The Day a Joke Changed Music Forever: How Quincy Jones and Michael Jackson Created a Legend

The air was thick with anticipation at Westlake Recording Studios in Los Angeles on that fateful day in April 1982.

It was a pivotal moment in music history, though no one in the room could have known it yet.

Quincy Jones, the legendary producer, sat behind the massive mixing console, his fingers drumming impatiently on the armrest.

He had been working tirelessly with Michael Jackson on what would become the Thriller album, but today felt different.

Today, something wasn’t clicking.

 

 

Michael stood in the vocal booth, headphones snug over his ears, waiting for direction.

They had been laboring over the track “Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’” for six long hours, and frustration was beginning to bubble beneath the surface.

Michael had recorded the verse fifteen times, each take technically perfect yet utterly lifeless.

Quincy pressed the talkback button, his voice filled with a mix of concern and irritation.

“Michael, let’s take five,” he said, trying to ease the tension.

Michael removed his headphones slowly, exhaustion etched on his young face.

He walked out of the booth and sank onto the leather couch in the control room, the weight of expectation heavy on his shoulders.

Neither man spoke for a moment, the silence thick with unspoken pressure.

This album had to be a monumental success.

Everyone knew it.

Michael’s last solo album, Off the Wall, had been a hit, but it hadn’t won Album of the Year at the Grammys, a loss that had devastated him.

He had cried for days after that night, and now, with Thriller on the line, the stakes were higher than ever.

Bruce Swedian, the recording engineer, excused himself to grab coffee, sensing the tension in the room.

Quincy and Michael were left alone, the weight of their shared ambition hanging heavily in the air.

“What’s not working?” Michael asked quietly, his voice soft yet resolute.

Quincy leaned back in his chair, studying the young man before him.

Michael was only 23, but he looked even younger, dressed in a red leather jacket that gleamed under the studio lights, his signature Jerry curls framing his face.

Quincy had been working with Michael since he was a teenager with the Jackson 5, producing Off the Wall and witnessing firsthand the brilliance that lay within him.

But today, he sensed that Michael was too controlled, too calculated.

“You’re singing it perfectly,” Quincy said carefully, “but you’re not feeling it.

You’re thinking about every note, every breath.

You’re performing it, not living it.”

Michael looked down at his hands, the weight of Quincy’s words sinking in.

“I’m trying,” he said, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice.

“I know you are,” Quincy replied, his tone softening.

“But trying is the problem.

You’re so focused on making it perfect that you’re squeezing all the life out of it.

This song is supposed to be aggressive, angry, raw.

Right now, it sounds like you’re reading a phone book with excellent diction.”

Michael winced at the critique but didn’t argue.

He respected Quincy too much to get defensive.

That was one of the things Quincy loved about working with him—Michael had no ego when it came to the work, just pure dedication to creating something great.

They sat in silence for another moment, and Quincy could hear the distant traffic outside on Santa Monica Boulevard, the occasional horn blaring, the city alive beyond their creative cocoon.

He thought about the song, about what it needed.

The lyrics were about gossip, about rumors, about people trying to start drama.

It needed edge, personality, something that would make people remember it decades later.

Then Quincy had an idea, a ridiculous one, but maybe that was exactly what they needed.

“Michael,” Quincy said, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth, “I’ve got a suggestion, but you’re going to think I’m crazy.”

Michael looked up, intrigued.

“What?”

Quincy leaned forward, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

“Stop singing. Just scream.”

Michael blinked, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“What?”

“You heard me,” Quincy chuckled, the absurdity of his own suggestion making him laugh.

“Stop trying to hit perfect notes. Just open your mouth and scream.

Make noise.

Be primal.

Be aggressive. Hell, bark like a dog if you want. Just stop being so damn polite.”

Michael stared at him, completely serious.

“You want me to scream?”

“Yeah,” Quincy said, still chuckling.

“I’m kidding, of course.

But seriously, you need to loosen up.

You’re wound so tight right now that you couldn’t be spontaneous if your life depended on it.

Maybe just make some random noises between takes.

Get weird.

Remember how to have fun.”

Quincy expected Michael to laugh, to roll his eyes, to make some joke about Quincy losing his mind from too many late-night studio sessions.

Instead, Michael’s eyes lit up with genuine excitement.

“Make noises,” Michael repeated slowly, as if savoring the words.

“Michael, I was joking,” Quincy said, suddenly worried.

He knew Michael well enough to recognize that look.

That was Michael’s “idea face.”

That was Michael about to take something casual and turn it into an obsession.

“No, no,” Michael said, standing up quickly.

“You’re right.

I’ve been too controlled, too careful.

What if the song had sounds that weren’t words?

What if there were these moments where it’s just pure emotion, not lyrics?”

“Michael, give me 20 minutes,” he said, already heading toward the door.

“I need to think about this.”

Before Quincy could respond, Michael was gone, walking quickly down the hallway.

Quincy shook his head, half amused, half concerned.

