Those iconic tinkling chimes and then the da, da da da…you know right away what’s next: “There comes a time…”
I grew up in the 80s, a decade of sitcoms and game shows, big earrings and blue eyeshadow. And, of course, MTV. I marked my calendar when I saw Netflix’s The Greatest Night in Pop, a documentary about “We Are the World.”
How I loved that song. And even more so the video—just because of all the artists within it, even though the video did not contain the excitement of Def Leppard’s “Photograph” or the choreography of “Mickey.” I knew all the soloists, even the oldies at the time like Dionne Warwick (except Al Jarreau, although he looked familiar). I could even identify them by their voices. Plus, my sister’s impersonation of Bruce Springsteen’s line was hilarious.
Whatever makes me giggle becomes a permanent piece of me.
I knew the backstory of “We Are the World,” thanks to a delightful website called Songfacts, a site I discovered years ago. It’s like the print version of Pop-Up Video, one of my all-time favorite shows (probably third, behind thirtysomething and My So-Called Life, with Survivor a close fourth). Tidbits about the song, about the artist, about the video, even how the song was used in later years, fill their website. Whenever I’m wondering about lyrics or a video, I hop on Songfacts and it’s almost always there.
I wasn’t expecting the documentary to give me more information—I knew Waylan Jennings walked out, Cyndi Lauper’s bracelets caused mayhem, and Huey Lewis sang Prince’s line since he was a no-show. But that didn’t matter. I wanted to be transported back into the Eighties for 96 minutes.
I was not disappointed. I had a smile on my face the entire time.
Lionel (or Lion-el if you’re Michael Jackson) Richie holds a special place in my childhood memories. One of my favorite videos when I was little was “Hello.” At my young age of seven, I thought the video—and song— was so sweet, with Lionel Richie in love with a pretty girl who couldn’t see. Once I was in high school, the video became giggle-worthy. Pop-Up Video would deem it their greatest work of art, and I agree. But in my innocent seven-year-old mind, I loved “Hello.” During the video, I would twirl around like I was in ballet class (I learned how to professionally twirl thanks to Stevie Nicks’ videos, particularly “Gypsy” and “Stand Back”). When we visited my grandparents in Iowa, my Grandpa Connell needed to do some shopping in Grinnell, about 20 miles from his farm. We loved such rare shopping trips with Grandpa. At Pamida, I found Lionel Richie’s album Can’t Slow Down. All the change that Grandpa saved for us in mason jars—nickels, dimes, and quarters—wasn’t enough to buy the record. Grandpa bought it for me. Now I could listen to the song whenever I wanted.
Despite our extensive record collection, we never owned “We Are the World,” probably because it sold out in seconds. When I was in junior high, my mom started archiving her records with some convoluted stereo setup, so I recorded the audio from the video, a distinctive hissing in the background that wasn’t much worse than a store-bought cassette. Then when I was in college, “We Are the World” was one of the first songs I downloaded from Napster because none of my compilation Eighties’ CDs ever included it. It was from a record, as I could hear a clicking before those chimes started twinkling. (I would find the album decades later, but decided I didn’t want to partake in expanding my record collection as I had started downsizing already.) “We Are the World” is part of my Favorites playlist, my Eighties playlist (obviously), and my Inspiring songs playlist. I’ve even used the song in my classroom when we’ve talked about poetry and songs that inspire action (I do not show the video, as I fear students will spend more time gawking and laughing at the unglamorous and outdated styles than listening to the lyrics).
Lionel Richie begins the story of “We Are the World,” and he’s hilarious. Michael Jackson calls him Lion-el and wants him to pet Bubbles, the chimp, which Lionel has no interest in doing. Since Stevie Wonder never returns phone calls, he wasn’t a part of the song writing. The documentary even tracked down many of the behind-the-scenes people, from cameramen to sound mixers.
I absorbed every little detail, so much so that I grew irritated with my husband and pony-sized dog, Baby, for making too much noise. Baby slurped up her pizza and my husband asked me questions about what was happening. I didn’t want anything to transport me back into the present until The Greatest Night in Pop was over.
There’s an energy nostalgia gives us. It’s not sentimentality for days gone by, as sentimental seems to have gained a negative connotation. Nostalgia recaptures a long-ago moment and acts like a time machine, where we can feel the past, maybe even smell it. Not only were times different back then—we were different. I suddenly felt eight or nine again, as if Grumpy Bear was sitting on my lap and I had an afternoon of playing Barbie house ahead of me.
