Love the One You're With by James Earl Hardy Page B

the seventies and early eighties. Gene met many of his friends there and, after the club closed its doors, saw many of those friends die—of AIDS. He’ll well up when certain songs are played—most notably, Patti LaBelle’s “Music Is My Way of Life.” He’s recognized that while they may be gone, the music didn’t die inside himself . It’s left up to him to celebrate the lives they lived and the life he has. As Patti testifies, “When the music plays, I gotta keep dancin’ …” And so he does.
    Before we headed to Brooklyn, though, we made a pit stop that was truly the pits. Gene had comps for Dizzy’s, which claims to be “the only club in America where disco isn’t dead.” I wasn’t too thrilled about going; given who was on the flyer (a chiseled white man in white Calvin briefs … how un original), I knew we were not going to see the type of folk or hear the type of “disco” we would hear at Body & Soul.
    And, when we pulled up in front of Dizzy’s, the song that greeted us confirmed my suspicions: the Bee Gees’ “Night Fever,” which the deejay introduced just before the first verse with: “And here are the true innovators of disco.” Huh? If there is any “white” act that could be called a disco innovator, it’d have to be K.C. & the Sunshine Band (and they were a mixed-race group). White folks finally decided disco was worthy of being respected when Saturday Night Fever hit, but the Bee Gees’ work was truly cheesy and lacked the grit and soul of real disco (listen to the other Fever soundtrack contributors—Kool & the Gang, Tavares, and the Trammps—to hear the proof). I’ve always argued that if disco died, ­they ­were to blame: because of their hokey misappropriation it’s no wonder that, ­twenty-five-million-plus albums later, the world overdosed on them and wished the genre itself would go away.
    So, I wanted us to, as Soul II Soul once chanted, “Keep on Movin.’”
    â€œLet’s just go to Brooklyn, Gene,” I insisted, tugging on his arm as he paid the taxi driv­er.
    â€œChile, we won’t stay long.” He opened the cab door and stepped out. “Besides, it’s always good to see how the other half is not having fun.”
    After checking our coats and passing through a makeshift museum that house­d a gold record of the Bee Gees’, the Golden Globe Paul Jabara won for “Last Dance” (the theme from the ­not-as-celebrated disco flick Thank God It’s Friday ), and the velvet ropes used outside Studio 54, we entered the main room—and ­were assaulted by the lights. Strobe beams flickered green, red, and yellow in every­ direction. A giant, ­silver-studded, spinning disco ball hovered above the center of the dance floor, which itself blinked on and off. All the flashing annoyed the hell out of us but didn’t seem to bother the rest of the clientele.
    â€œThis would be a sniffer’s paradise for those who love cocaine,” Gene observed.
    â€œYou got that right.” In fact, you could count the Negroes on two hands—and you know I counted them (yes, I included Gene and me). Most of the two-hundred-plus white men seemed out of place in that bland and boring white-short-sleeved-T-and-faded-blue-jean ensemble. There were a few preppies (khakis, varsity sweatshirts, and loafers) and a lone punk sporting purple spiked hair, slashed denims, and black Doc Martens. But some did keep in tune with the spirit of the place: several had on platforms and bell-bottoms, there was a Village People incarnation (the Cop, the Construction Worker, the Sailor, and the Indian, who was a very pale face), a Donna Summer drag on queen (he was a beast), and, of course, a half-dozen John Travolta wannabes, dressed in silk shirts and white polyester suits. Unfortunately, everyone (including the few colored