He’d worked with dozens of artists over his career.

Most took direction literally.

Michael took direction as a starting point for innovation.

It was what made him brilliant.

It was also what made him exhausting.

Bruce Swedian returned with coffee, and Quincy took it gratefully.

“Where’s Michael?” Bruce asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Gone to figure out how to scream musically?” Quincy replied.

“Should I be worried?”

“Probably.”

Twenty minutes later, Michael returned to the studio.

He walked past the control room without a word and went straight into the vocal booth.

He put on the headphones, adjusted the microphone, and pressed the talkback button.

“I’m ready.

Let’s go again.”

Quincy and Bruce exchanged glances, both curious and apprehensive.

Quincy pressed the button.

“Okay, Michael. Take 16 from the top.”

The music started, and Michael began singing the verse.

His voice was smooth, controlled, hitting every note perfectly.

Quincy sighed, thinking, “Here we go again.”

Same problem, same lifeless delivery.

But then, as Michael transitioned into the second line, something happened.

Instead of singing the next word, Michael made a sound.

It wasn’t a word.

It wasn’t even really a note.

It was somewhere between a grunt and an exhale, sharp and rhythmic.

“Shimone!”

Quincy sat up straighter, his interest piqued.

Bruce’s hand froze on the mixing board.

Michael continued singing, but now there were these punctuations, these vocal exclamations.

“Hee-hee!”

This one was high and sharp, almost like a laugh but more percussive.

Then another one.

“Ooh!”

This one was lower, more aggressive.

By the time Michael finished the verse, Quincy was leaning forward in his chair, his coffee forgotten.

The entire energy of the song had changed.

It was alive now, dangerous, unpredictable.

Those sounds, those non-verbal expressions, added personality.

They added Michael.

Michael took off his headphones and looked through the glass at Quincy, his expression uncertain.

“Too much?”

Quincy pressed the talkback button slowly, his mind racing, processing what he just heard.

“Michael,” he said carefully, “do that again. Exactly like that.

Don’t change a single thing.”

Michael’s face broke into a huge smile, and he put the headphones back on.

They recorded take 17, then 18, then 19.

Each time, Michael refined those sounds.

The “shimone” became sharper, more precise.

The “hee-hee” found its perfect pitch.

New sounds emerged: a sharp intake of breath, a whispered “chamon,” a guttural “da.”

Each one was placed strategically, adding rhythm, flavor, and pure Michael Jackson.

By take 23, they had it.

Quincy played back the recording, and all three men in the control room knew they were listening to something special.

The song wasn’t just good; it was infectious.

Those vocal sounds were hooks by themselves.

You couldn’t unhear them.

They burrowed into your brain.

“Michael,” Quincy said into the talkback, “come listen to this.”

Michael walked into the control room, and Quincy played back the take.

They listened in silence.

When it finished, Michael looked at Quincy with an expression of pure joy.

“It works,” Michael said simply.

“It more than works,” Quincy replied.

“It’s brilliant, but here’s my question.

Was this a one-time thing, or can you do this on other tracks?”

Michael thought for a moment.

“I think these sounds are part of my voice now.

They’re how I feel the music.

They’ve always been there, but I was holding them back because I thought they weren’t professional or polished enough.”

“Use them,” Quincy said firmly.

“Use them on every track where they fit.

This is your signature.

This is what makes you different from every other vocalist on the planet.”

Over the next several months, as they worked through the rest of the Thriller album, those sounds appeared everywhere.

On “Billie Jean,” Michael added sharp vocal hits between verses.

On “Beat It,” his aggressive vocal punctuations amplified the rock edge.

On “Thriller” itself, Vincent Price’s rap wasn’t the only memorable vocal moment.

Michael’s sounds throughout the track created atmosphere and tension.

Bruce Swedian later told colleagues that the hardest part of recording Thriller wasn’t Michael’s singing.

It was capturing those sounds.

They were so spontaneous, so in the moment that Michael rarely did them exactly the same way twice.

Bruce had to be ready at all times, recording everything, knowing that the perfect “shimone” might happen on a random take when they weren’t even officially recording.

When Thriller was released in November 1982, the industry noticed those sounds immediately.

Some producers loved them.

Others thought they were gimmicky.

Radio programmers debated whether vocal ad-libs that weren’t words would confuse listeners.

The listeners didn’t care about the debate.

They loved those sounds.

Kids in playgrounds started imitating the “hee-hee.”

Dancers incorporated the “shimone” into their routines.

Those vocal signatures became as recognizable as Michael’s moonwalk.

Maybe more recognizable because you could make those sounds yourself.

You could be Michael just for a second by making that noise.

Other artists started trying to add similar signature sounds to their music.

Prince had always had his own vocal quirks, but after Thriller, they became more pronounced.

Madonna started adding breathy spoken words to her tracks.

New Edition and Bobby Brown incorporated vocal punctuations into their R&B songs.

