1982

I recently made a simple but profound connection. Apparently, when I was at the ripe old age of three, two of my favorite albums were released: Springsteen’s Nebraska and Richard and Linda Thompson’s Shoot Out the Lights. The year was 1982 and those of you who pay attention to such things as records and release dates might be thinking that this was also the year of Michael Jackson’s Thriller and Prince’s 1999. And you’d be right. In fact, it was quite the year for music. It was, for instance, the year The Cure kicked in the door with their aggressive and strangely brilliant Pornography. And it was the first time the world heard Marvin Gaye’s “Sexual Healing” and Billy Idol’s “White Wedding.” Duran Duran was at its best (original group and otherwise) in 1982 and with Imperial Bedroom, Elvis Costello was well on his way.

I don’t remember much of being three, or of any of these albums’ initial receptions. My sister was born 1982, I think—or was it in ’83? I don’t remember her being born, not really, and what I think I remember was probably constructed from photo albums and hearsay. What I do know is that Reagan was at the front-end of his presidency in 1982 and that it was the year the Cardinals defeated the Brewers to win the World Series. But again, I don’t actually remember any of this.

Maybe this is why we need music, or at least why I need music. Music is perspective. Music represents. I don’t remember 1982, but Thriller always will. And when I listen to an album like Thriller or to what Springsteen recorded at home on 4-track cassette, or to what became Richard and Linda’s final and greatest hurrah, I can feel the year that was—I can feel 1982. And if Nebraska and Shoot Out the Lights are symbolic of anything, it’s that 1982 was as lonely a time as any.

Every song on Nebraska has got something isolated and eerie about it. Take track six, for instance: “State Trooper.” What do these words say about 1982?

Maybe you got a kid
Maybe you got a pretty wife
The only thing that I got's
Been botherin' me my whole life

When Richard and Linda Thompson went into the studio to record Shoot Out the Lights, their marriage was nearly over. And you can hear it in their voices. They say it again and again on this album, but they say it best in “Walking on a Wire.”

I hand you my ball and chain
You just hand me that same old refrain
I'm walking on a wire, I'm walking on a wire
And I'm falling

And what do these words say about 1982?

Springsteen bounced back—he had to, Tunnel of Love was on the horizon (hah!). Richard and Linda toured for a while with Shoot Out the Lights and then broke up, professionally and otherwise. But again, what did these words—these favorite albums of mine—say about 1982?

I’d explain it to you if I could, but like I said, anything I know about 1982 is built on albums and hearsay.

So maybe you should read these words to someone older, someone who could remember. Or maybe you are older yourself. Either way, find someone who was there, who can recall, and ask them how it felt to hear for the first time "Sexual Healing" or "Billie Jean." Ask them where they were, what they were doing.

And there you'll have it, the year that was—1982.