Growing up in Southern Illinois meant you had to listen to Country Music. At least that’s what it meant for me, especially since my home spanned three generations and our summer vacations were usually spent in Nashville, Tennessee. But I didn’t much care for Country music. I remember my first 45s that I purchased at Featherstun’s, an appliance store that sold records. I bought Jim Croces’ "Bad, Bad, Leroy Brown" and Billy Preston’s "Will It Go Round in Circles." A white artist and a black artist. Kind of like our town: black and white.
As time went on, though, I grew to prefer Soul and Disco music over Rock or Country. As an only child, I spent hours in my room, by myself, exploring music. Kiss. Peter Frampton. Sweet. The Brothers Johnson. Village People. The Bar-Kays. Con Funk Shun. Bootsy’s Rubber Band. Johnny "Guitar" Watson. I watched American Bandstand and Soul Train on Saturdays. My friends were leaning toward Rock music like Aerosmith, but I liked the rhythm and blues.
When I was thirteen, I used to dance in my room. I could dance like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever--at least I remember it that way--but only did it once in public, at my eighth grade graduation. I won the dance contest that night. The rest of the time, I did it in my room at home. I listened to disco music—and danced like no one was watching. And actually, no one was watching. I listened to a little bit of early rap then too. Sugarhill Gang, Kurtis Blow. But they were not vulgar like rap is today. In Southern Illinois, it did not seem that too many people listened to disco, rap, or soul music. But I did. I even wished I were black because I loved the music and I could dance, but when I did dance, I was always embarrassed and turned red—my face, my neck. Could not give speeches because of that either. I had rhythm, but never danced in public much. Only at my eighth grade graduation. Chris Disroe still talks about it even years later. And you know something else? I wore the same suit to my eighth grade and high school graduations. The same suit! (I should have never started drinking coffee in sixth grade.) Now I am an ordained minister with the Assemblies of God, and the church’s view is that most dancing is a sin, unless one dances in church in the Spirit. I miss dancing. I don’t dance in church, though. But I can speak in church, and I don’t usually turn red anymore.
When I was fourteen, one time I did not feel like dancing. It was the day I found out Gerilyn Turner had died. I read it in the Mount Vernon Register-News. "Gerilyn 'Lynn' Turner, 14, died in Indianapolis Indiana from injuries sustained in an auto accident." I don’t remember who she was survived by. She was the first classmate of mine to die. I went in my room--which was what I always did when things bothered me--and listened to disco music that night, but I couldn’t dance. The song that I associate with Lynn was GQ’s "Disco Nights." I heard it the other day at the gym during a workout—twenty-six years later.
"The music’s tight and the feeling’s right
on the disco nights."
That’s the only part of the song I remember. The song had a catchy, infectious hook, but those lyrics just don’t hit the spot when you are fourteen and your friend dies. It was the summer of 1978, the same year Lyman Bostock, the right fielder for the California Angels, was shot to death in Chicago, Illinois during the season. Two people I knew—well, one person I knew, and one person I knew about—dead. Up until then, life was more like fairy tales—and they lived happily ever after—but Lynn and Lyman lived and abruptly died in such a way that I understood that life was not a fairy tale anymore. Maybe that was why I drank so much whiskey one night later that summer and started living for the moment. I knew then and there that you could die young as easily as you could die old. Yeah, I guess that was why I drank so much then. But now I don’t drink anymore, and I don’t miss drinking at all. But I do miss dancing. And sometimes I feel bad about Lynn Turner when I think about the summer of 1978.
I wrote this five years ago after I heard the song "Disco Nights" while I was working out at Bally's.
As time went on, though, I grew to prefer Soul and Disco music over Rock or Country. As an only child, I spent hours in my room, by myself, exploring music. Kiss. Peter Frampton. Sweet. The Brothers Johnson. Village People. The Bar-Kays. Con Funk Shun. Bootsy’s Rubber Band. Johnny "Guitar" Watson. I watched American Bandstand and Soul Train on Saturdays. My friends were leaning toward Rock music like Aerosmith, but I liked the rhythm and blues.
When I was thirteen, I used to dance in my room. I could dance like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever--at least I remember it that way--but only did it once in public, at my eighth grade graduation. I won the dance contest that night. The rest of the time, I did it in my room at home. I listened to disco music—and danced like no one was watching. And actually, no one was watching. I listened to a little bit of early rap then too. Sugarhill Gang, Kurtis Blow. But they were not vulgar like rap is today. In Southern Illinois, it did not seem that too many people listened to disco, rap, or soul music. But I did. I even wished I were black because I loved the music and I could dance, but when I did dance, I was always embarrassed and turned red—my face, my neck. Could not give speeches because of that either. I had rhythm, but never danced in public much. Only at my eighth grade graduation. Chris Disroe still talks about it even years later. And you know something else? I wore the same suit to my eighth grade and high school graduations. The same suit! (I should have never started drinking coffee in sixth grade.) Now I am an ordained minister with the Assemblies of God, and the church’s view is that most dancing is a sin, unless one dances in church in the Spirit. I miss dancing. I don’t dance in church, though. But I can speak in church, and I don’t usually turn red anymore.
When I was fourteen, one time I did not feel like dancing. It was the day I found out Gerilyn Turner had died. I read it in the Mount Vernon Register-News. "Gerilyn 'Lynn' Turner, 14, died in Indianapolis Indiana from injuries sustained in an auto accident." I don’t remember who she was survived by. She was the first classmate of mine to die. I went in my room--which was what I always did when things bothered me--and listened to disco music that night, but I couldn’t dance. The song that I associate with Lynn was GQ’s "Disco Nights." I heard it the other day at the gym during a workout—twenty-six years later.
"The music’s tight and the feeling’s right
on the disco nights."
That’s the only part of the song I remember. The song had a catchy, infectious hook, but those lyrics just don’t hit the spot when you are fourteen and your friend dies. It was the summer of 1978, the same year Lyman Bostock, the right fielder for the California Angels, was shot to death in Chicago, Illinois during the season. Two people I knew—well, one person I knew, and one person I knew about—dead. Up until then, life was more like fairy tales—and they lived happily ever after—but Lynn and Lyman lived and abruptly died in such a way that I understood that life was not a fairy tale anymore. Maybe that was why I drank so much whiskey one night later that summer and started living for the moment. I knew then and there that you could die young as easily as you could die old. Yeah, I guess that was why I drank so much then. But now I don’t drink anymore, and I don’t miss drinking at all. But I do miss dancing. And sometimes I feel bad about Lynn Turner when I think about the summer of 1978.
I wrote this five years ago after I heard the song "Disco Nights" while I was working out at Bally's.