The entire sound of pop music shifted, becoming more personal, more idiosyncratic, and more willing to embrace the human voice as a percussion instrument.

But nobody could replicate Michael’s sounds exactly.

They were too tied to his voice, his energy, his unique musicality.

When other artists tried, it sounded like imitation.

When Michael did it, it sounded like innovation.

Quincy Jones watched all of this unfold with a mixture of pride and amazement.

He’d been joking when he told Michael to scream.

He’d been trying to get Michael to loosen up, to stop being so precious about perfection.

He never expected Michael to turn that throwaway comment into a signature style that would influence decades of pop music.

Years later, in a 1993 interview, Quincy recounted the story.

“I told Michael to scream as a joke,” he said, laughing.

“I was being sarcastic. I was frustrated.”

But Michael, being Michael, had heard something in that joke that Quincy didn’t even know was there.

He found the permission he’d been looking for—to be himself, completely and unapologetically.

Those sounds weren’t manufactured.

They weren’t calculated.

They were pure Michael.

The sounds he’d been making his whole life when he was dancing alone in his room, when he was lost in the music.

He just finally let the world hear them.

The impact of those sounds extended far beyond Thriller.

Every album Michael released after that included them.

They became expected, anticipated.

If you listened to a new Michael Jackson song and didn’t hear at least one “shimone” or “hee-hee,” something felt missing.

They were as much a part of his music as his voice itself.

Music producers began teaching the concept in studios.

It became known as vocal signature moments—the idea that an artist could create non-verbal sounds that became as recognizable as their name.

James Brown had done it decades earlier with his grunts and screams.

Michael elevated it to an art form.

After Michael, it became a standard technique.

If you listen to modern pop, hip hop, or R&B, you’ll hear vocal ad-libs everywhere.

Travis Scott’s ad-libs, Young Thug’s unique vocal sounds, Ariana Grande’s runs and whistles—they all trace back in some way to Michael saying “shimone” because Quincy told him to scream.

The Thriller album went on to sell over 70 million copies worldwide.

It won eight Grammy Awards, including Album of the Year.

Michael finally got the recognition he’d cried about missing with Off the Wall.

Those vocal sounds were featured in every single that became a hit—“Billie Jean” with its sharp exhales, “Beat It” with its aggressive punctuations, “Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’” with the original “shimone” that started it all.

In 2009, when Michael Jackson passed away, tributes poured in from around the world.

Musicians, dancers, actors, fans—they all had their favorite Michael moments, and almost every tribute included someone doing those sounds.

“Shimone!”

“Hee-hee!”

They had become more than Michael’s signature; they had become the sound of joy, of dance, of pure musical freedom.

Quincy Jones attended Michael’s memorial service.

He sat in the audience at the Staples Center, surrounded by thousands of mourners and millions watching worldwide.

When Usher performed “Gone Too Soon,” Quincy thought about that night in Westlake Recording Studios.

The frustration, the joke, Michael’s face lighting up with possibility.

After the service, a journalist asked Quincy what Michael’s greatest innovation was.

Quincy thought for a long moment.

“Michael innovated in a hundred ways,” he said slowly.

“But the thing that always amazed me most was how he took the smallest moments and turned them into something eternal.

I made a sarcastic comment during a frustrating recording session.

Most artists would have laughed or ignored it.

Michael turned it into a signature that changed music.”

 

 

Today, if you listen to any compilation of influential pop music from the last 40 years, you’ll hear Michael’s sounds within minutes.

They’ve been sampled, remixed, referenced, and honored in thousands of songs.

Music students study them.

Vocal coaches teach them.

Impressionists perform them.

But it all started with a joke—a frustrated producer telling a perfectionist artist to just scream.

And an artist taking that joke seriously enough to create something that would outlive them both.

The most recognizable sounds in pop music history exist because Quincy Jones was being sarcastic and Michael Jackson was being literal.

That’s the beautiful accident at the heart of Thriller.

That’s the moment when Michael stopped trying to be perfect and started being unmistakably himself.

And the world has been making those sounds ever since.

The legacy of Michael Jackson and Quincy Jones is a testament to the power of creativity and the importance of embracing spontaneity.

In a world that often values perfection over authenticity, their collaboration reminds us that true artistry comes from the heart.

It teaches us that the most profound moments often arise from unexpected circumstances, and that the courage to be vulnerable can lead to incredible opportunities for growth and connection.

As we continue to celebrate the music of Michael Jackson, let us remember the story behind the sounds that changed the world.

Let us honor the moments of inspiration that sparked creativity and innovation, and let us embrace the idea that sometimes, the most powerful performances come from simply being ourselves.

This is the story of how a simple joke turned into a musical revolution—a reminder that even in the world of entertainment, the most significant changes often come from the most unexpected places.

So, the next time you hear those iconic sounds, remember the journey that brought them to life.

Remember the laughter, the creativity, and the magic that happens when we allow ourselves to be free, to scream, and to truly express who we are.