastically as bootlegs by young Soviets for whom its sound and message resonated.
“Beat It” reached #1 on the Billboard Hot 100 in April 1983. It also hit #1 on the Eurochart, in Canada, and in New Zealand. In 2004, it was included in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame’s list of 500 Songs That Shaped Rock and Roll.
6. “BILLIE JEAN”
Written and composed by Michael Jackson
Produced by Quincy Jones; Coproduced by Michael Jackson
So much has been said about “Billie Jean” that it can be difficult to hear it fresh. It is widely regarded as Jackson’s greatest artistic achievement. The BBC proclaimed the track the “greatest dance record of all time.” In Blender’s 2005 list of the top 500 singles, “Billie Jean” ranked #1. The Guardian called it “one of the most revolutionary songs in the history of popular music.” Jackson’s iconic performances of the song—first in the form of its captivating music video, and later via his legendary Motown 25 performance—only add to its aura.
As with most classics, however, the accolades and familiarity can blunt some of its original force and vitality. “But let it play,” encouraged music critic Mark Fisher, “and you’re soon bewitched by its drama, seduced into its sonic fictional space….If you can manage to keep focused as the track crawls up your spine and down to your feet, check the way that the first string stabs shadow the track like a stalker’s footsteps, disappearing into the wind like mist and rumor. Feel the tension building in your teeth as the bridge hurtles toward the chorus, begging for a release (“The smell of sweet perfume / This happened much too soon”) that you know will only end in regret, recrimination, and humiliation, but which you can’t help but want anyway, desire so intense it threatens to fragment the psyche, or expose the way that the psyche is always-already split into antagonistic agencies: ‘Just remember to always think twice.’ ”
Fellow musicians are as enamored of the track as critics. “ ‘Billie Jean’ is hot on every level,” said keyboardist Greg Phillinganes (who played Rhodes piano and synthesizer on the track). “It’s hot rhythmically. It’s hot sonically, because the instrumentation is so minimal, you can really hear everything. It’s hot melodically. It’s hot lyrically. It’s hot vocally. It affects you physically, emotionally, even spiritually.” Chris Cornell, who memorably covered the song, described it as “brilliant.” He was particularly drawn in by the lyrics. “When I started reading the lyrics,” he said, “I realized it’s a lament, not a dance track….The story isn’t spoon-fed to you, it’s poetic.”
Those lyrics tell a story about a woman who stalks the narrator, claiming he is the father of her child. “Billie Jean is not my lover,” he insists in the chorus, “She’s just a girl who claims that I am the one / But the kid is not my son.” Jackson has said that there never was a real Billie Jean. Rather, she was a fictional composite of the overzealous “groupies” he and his brothers had encountered over the years, including several who did claim he was the father of their children. One woman purportedly even threatened to kill herself and her unborn child if Jackson didn’t marry her. She was eventually placed in a psychiatric hospital. For Jackson, then, part of the emotional energy of t
he song emanates from these very personal—and disturbing—experiences.
Beyond its literal inspiration, “Billie Jean” serves as the embodiment of a variety of emotions and anxieties. The Billie Jean of the title represents fear, distrust, and deception; she embodies the seductions and trappings of fame; she symbolizes “lies becoming the truth.” In Jackson’s vocal, visual, and dance performances of the song, deep-seated pain and paranoia cut through. The song (and dance) is a sort of exorcism, a cathartic release of the demons that haunt him.
Yet in the song, there is no resolution. In the last fragment of the story, he remains vaguely implicated by her accusation (if only by perception). “She came and stood right by me,” he sings, “Just the smell of sweet perfume / This happened much too soon / She called me to her room.” And then what? Does he respond? Does he enter the room? Is she telling the truth? How has she managed to lure him to this place? All these questions are left unanswered, lingering provocatively for the listener to untangle.
It was a strange song to surge up the pop charts. Blender describes it as “one of the most sonically eccentric, psychologically fraught, downright bizarre things ever to land on Top 40 radio.” “Billie Jean” was miles from the standard love songs that generally dominated the airwaves and dance clubs. (In 1983, Lionel Richie’s “All Night Long” and Patti Austin and James Ingram’s “Come to Me” exemplified what was heard next to Jackson’s track.)