Disco in Culture

There was a time in my distant past when disco ruled the dance clubs and American radio airwaves.  I was raised on rock ‘n roll and folk music.

Disco: this heavy-handed beat and sometimes simplistic (or without) lyrics defined my night life for a number of years.  Even with an arguably impressive collection of 12-inch singles, music that played in New York City clubs nearly 50 years ago, now stands solely as a reminder of part of my early city history: an era dead and buried. Kept separate from my other vinyl, these records lean, resolute in the corner of my living room, as precious to me as inherited antiques.

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If it is true that opposites attract, which I believe they often do, it isn’t always sexual.  I have a number of straight allies who will back me up on this. There is something valuable to me about this anti-magnetic association.  I hope that makes sense.

When I was young, before I moved to New York City in the late 1970s, my being gay, though not back home, at first. That eventually changed...in good ways. Thank you, Mom and Dad.  Looking to that period, I wasn’t being fair. I had my lifetime to realize my sexual identity.  I expected my parents to be understanding within a couple of hours of my admission.

Most, if not all, of my younger friends don’t seem to give a crap about someone’s sexuality. There is casual, nonchalant acceptance of differences, be they racial, cultural or attraction. I admit, as an adult, I have always silently been aware of other men’s preferences, romantic or one-offs.  I watched behavior and would speculate, so that I didn’t take missteps or invite misunderstandings. Right (more often than not) or wrong, I kept my conclusions to myself. Straight, bi or gay, I didn’t want to cross lines that could make someone feel uncomfortable.  Though I occasionally still smile to myself when I correctly nail a less overt confession.

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There is a non-threatening dynamic established between him and me.  To be clear, he’s handsome, but I see him solely as my friend.  And I’m very happy that certain straight men don’t make judgments or feel threatened any more than they care about the color of someone’s eyes.

One generalization I find hilarious is when a stranger passes by who is a handsome, straight man.  Especially when he’s wearing work-out clothes while taking his daily jog. Upon approaching me from the opposite direction, they practically (or literally) roll their eyes.  “Another fag checking me out...” Yet when I don’t stare, they often grimace and are annoyed that they don’t live up to earning the badge of being ogled by a gay man. I have exceptional peripheral vision.

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He and I also share a great and lasting love of dance music.  Back when it was first introduced as a musical genre, it was called ‘disco.’  That became a dirty word across the United States.  Once upon a time, some people who hated disco made piles of these etched plastic spheres, doused them with an accelerant and publicly burned them.

He still deejays and I still have all of my dance singles from the 1970s and early ‘80s.

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I know my musical tastes can be a contradiction.  To have loved Joni Mitchell (I still do) with a reverence unmatched and also to have become addicted to the disco beat seems to suggest something illogical.  Maybe it’s not as unusual as I think.  After all, I love the Stones as well as Sade.  To have a friend who understands my passion for this short-lived period of pop music is a conversational gift.  I’m fairly versed in the area, but I’m a novice compared to the knowledge he has memorized.

We work together on a motor yacht that offers tourists and locals alike trips on the rivers surrounding Manhattan Island.  In my case, it is primarily a hospitality gig that I do part-time to pocket some money until I retire.  He has earned his captain’s license, so I don’t believe he and I will be co-workers for too much longer.  At my age, it is rare to make new, let alone, trusted friends.  I don’t say that with animosity.  It’s just evidence I have found to be true.

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Traveling much farther on foot than I normally would, we headed east and then north from our company’s 12th Avenue location. He and I intentionally passed by practical train stations that I could have entered to take me home. We talked for miles and hours.

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My history is still current.  Without question, my future will be shorter than how long I’ve lived already.  I find it annoying when someone has continuous conversations about their past, expecting wide eyed interest.  I know that gets stuck in my craw, as my mother would say.  Yet, I have unintentionally become that blatant personality.  In this instance, my reminiscing about how incredible it was to enter dance clubs during their elite hey-day.  Though there is a never-ending curiosity about my nights spent in the urban legend, Studio 54.

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Part of me thinks that I have not contributed anything relevant in life.  Hopefully I have at least been a good listener and a loyal friend.  People’s definition of  “loyal” does vary, depending on the individual.  And more often than not, it isn’t how I would define the word.  And though I think the term “quality time” is obnoxious, I agree with and embrace the concept.  I know I approach the days differently than most  — particularly since I prefer to spend a good deal of time by myself.  I guess anyone who is a writer understands that barnacle very well.

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Eons ago, for a few months, I worked for a music booking agency whose offices were located in midtown Manhattan.  It was a horrible gig for me.  This should have nothing to do with it, but it was mainly operated by straight, white men, mostly on their second or third marriages.  The great perks were concert tickets.  Which back then included seeing The Jacksons (when the Jackson 5 were all adults, plus a sixth younger Jackson brother...but no Janet, I’m sorry to say).  Attending those concerts was nearly worth working for those agency shitheads.

Bringing it back to disco, I prefer to go out and dance by myself.  I feel possessed by certain music while in a dark, laser-strobed room.  I love it when the bass playing is so strong and enveloping, you can’t carry on a conversation...it almost feels to me as if  I’ve been hypnotized.

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There is a downtown dance club in the city I visit a couple of times a year that takes me back.  It is primarily patronized by young men of color...and about 5 older white guys from the disco era.  Yes, I am one of them.  The five of us don't know each other but share a reverence for past disco music that unwittingly makes us compatriots, even though we’re strangers.  When an “old” song comes on, half the club floor empties, while we whose memories are sparked, dance like we’re kids again.

Walking out of a club after a night of dancing, I suffer a long-distance runner’s exhaustion, with an old man’s needed recovery time.  Days I’m afraid, not hours, of aching feet.

Thomas Wolfe said it well: “you can never go home again.”  But for an evening, I can pretend.