You should be dancin’….

Disco was like a beautiful woman who takes you by the hand and asks you to dance, regardless of your ability (or inability), to keep a recognizable beat. All caution was thrown to the proverbial wind, as social mores and didactic customs were pushed away in favor of the almighty boogie. The Bee Gees were a salve for the open wounds of everyday living. Studio 54, a den of iniquity disguised as a temple of stoned deliverance, was the new religion with a fervent following. With a step of a platformed shoe, problems could be stomped out, albeit temporarily. The forthcoming middle-aged sect were able to add a dash of color to their inevitable stints in Dullsville by strutting down the rhythmic walkway with the flashiest outfits and getups imaginable. To ‘disco’ required a letting go of societal restrictions – the more outrageous, the better. John Travolta was the patron saint of all things disco, his lithe moves giving every hope to every regular Joe that he, too, could put on his boogie shoes and groove. Bills? Dance them all away. Marital woes? Boogie on, dude. Depressed at the state of the world? Join the Soul Train Line. Disco was a part of being, of belonging to a movement, in every sense of the world. In the words of the immortal George Clinton, “Free your mind and your ass will follow.” Well, minds were free and if asses didn’t necessarily follow, they definitely bumped their way to a rhythmic orgasm unattainable by the Ricky Nelsons of the world. Disco was a different garden party, indeed…

Fast forward (or moonwalk, whichever your choice) to the new millennium. The costumes (or lack thereof) may have changed, but the concept of disco remains. Dance your blues away and worry about the rent tomorrow. It can be seen on display in any club, in any town, in any country. Disco is more than a movement – it’s a way of being, of living/sweating in the moment. Let the polyester flock say amen!

Disco will always have its healthy share of detractors, i.e, those who believe that to party hearty is sacrilege and to hustle is asinine. These naysayers, i.e., especially the denizens of three-chord rock and stock-still stage moves, continue to publicly decry and cast aside disco music as an empty vessel sailing toward eternal damnation among the gods of good taste. I say to the non-believers, would it be better to hustle on down the road to ruin or do a jangly, twelve-string stroll, stopping and starting to smell the change in the wind along the way? Perhaps a better question (and possible answer to this most pressing dilemma) is what would Fonzie do? How would this icon of Tuesday night escapism respond in a world without barriers or 1950’s social mores? Would he extend an all-powerful thumb and stop time? Would he do a denim clad strut to the tune of “I Will Survive”, hands in a leather jacket unsullied by the ravages of time? Would the masses collectively fall in line with his greaser beat, or would they simply dismiss him as a reformed thug who counted fresh-faced, hopeless nerds as his best friends? Make them remember your days of glory, Fonzie! Hit the jukebox with one well-place right and give the world a universal song, something to look forward to. Solve our problems in twenty-two minute increments, give or take a commercial or five. We call upon you, ‘o Arthur Fonzarelli, to make things right. Make us whole again. We need you.