Disco ball
It is a myth that all black people can dance. My mother told me that at the earliest stages of my development, I would move uncontrollably within her womb, in appreciation of music by Aretha Franklin, Ray Charles, and Stevie Wonder. In the mid 1960s, when I officially became a part of this world, nothing changed. While my mother held me, I would still bounce with excitement anytime I would hear these artists. These musicians, and other R&B legends of the era, were part of the soundtrack in our home.
As a teen in the 70s, music remained a constant in my life. As the rhythms changed from the sultry sounds of R&B to the electronic bumping and thumping beats of disco, Soul Train and Saturday Night Fever graced the airwaves and the big screen creating a new standard in music, movement, and fashion. This new musical manifestation was hip, sexy, and oh so fabulous and that was exactly what I wanted to be! Everyone in my family was blessed with the gift of “rump-shakin’” except me. Rump-shakin’ is defined as the ability to control and move one’s body in time to music. When I danced, I looked like I was having some sort of rhythmically induced seizure and being pigeon-toed didn’t help either. I just wasn’t coordinated enough to get down and get funky.
At Mt. Carmel High School, this queer black 80s kid decided to try-out for the school’s “Pop-Vocal Ensemble” program; imagine the FOX show Glee, just without the flare or budget! I got in and my journey into musical theater had begun. Being part of this song and dance group helped me tame my flailing limbs. We guys wore cream-colored satin shirts with black Angel Flight slacks and the gals a more feminine version of the same outfit. I loved the way those pants hugged the contours of my ass and accentuated my firm and meaty thighs. I was turning into pretty good dancer and wanted to take things to a next level, but lacked refinement.
The ensemble director suggested that I study ballet to continue my development in dance. I laughed at the idea, not that there was anything wrong with that, I was just more physically built for toting that barge and lifting that bale than dancing ballet. A few years after high school, I took that advice of the director and enrolled myself at Stage 7 School of Dance. Being older than most of the students; 20 years old compared to 15 years old, my muscles, and joints were pretty well set when it came to flexibility. I received a partial scholarship and within a few months, I was asked to join a lecture group that traveled and performed short dance pieces. I wasn’t a graceful gazelle, but the experience gave me the confidence to audition for the community college dance showcase. More important, I learned how to control my body.
I was now 21 and finally old enough to drink alcohol and go dancing in the adult clubs! There were a few clubs I had always been intrigued about: Peacock Alley, Flicks (a video bar), Dillion’s, and West Coast Production Company (WCPC). I would often drive by these clubs and see lines of colorful people all anxiously waiting to go inside. There were the drag queens, beefy jocks, big-haired hags, and the hot muscle-daddies. It was this newly “of-age” gay man’s dream come true.
I selected WCPC to be inaugural venue to explore. My heart was pounding and I finally worked up the courage to head for the entrance. Once inside, I couldn’t let it be more apparent that this was my first time inside this hub of pleasure. As I walked through the entry way, my eyes darted back and forth taking in all the various gay-themed posters and photos on the walls. The ceiling and walls were sprayed in speckled light from mirrored balls and strobe lighting. Before I could even reach the dance floor, I could feel the bass from the music; the vibrations permeated through the fibers of my Levis 501 jeans.
The dance floor was located down a hallway passed a series of small rooms at the center of the building. It was sunken and surrounded on four sides by a walkway for optimum viewing and cruising. The floor was packed with sweaty bodies glistening and undulating to the music. As I stared at the crowded floor, I became mesmerized by the rhythms, lights, and even the smell (a mix of cigarette smoke and something called “poppers”). Then I heard a familiar voice that prompted me to head to the dance floor. It was Aretha Franklin’s Freeway of Love. The crowd went crazy and even more people headed to the dance floor. I was in my element. On the dance floor, no one cared about your political affiliation, your ethnicity, or your sexual orientation. We were a community living in one synchronistic moment….I miss that feeling.
The dance floor wasn’t just the place for me to show off my best moves, it was also the place I could go to check out how well a guy could potentially perform in bed (sorry Ma). The physical language of dance floor wasn’t and isn’t something you can read from a personal ad or see in a mobile app. If a guy could move his ass and pelvis to the beat of the music, then that was the guy I wanted to meet. In the 17 years I’ve lived in Portland, Oregon, many of the city’s pioneering LGBTQ dance clubs have closed their doors. This list includes places such as Panarama, Boxxes-Brig, the Egyptian Club, and most recently Embers Avenue (as of 12/1/17).
Liberalization is part of the blame with the other being technology. The “generation of now” is more complacent when it comes to movement and relies too much on technology to make a connection; swipe left or right. I’m generalizing of course as there are newly emancipated young folks that feel the calling of the dance floor too. In Portland with only a few dance clubs remaining, rump-shakin’ now takes place at specialty events. Events like Portland’s annual Red Dress Party where you can dance and raise funds for local charities, or monthly dance parties like Blow Pony.
Why can’t our country find its groove? Lately, it seems like the record skipping and someone’s dragging their feet.