Tag Archives: 80s music

Fresh Legs

Mike and I have been going to our dance place since 2014. Other people commit to being CEO by 40, running a marathon by 30, or some other foolhardy pursuit. Ours is dancing. We committed to becoming regulars, and so we did. Most Sunday nights we step into our little slice of heaven, having fun with our merry band of dancing friends, making new friends, and on occasion, impressing the young ones with our moves and our love of the music. I can tell that’s what they are thinking from the sidelines as they watch us and sip their drinks. Or that’s at least what they should be thinking.

But it isn’t all rainbow flags and unicorns. Sometimes people try to steal your scarf. Packs of straight people, who have no idea about the importance of a safe space for gay people, descend on us and stand in the middle of the dance floor talking, getting drunk and twerking, and then committing one of the most unforgivable of offences, hitting me with their silly purses because they are too cheap to pay $3 to check them. Meanwhile their menfolk stand around uncomfortably, wondering what they got talked into. All of this they could do in nearly any other bar in Boston — why invade our world?

Yes, it’s true, I’m straight, but I understand I am a guest here and respect the space and the people in it. If I want to do straight things, I do them in a different place. See how that works? Also, I enjoy making up a lot of rules other people should know because, I’ve been here longer and have more dance cred than you, oh-poser-having-a-one-night-dance-stand-you-won’t-even-remember-because-you’re-going-to-be-puking-soon. Yeah, that.

One week in particular was really bad. We were overrun with straight people. They were talking loudly over the music, and I can’t even tell you how that is possible. I have to wear professional custom earplugs and I could hear them. They formed their own little dance line, taking up half the space, not caring about the rest of us trying to bust a move. And of course, I got bumped multiple times with the stupid purses. And maybe that put me in a crabby mood, but the music seemed repetitive — how many times can you dance to the fast version of “Sweet Dreams (Are made of This)” while watching Annie Lennox wander around in the night in a white nightgown holding a lantern? I went home feeling as if there had been a shift in the gay dance Force, and not in a good way.

But then the next week, Stephen came.

Stephen, from my post, California Steamin’  was visiting our coast from that place. He is a New England native who got lured to California, and I’ve mostly forgiven him. He said he wanted to go dancing that Sunday. I’d had a long week and a busy weekend, and frankly would have been OK not going, but I had promised, and it was Stephen, who I don’t get to see that often. Also, I’m a committed professional, so my ass was on the dance floor.

I’m so glad I did. In being a regular, I had forgotten what a magical place our dance club is, even when it’s overrun by drunken, straight people. Stephen was having a great time, dusting off his considerable dance moves. After nearly every song, he’d say, “Oh, my god, I love this song! I haven’t heard it in years!” or “I love Annie Lennox!” And suddenly, Annie, floating through the night in her white nightgown, was transformed into an ethereal goddess of 80s music. And then I loved her too.

And I was transformed, remembering how lucky I am to have a safe place to dance to the 70s and 80s music that made me, with my dear friend and partner in living our best life, Mikey. And how lucky are we that we can share it with our friend Stephen?

Damn lucky, and thank you Stephen for giving me a fresh perspective and reminding me of that. Here are my beloved boys. Let’s dance.




It’s in the Dance

Dancers of the waltz, foxtrot, tango, cha-cha, salsa, and others will laugh at me for this, but after dancing to primarily disco music for the several years, I just realized that dancing to music of different eras requires different moves. The dance goes with the music, Astaire. Because I don’t dance formally and instead let the music move me, I think of my dance moves as just that — moves in sequences that match the music.

But the place where we dance on Sundays has changed, and where it was 95% disco and 5% other, it’s now about 50/50 disco/80s music. A recent night was more like 30/70, disco to 80s. Don’t get me wrong, I love the 80s and danced away my 20s worshiping at its music altar. I don’t think I’ve ever danced side-by-side with both kinds of music, though.

It took me a while to notice this, because I was still getting over the change of the music and the addition of 3 big screens and videos in a fairly small venue. Why do club owners think videos are a good idea? If I wanted to watch videos, I’d stay home and drink for a lot less. Not to mention, the total hacked transition between songs that videos necessitate. I will admit that the subtleties of a really good DJ are lost on me, but I sure know when a song is ripped from me mid-beat and mid-move, and the next thumper is shoved down my pelvis. Plus, isn’t there enough change in the world right now? Do you really need to mess with my Sunday night dance traditions?

But I digress.

The day after the 50/50 night we commented on how hard we had danced. I didn’t think much about why until the next week when it was almost all 80s music. My friend and I talked about how disco is a happy kind of music that encourages free-flowing movement. It lends itself to a prop, say like a scarf that one might twirl around and let float to the beat. On the other hand, a lot of 80s music has a harder sound. I realized that I haven’t been using my scarf as much lately. 80s music doesn’t seem to have the same kind of call for it. Or its uses are less floaty and more, say, tie my hands up or slap my butt. That’s Ms. Jackson if you’re nasty.

