I don’t remember a lot of music that had such the pervasive, uniting, boogying effect on everyone in the world — everyone — like Michael Jackson’s “Thriller.”

There were other albums popular back in the 1980s that came close to touching the mass boogie appeal of “Thriller.” In my little apartment, “Hideaway,” by David Sanborn; “Gaucho,” by Steely Dan; and “Purple Rain,” by Prince came close. They were perfect for partying, but they were nothing, nothing, nothing like “Thriller.”

“Thriller” was something altogether epic. Its music bounded barriers, touching us all. Old or young, urban or suburban, rich or poor, gay or straight, black or white, Democrat or Republican, it didn’t matter who or what you were: Michael brought us all together with that infectiously grooving album.

I dare you to listen to “Thriller” and not move. Go ahead, try it. If you’re not standing up, you’ll still find it’s impossible to not bounce your head or shake your shoulders or move your hips or tap your foot just a bit. You can’t not move.

For all that Michael Jackson was and became, back then he was something ethereal, otherwordly, like music itself brought to life by a higher power to teach the world how to move and groove as one.

As I write this, I am listening to “Thriller.” I am telling my 9-year-old son, “This is Michael Jackson.”

And I’m moving.