Disco Sucks

There was a time when “Disco Sucks” was the battle-cry of a generation. It was the defining ethos of American youth as the country pitched over the edge toward spandex pants, Guitar Gods and Hair Metal. “Disco Sucks” was graffitied on walls, adhered to the rear bumpers of countless Zepplin-Blairing Camaros, stretched across armies of taunt adolescent breasts, and famously blazoned across the poster of John Travolta in his polyester suit, hips cocked, pseudo-Karate stance, skewering the sky with his triumphant finger as if he is one big erection that starts at the bottom of his feet and blasts-off for the stars.

To be specific: In the era of Disco-Decay, one of the most popular posters was this very picture of the egregiously polyester-sex-karate-god Travota with a giant cartoon screw threading its way through his body while an obnoxious, triumphant “Screw Disco” splashed in bold letters about his gell-laden head.

Remember the movie “Airplane”? When the D.J. says “W.B.A.K. – where Disco lives forever!” the instant before the out-of-control airplane knocks over the radio tower.

Just imagine the scenario: 1965-1975 rock was a cultural force, musicians were counter-culture heroes spearheading socio/philosophical, ethical/moral, sexual, artistic, economic, racial/gender, stylistic revolutions. Then came disco balls, hairy-chests, gold chains, cocaine, screwing in the bathroom, synthesizers and drum-machines.

Perhaps the problem began with the BeeGees. As if their name wasn’t dumb enough, their plastic music was both falsetto and cucumber-down-the-pants macho at the same time, and, worse still, taken seriously by the paying public, at least for a short, regrettable time before the resurgence of hard rock (that which would eventually mutate into the rock’n’roll correlative of Chuck’e’Cheese when Poison and Whitesnake took the airwaves).

And this is where it all goes wrong. Disco was never meant to pack stadiums full of headbanging Baby Boomers, never meant for the altar of the rock god Cthulhu, never meant to howl at the starry sky from inside a cookies-pulling pickup on the sultry summer nights in the Dark Wood of adolescent error. Disco was never meant to be music. Disco was meant for dancing the night away.

So, if you wanna dance under the moonlight (or the cheapy gel-tinted arc lights), wanna have a good time, wanna get down and play that funky music white boy, request a little Hue’s Corporation, Donna Summer, or Jackson 5. Avoid the Bee Gees.

Won’t you take me to Funkytown?