“We Are the World” wasn’t played much on the radio after its initial release; I relied on MTV to give me my Worldly fix. Not having access to it made “We Are the World” even more precious. Even at my young age, I was awed by the star power of the video, although I wondered why some of my favorites didn’t make the cut: Madonna, Pat Benatar, John Cougar Mellencamp. The Greatest Night in Pop implies that it was either Cyndi Lauper or Madonna; considering Cyndi Lauper’s part is my favorite in the song, I’m glad they chose Cyndi.
I used to reenact “We Are the World” using my myriad collection of stuffed animals. I set them up in a half-circle with invisible microphones and matched each animal to their singer, although I can no longer remember which animals sang which lines. Once my Care Bear collection grew, along with the Care Bear Cousins, I would assign each one a line as well. I put sunglasses on the animals that were Stevie Wonder, Ray Charles, and Michael Jackson; I adorned several necklaces on Cyndi Lauper. I dug out as many earmuffs as possible from the coat closet and placed those on the bigger animals to act as headphones. I wanted to be Diana Ross (how I loved her hair), so I sang her line (although my favorite soloist was Steve Perry as I loved his voice and “Oh Sherrie.”) Whichever animal sang Lionel Richie’s part always gave a thumbs up at the end (more like a paw up, as none of my stuffed animals had thumbs).
As I watched more and more of the soloists share their stories, my smile grew, like the Grinch’s heart when he realizes the spirit of Christmas. These were my childhood people, maybe not quite Meredith to Cristina, but they were my entertainment, my inspiration, and part of my delight. And now I had something in common with them all—we had all aged. Bruce Springsteen with his tanned wrinkles looked like a grandpa who had just come in from chores on the farm. Huey Lewis looked like a cross between a college professor and an author, humbled by such a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. And while Cyndi Lauper had maintained her colorful hair, she now had crow’s feet which added to her spunk.
We had all aged, some of us better than others (and some should maybe lay off the plastic surgery). Yet we shared a moment, both now and all those years ago. Like a book speaks to a reader every time it is opened, a song—and especially a music video—does the same thing. And now that slice of the past collided with the present, a conglomeration of forty years (oh my god, am I that old?). But I wouldn’t change that part of my history for anything, for it fills me with such delight—then and now.
When the stars started to reveal themselves, I longed for Steve Perry—but of course he did not participate. Neither did Billy Joel (who didn’t think highly of the song), Kim Carnes or Hall & Oates. And it was a reminder of those we’ve lost over the years: Tina Turner, Michael Jackson, Kenny Rogers, Ray Charles, and James Ingram (I had no idea James Ingram had died).
I felt horrible for Sheila E. who felt used just so Prince would come; she left, knowing full well no one had any intention of giving her a solo.
Seeing Stevie Wonder rescue Bob Dylan from his social anxiety was precious. Creative geniuses are people too—maybe that’s what kept Prince away. And Michael Jackson preferred his alone time in the studio before the stars arrived, ditching the American Music Awards. Diana Ross asking for Daryl Hall’s autograph was priceless, which ignited a sheet music autographing frenzy. We can leave our egos at the door to accomplish a charitable task after all.
When everyone sang the Beetlejuice song to show appreciation for Harry Belafonte, I giggled. When Bob Geldof gave his brief inspiring speech to all the singers, I silently thanked him for my favorite Christmas song, “Do They Know It’s Christmas?” That’s the first song on my Christmas playlist, the one that signals the start of the holiday season as my son and I set up the Christmas village the weekend before Thanksgiving.
Even though some part of me knew that songs aren’t recorded all at once, I was surprised by the piece-meal approach to the recording. They sang the chorus first, then the backgrounds in the chorus (while some mild bickering happened over what those words would be), then the solos, then the adlibs during the chorus. It was fascinating to watch. I wish they would have shown a bit of the production aspect, how it was all put together to create the song I love.
Watching those in the background was just as enthralling as those singing. Steve Perry, Huey Lewis, and others sat around on the bleachers with their sheet music—not on their phones! Of course not, because our reliance on smartphones wouldn’t occur for at least another twenty years. Yet somehow we managed all those years ago. Would it be so bad to do so again?
The documentary reminds us what old-timers can accomplish using archaic technology like cassette tapes, landlines and answering machines, and snail mail.
Lionel Richie brought me back to the present as he revealed that he’s sitting in the same studio where they recorded the song almost forty years ago. It’s a beautiful ending to a beautiful memory.
I felt like Diana Ross when the credits began playing. I didn’t want it to end.