Creepy creepy music

I don’t mean to boast, but I was the DJ at our local youth club for about three weeks in the 1980s.

I had to replace some tubby guy called Bruce, who was off visiting his Aunty in England for her silver wedding, and I’d agreed to play records for the disco when he was gone. He was very stern with his instructions about how to take care of the equipment, but even more stern when he informed me that I was not “playing records” I was being “The DJ.”

Unsurprisingly being “The DJ” in the 1980s in the West Coast of Scotland was not quite the same as being “The DJ” all over the world now. The youth club disco had no giant stage like Pacha or Tomorrowland. Instead, it consisted of me in my cheesecloth shirt and jumbo cords, standing in a kitchen, navigating a couple of record players lined up side to side in the serving hatch of the dining area of a community hall in Cumbernauld. I played record after record from 7pm till 9.30pm prompt - with the occasional interruption, to announce the time that the tuck shop was closing - while bendy leg teenagers ( their own environmental disaster in big sprayed hair and too much eye makeup) danced around their handbags with determination to “My Sharona.”

And I’d completely forgotten about it, until recently when the neighbors across the back fence had one of their afternoon/ early evening parties. They are people of a certain age, and so enjoy a spot of Blondie or Wham, or Earth Wind and Fire. They are classy.

I was pottering about in the garden, trying to pick whatever vegetables hadn't been incinerated by the recent bouts of ridiculously hot weather, when I found myself dancing along, and the brief period of my DJ’ing came flooding back so vividly, I could almost smell the pungent mix of old sweat on man-made fibers and Hai Karate that wafted from the very woodwork of the community hall.

That’s the thing about music. It takes you places. To memories of a bygone age.

It’s been a while since I’ve been to a disco. I can’t remember the last time if I’m honest. I reckon my years doing stand-up killed it. Fridays and Saturdays were always work nights, and after work I tended to prefer to hang around with other comics to drink and talk shop, rather than go dancing.

Then I had kids, and once you’ve done that, anything late night is a whole lot of pain. In fact, sleeping through the night becomes a blatant act of rebellion. And then when my kids grew up, I don’t really know what happened. The pandemic maybe. Or that I prefer to hang with people I know, rather than dance with people I don’t. Or maybe, goddammit, I’m an old fart and don’t like anything when the noise is too loud.

But there are some songs you can’t help but dance to. No matter where you are. Even the most miserable bastard in the world can find themselves nodding along to ABBA’s Dancing Queen and throwing out an involuntary, “You can dance!”

And sometimes that’s a good thing. Other times, I’m not so sure.

Back in the day when I was very young (and before my extensive 3-week Deejaying career), there was a song called ‘In the Summertime.’ It was a very catchy number by a band called Mungo Jerry and everybody loved it. It was played at every dance. Every party. It was even used on commercials because it connected to everything that represented freedom and Summer.

In the Summertime when the weather is high

You can reach right up and touch the sky

When the weather's fine

You got women, you got women on your mind

It was only later when I found myself singing along to the lyrics:

Have a drink, have a drive, go out and see what you can find.

If her daddy's rich, take her out for a meal
If her daddy's poor, just do what you feel

That the thought crossed my mind, “Mungo Jerry are basically just misogynistic, alcoholic arseholes with guitars.”

I mean, what the actual……? I danced to that as a kid. With my family. My Nana who had arthritis in BOTH her knees used to make the effort to get up and dance to that, you fuckers. And yet the message in this song about women is that we’re worth only what our “Daddy earns.”

And yes, anybody who’s ever listened to pop music completely knows to tether their expectations of the philosophical content of the lyrics, but even still, this song stinks so much it gives me the dry heave.

Now you might be wondering to yourself what has brought on my current ire for a bunch of drunken jerks who experienced runaway success with some crappy songs more than 40 years ago. I mean it’s not as if they’re aren’t other, more urgent, matters in the world to be bothering ourselves about: An upcoming election, climate change, Russia, and the impending war in the Middle East. And I hear you. I do.

But there was the neighbors and their party, and they started playing “My Sherona” and I was dancing along and singing along to the few lines knew and then I realized how creepy that song is. I mean it is properly fucking creepy, and not only had I danced along to it all these years, I’d bloody well played for others to dance along to too.

And then I thought about “In The Summertime,” and it made me wonder about just how many pop songs that sound fine on the surface, are really creepy about women.

And there was a Vice President’s debate this week on TV between Walz and Vance. (Jeez, there was an opportunity for a drinking game, every time that jerk slimed out the word “Margaret”) But every time JD Vance opened his mouth, I thought about how when he spoke sounded just like he was a pretty inoffensive guy - like background music in an elevator - but the words he was actually saying - the lyrics to that tune - were really truly disturbing.

(And also, while I'm here, what kind of grown assed man calls himself JD?.)

The world is loud right now. There are times that it feels like we’re inside a disco, a really loud one, where we’re all just dancing to keep it together. It's hard to find much space to think.

But before you get up on the floor to join in with anybody’s party, listen to the lyrics of the song. Because some of that bullshit smells even worse than the combination of old sweat on man-made fiber and Hai Karate. And women have a whole lot more to worry about than just the theft of their handbag.

Anyway, I was a DJ for about three weeks in the local youth club in the 1980s, and even then one of my favorite tracks to play was by Sister Sledge. It begins, “We are family.”

xo

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