Disco Demolition. Steve Dahl

      The front page of the Chicago Sun-Times on July 13, 1979, the day after Disco Demolition

       PREFACE

       STEVE DAHL

       Steve Dahl was twenty-four years old on July 12, 1979, the night of Disco Demolition. This is his preface in his own words:

      It was a very different time for Chicago than it was for London or New York City. This sturdy midwestern town was not hosting late night clubs with red ropes. It was only rock ‘n’ roll, and that’s the way the young kids liked it. They had their T-shirts and their ripped jeans, their long hair and their longneck beers. Their music heroes played rough and loud. These kids did not wish to be tamed or curated. Their parents had Paul Anka and Andy Williams; Mom and Dad had shaken their heads at Elvis and his gyrations. Loud anthemic music was functioning as a rite of passage: a sure way to push back from adults. Every generation has its rebellion, and rock ‘n’ roll was providing a soundtrack for the seventies.

      Then Tony Manero was created. He was born from an article by a British writer who identified the disco world as the “new Saturday night in New York.” [Saturday Night Fever] was a smash, the soundtrack exploded. The principle of crossing from being a nobody to a somebody, as pictured in the film, seemed to demand a repudiation of all things rough—like rock ‘n’ roll and bar nights. Chicago kids liked their Saturday nights just as they had been experiencing them. Dress up? No. Dance lessons? No. Cover charge? Hell no. The Bee Gees had popped out a bouncy album, and the girls were ready to dress up, twirl, and be twirled. The storyline seemed to demean the ordinary life that kids inhabited in favor of Manhattan glitz. No.

      If anything, the pushback from disco saturation was an act of self-preservation. No kid, just figuring out who he was and where he was going, would be prepared to have his assimilated rock ‘n’ roll identity stripped from him. If the resistance was furious, it was because they were not prepared to shuck the uniform that sheltered them in their transition from kid to adult.

      I’m worn out from defending myself as a racist homophobe for fronting Disco Demolition at Comiskey Park. This event was not racist, not anti-gay. It is important to me that this is viewed from the lens of 1979. That evening was a declaration of independence from the tyranny of sophistication. I like to think of it as illustrative of the power that radio has to create community and share similarities and frustrations. It is for that magic that I wish to keep the memory severed from those who ascribe hateful motives to a wildly successful radio promotion.

      We were just kids pissing on a musical genre. We were choosing to remain faithful to the bands that provided the backdrop to our lives.

      And so, when Rod Stewart strutted to “Do Ya think I’m Sexy” and Mick Jagger preened to “Miss You,” it seemed the rock loyalty might be one-sided. Their heroes were appropriating disco beats and fancy dress codes. A further rebuke to the Chicago rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle happened in January 1979, when legacy rock radio station WDAI fired me to become a disco-only station. I had only been in Chicago for twelve months, but Chicago kids had grown up with WDAI, from the British Invasion onward. They felt stripped of something essential to their formative years. Their rage and resistance was directed at no ethnic group or sexual orientation; the loss of the station was simply a repudiation of their still-evolving psyches.

      I got a job at The Loop, a rock ‘n’ roll altar. Callers welcomed me with warm wishes and the mantra, “disco sucks.” They were passionate about their music and their lifestyles. I tapped into it, both as a response to being canned to make room for disco, and to build a community so I could keep my job. My take was always based in humor, pointing out the discomfort of having to dress a part to go to a bar.

      I borrowed Rod Stewart’s music and recreated “Do Ya Think I’m Sexy” as my anthem. The visuals were highly entertaining, but had no connection to sexual orientation or color.

       I wear tight pants

       I always stuff a sock in

       It always makes

       the ladies start to talking

       My shirt is open

       I never use the buttons

       Though I look hip, I work for EF Hutton . . .

       Do you think I’m disco

       ‘Cuz I spend so much time

       Blowing out my hair?

       Do you think I’m disco,

       ‘Cuz I know the dance steps

       Learned them all at Fred Astaire?

      Not a masterpiece, I know, and not a piece of social commentary. Just a few laughs at the guys a few years older who were willing to costume up to get in with the trendy elite. Some of them were older brothers, or the guy who danced away with your girl.

      We were letting off a little steam. We were relaxing in our corduroy jeans and T-shirts. We were not quite ready to dress for success or give up our clattering soundtrack for disco beats. I never wanted to mount or lead a social movement. I wanted to entertain and to provide a release for kids who had too little money and too much awkwardness for the dance world. I wanted to say, The music you revere is great, and you are okay just as you are.

      It is the right of each generation to declare, “This is who I am.” And to dance to the beat they choose to dance to—even if it is only head thrashing.

      What follows is an oral history of the events preceding and following Disco Demolition, a look at Chicago culture circa 1979, and how Chicago house music followed disco. This book was written in the context of that period. And everything is on the record.