This stunning name of a late disco throwback-turned-club song by Indeep, was, for at least one night of my life, the difference between going home alone, depressed and unsafe, to staying for what was the late and groovy after hours of a warehouse party in the late aughts.
It was the time in the night when the dance floor had cleared but for those still riding a high, the couches were full of snuggling piles, and the DJ had put on music to smooch to. Ladies with elaborate costumes had removed them, or those wearing nothing at all robed up.
The music still had a beat, but compared to the pumping sweaty throbs that proceeded it, this was smooth, it had soul. The DJ seemed to be saying that we didn't have to go home yet, but the night was slipping.
House of Yes photo by ellgeeBE
Bouncing from dance floor to bar too many times that night, I was still tipsy and needed to clear my head. Though nearing 4am, I was still wide awake due to the acid that never kicked in, but a bit low because I didn't have any more cocaine to make up for it. So I made my way over to a couch and began to wonder how I'd get home. I knew I was in Bushwick, but that was about it. I had come with a friend who'd driven but left early; I assured her I'd find a way home. But now I'd have to ask someone how to walk back to the train, there was no more cash to call a car.
But first, I needed to remember where I'd hid my stuff. My chunky cellphone and change purse were in my coat, but I'd already checked the usual spot, behind the speakers. What pile did I leave my stuff in this time?
It was then that I noticed the DJ. It was hard to say how, but his movements seemed short and precise, sort of...busy. Or busier than he should be at 4am, when the night's jams should be on the downslope. Normally about then a DJ might be wrapping a cord or two. Not studying lists, laying plans.
I knew this, and other things about DJs, because I was an observer of the craft. Nine times out of ten I was the dancer positioned right up front at a party or club, closest to the DJ booth and speakers, where the beat blasted and the bass rattled your teeth. I like it there because I was never interested in dancing for others, with men, for women, to a leering crowd. I danced for one person and one person only—and that was the DJ.
I danced so he—or sometimes it was a she, it didn't matter—would know that I "got" them. I was the channeled puppet on the other end of their beat strings, the muse they needed to take that beat higher. And so it was that I often danced in a crowd of similarly minded, show-offy type fans in the front.
On this experience, I knew exactly what a DJ looked like who had no intention of stopping.
Instead of walking out the door I headed to the bar and bought a water. I kept my coat on and perched on the edge of a couch. A gorgeous queen in a luscious, draping tutu who'd taken her wig off sat next to me. My hand hovered on the button to my jacket. I should really get going.
But then...
A beat and a base line. An electric guitar layered on top, then a smooth voice.
"I was sittin there bored to death, and then with just one breath...."
I didn't recognize the song at first, but took my coat off just the same. I couldn't help it. I didn't just dance for the DJ of course, I danced for myself too, always had. It was my version of church, a trance like state, where my body took over, makeup dripped, demons were exorcised. Drenched, spent, I loved the feeling of collapsing after a long night of straining my body.
That was, until the next morning, when I cursed the lifestyle around it: the late nights, lots of drinking. And, I hated this part, closing time, when I couldn't remember where I'd put my stuff, or been responsible enough to plan a way home. But at this moment, with this song, I could push it all aside. What mattered was now.
"Last night a DJ saved my life!"
When the hook hit the crowd, still surprisingly sizable, they erupted in jubilation. Piles unfolded from the couches and sprung back to life. Dancers set down their last beer. There were cheers.
House of Yes photo by Nicole Disser
That night the DJ played a nine minute version of that song, followed by two more disco remixes. For another hour and a half the dance floor became a space to fight over again, where the crowd, small but mighty, were baptized in sweat and bottles of water dumped on our heads after an impromptu bar back handed them out for free from a cooler.
The sky was pink and the birds chirping when I found my stuff and made my way back home. I thought about what sort of night I would have had before that touch of intuition, before the DJ decided we weren't done, before the beat dropped. What I lacked in sleep right now, I'd gained in a the spiritual reverence for what a good, face melting stint on the dance floor can do.
So while there's no telling what was in the alternate universe, I'll always maintain that a DJ saved my life that night, as they probably save a life every night. Not from a broken heart, as the song says. But from ourselves.
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