To cop some wisdom from my main man Andre 3000, things sure have changed since the days when you were cool if you were pigeon-toed ‘mdash; no, it ain’t so simple ‘mdash; life is a [motherfucking] musical.
Kids may have had it pretty tough back then, trekking five miles uphill in the snow to the portapotty-sized schoolhouse and back, but I’d make the case that fringe rebellion was way cinchier in the old days ‘mdash; just grow your hair out, spout some Ginsberg, blow some cigarette rings and call it a sit-in. Nowadays, simply brooding in the corner behind your beret won’t fool anybody; the real modern-day rebels, the beautiful losers of the digital age, have to be more than human ‘mdash; we have to be dancer.
OK, pretend I didn’t just reference the Killers. In my defense, it was more of a retort to a suggestion once made by Hunter S. Thompson that our nation was raising a whole bunch of mindless dancers ‘mdash; like, all waxing Americana and stepping to the same tune. My reply will be delivered via pigeon-toed dance-off challenge, 5 a.m. sharp, 24th floor of the Flamingo, Las Vegas. Be there.
Anyway, this new anonymous axis of dark artists, costume-chest hipsters and copyright-infringing punks on which we rotate, elbow to elbow, is so massively uniform that a well-orchestrated dance party is one of the only places left to demonstrate a proud, rebellious ego. Until, of course, everyone catches onto the appeal and leaves their brood puddle in the corner to join you where the purple party light is strongest. At which point the ego should be happily abandoned ‘mdash; because that, my friends, is dance-party mission accomplished.
Here’s where I can be of come service. As crappy musicals are a dime a dozen, I’ve compiled somewhat of a how-to, for purposes of avoiding that cheap fate ‘mdash; just a skeleton, really, to get you started.
To begin: the playlist. Almost too easy. Anytime you hear a song and feel anything ‘mdash; from a tremor to a trill to a full-on soul seizure ‘mdash; jot it down and ‘load that shit. You live in a moment when llegal distribution is major partytime, and the torrents are fucking Santa Claus. Do be careful, though, not to get too ambitious; just because ‘The Seed 2.0’ has the bangin’est beat this side of the cancer cluster doesn’t mean the rest of Phrenology will even raise you half-mast.
A long-lived, properly climaxing dance party is all about pacing the foreplay, and never expecting standersby to divulge their familiarity with Boyz II Men ‘mdash; preferably on the carpet, with feigned, arch-backed stabs to the heart ‘mdash; until they’re hot, heavy and plastered in sweat beads way too boozy to blow anything under a 1.0.
Which brings us to phase one: the well-thought-out stuff (but definitely not the best, because that’s for later). If yours is a theme party, this portion could craftily adhere, but never expect the Great Gatsby jazz playlist to last too long ‘mdash; stream-of-consciousness shimmies are only hilarious until they’re not, and just because everyone arrives in pearls doesn’t mean they won’t soon be overcome by the Daisy-gone-wild fantasy. (Sexy shit like Lovage or the Avalanches could really work some magic here. And hit the lights already.)
Phase two: sharp spike of humor. Nothing’s better than some funky-chicken flaps and ass slaps to them Bay raps and
assorted junior-high crap, especially while everyone’s still sober enough to think on their toes. This is a great segue for all us art farts, because we can whip out the white man’s overbite and pretend it’s all in irony, maybe even dropping Dane Cook’s ‘No boys ‘mdash; I just wanna dance!” as if it weren’t the fucking truth.
Phase three: the grind. Everyone’s warmed up, unashamed and ready for what can be, if prefaced correctly, the euphoric r.e.m. stage of the dance-party cycle. Think ‘What You Know,’ O-Zone, Camplo, ‘Family Affair,’ old Britney ‘mdash; really, whatever’s been driving you the craziest. (I guess if you’re into deathmetalsatancore, this could be substituted by the bat head-eater of all screaming guitar solos, or whatever you freaks dig these days. Just do your thang, honey.) By the end, everyone’s so in the zone that the world’s hottest synthlines can be best streamlined with a little bit of chop suey from Girl talk or Hollertronix; after all, the only thing better than Dre 3K chilling next to M.I.A. is Dre 3K on top of M.I.A., with some Ying Yang Twins from behind.
Next week: Phasing out; working the jukebox.