The late 1970s were a sad time for America. The Vietnam War had just ended. Big cities fell in the grip of crime and neglect as the 1975 fiscal crisis pushed New York City to the brink of bankruptcy.
New York uniformed police, angry at the mayor's budget cuts, handed out "Welcome to Fear City" leaflets at the airports. Featuring a hooded skull, the flyers warned visitors to stay off the streets after 6 p.m.
It urged them to not leave Manhattan and to avoid the subways altogether. Yet two years almost to the day after Saigon fell, an ambitious dance club opened on a shabby side street of Manhattan. Studio 54 became the world's most famous disco.
Then came the movie "Saturday Night Fever," its score dominated by those rhythmic Bee Gees chart-toppers starting with "Stayin' Alive." Americans found joy under the spinning mirrored balls. To quote the name of Chic's super disco hit, they wanted to "Dance, Dance, Dance.
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We needed disco then. We need disco again — or something like it. The pandemic is over, and many of us are seeking escape from our toxic politics.
What about disco set off the animal spirits? Discos enabled ordinary people to dance off their anxieties to a simple four-on-the-floor beat. The grayness outside got blocked out by flashy sequins and spandex — and in fantasy settings divorced from the grim realities. Disco replaced the dirty jeans and stoned-out pain of rock with groomed elegance.
People again danced in couples. As Regine Zyl.
