I'm an old enough semimythical coyote to remember the first Prairie Chicken Dance. (inside joke, there...) I also recall in gruesome detail the first incarnation of disco. And (declaring a personal bias here) managed to completely avoid the sweaty taint of suspect synthetic fabrics draped across my oh-so-natural fur while being blinded by flashy lights in the floor and deafened by giant JBL monitors with a, um, slight bias toward the bass end of things.
So I can say without any qualification whatsoever that disco sucked.
And having attended on Sunday night, I can also safely say that -- even with the eyebrow-arching layer of self-aware hipster irony attempted by way too many people who are not as skinny, cool or jiggle-less as they thought they were, back when they first greased themselves into them slimy white polyester bellbottoms -- recycled disco sucks on turbo!
Gimme a big, loose sloppy ol' Chicago blooz band any day. Fortunately, there were one or two about. Okay, I'm done now. I need to suck back a whole buncha slough water and take a weeklong nap in a shady chokecherry patch. G'night.
(image: panama red music)
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