My friend and I were still on the dance floor, trying to sort out the more nuanced differences between the 2 types of music, when Ms. Jackson came on. As we watched her on the damned big screen whip her arms, legs, and body around in unison with her dancers, my friend said triumphantly, “80s music is more choreographed!” And suddenly all the other 80s videos and songs flashed through my mind: hard beats and tight arm and leg moves. No free-flowing motion or twirling partners. Just an organized group of people doing identical rocket shots that burn calories and leave different muscles sore the next day.

A light dawns ovah Mahblehead, as they like to say around these parts. It’s a nod to the actual seacoast town of Marblehead and also a word for a person who has mahbles for brains. For the record, I don’t live in Marblehead. But now that I have been enlightened, watch out, all you formal dancers. I got the waltz, foxtrot, and tango on my mind, and I’m coming for you — me and my scarf.


Put the Needle on the Record

I was at a vinyl standoff. When I last moved three years ago I sorted through all my albums and culled them more strenuously than I ever had before. I was moving to a smaller place and let’s face it — they’re heavy and take up space and the movers always cringe when they see a big box marked “albums.” Plus, I didn’t actually have anything to play them on. My ex got the turntable in the divorce, and I didn’t have the money to replace it. But I wasn’t ready to toss out all the albums either. For one thing, I’m a cheap bastard, and even my culled collection represents a serious monetary investment, much of accumulated through the Columbia House Record Club. Remember that thing? You’d get 10 albums for a penny and then be obligated to buy a boatload more at the regular price. Oh, sure they said you could cancel anytime… if you can find a phone number to call or the address to write to. And guess what, you snickering millennials, when I Googled Columbia House to make sure I had the name right (I do have some journalistic integrity), their website said the club was coming back. So now I look like a prescient genius for holding onto albums when I don’t have anything to play them on. And not, as you may have been thinking, like an old fart who refuses to keep up with musical times.

While I vigorously defend musicians’ rights to royalties from their songs, I also vigorously defend my right to access music once I have purchased it legally. It’s not my fault that CDs replaced vinyl, and then iTunes flattened CDs. If I’m going to buy new music, or old music that never got featured in the Columbia House Record Club, sure, I’ll plunk down my hard-earned $1.29 for it. But if I’m an old fart from the 80s with my Flock of Seagulls vinyl album, I’m sure as hell not going to pay another $9.99 to download it from iTunes. I should have free access to it, because I already own it.

That kind of intellectual superiority doesn’t get you very far with two large plastic tubs of albums. Sitting in a closet. Mostly likely getting warped from improper storage. And no turntable. But at least I have my superiority.

About six months ago, I broke my rule of not downloading music I already owned when I heard Prince’s “Let’s Go Crazy,” and it brought me right back to my college years worshiping Prince, his movie and singing at the top of my lungs with my musical partner in crime, Sonia. I downloaded the Purple Rain soundtrack and was transported. Not just though time, but also by the music itself — it was even better than I remembered and I was newly awed by his musical talent. When he died, I pulled out all the albums of his that I owned, and there was one song in particular I needed to hear, “Sometimes It Snows in April,” a beautifully sad song about the death of a friend. Downloading it was not going to cut it, so I jumped online and found a new, portable turntable for under $100. It wasn’t all that different from the one I had as a kid that played 45s and I brought to my friend’s house. Although apparently the blue and white case color has given way to black. And I was amused by the instructions of how to work the arm. It reminded me of the video I saw on Facebook recently of kids being mystified by how to play video games on retro gaming systems.

I gently pulled the sleeve out of the album cover, and then slid the album out of the sleeve. I held the record by its edges and was transported by the sheer ritual of it. I gently blew the dust from the surface, and then remembered that all this visceral listening requires more stuff, like a dust brush. I turned on the turntable, placed the vinyl onto it, and lowered needle gently down. And I was conveyed to my bedroom, my college dorm room, my first apartment, my second apartment, just sitting and listening for 1,000s of hours in 20 to 25 minute increments. I listened to a whole side of Prince’s Parade album, amazed that I knew the words to each song. It was like catching up with an old friend, and the last song, on the second side, I heard the April snow song. And despite the fact that I was crying like teenaged drama queen, I was also filled with joy from the sheer visceral ritual of it.

I remembered visiting my grandparents’ house. They had an old Victrola they had bought at a flea market and restored. They played those thick 78 albums that seemed sturdy enough to use like a Frisbee. We kids enjoyed it as a novelty — the scratchy sound and the silly songs “Shaving Cream,” and “Yes, We Have No Bananas.” But now I understand they were going back in time too, and that these songs were the soundtrack of their youth.

My new mission is to listen to every single album my own to see if they still make the cut. Will I sing all the lyrics learned from hours of listening? Or is it a one-song vinyl that I got for a penny, or I was too cool to buy just the 45 (which was for little kids). So far these are keepers: Flock of Seagulls, Pete Townsend’s “All the Best Cowboys Have Chinese Eyes,” Thompson Twins “Into the Gap,” and Haircut 100 “Pelican West.” It’s going to be a great summer.