Disco is dead, guys.
It was dead well before I was even born. All we have left to
show that it even existed is what Hollywood preserved: white suits and light-up
floors and polyester.
I’m pretty sure that version of disco might now have ever
existed, by the way, I think I read that somewhere. That Travolta didn’t do any
research into real disco before
shooting Saturday Night Fever and so
he just made everything up as he went along. Disco is just something that got made
up, but everyone believes in it anyway. Like the way old people think life was
better back when everyone had polio, or how people think there’s really a high
tech Space Station orbiting earth. Hollywood, man.
But none of that matters right now. I am standing right
smack dab in the middle of Polly Esther’s, a place that didn’t get the memo
that disco was dead or never existed in the first place. It’s that pure,
platonic ideal, Hollywood version, and I’m just the guy to tear the whole place
up. I’ve got my hair slicked back, sunglasses on, and my jam just started
playing. Open the door, get on the floor. Everybody walk the dinosaur.
Look out, fellas: Mike Blackmore is ready to disco.
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