When I turned 11, I used my birthday money to buy a portable CD player. A Walkman or off-brand equivalent was a common purchase for young people back in 2002, but buying mine felt extra special. Having my own CD player meant that I finally had access to my dad’s music collection, which lived in a black tower in our living room and was packed with hundreds of jewel-cased albums.
The first album I snatched from the shelves for private listening was Michael Jackson’s Thriller. I pressed play and his music felt like electricity.
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