reply to post by burdman30ott6
My Uncle the Priest - the very same Uncle I write about here
- after retiring from the
army took a parish in Deming. If you read that story you'll better understand this story when I tell you that it was one night when my Mother and I
got into an argument and she wasn't going to let me go to the steakhouse transformed into a disco on weekends, but I in my rebelliousness went
anyway. My Uncle was stationed in El Salvador at the time but happened to be visiting and he, acting as a surrogate father, went to that
"discoteque" and yanked my butt out of their as we argued in the parking lot of the steakhouse.
I had never seen my Uncle, a Catholic Priest, so angry. I wouldn't relent and in outrage he grabbed me by the lapels of my disco jacket and shook me
and finally pushed me away. I went flying into a barbed wire fence. My Uncle was horrified, just then discovering the nasty problems of parenthood
they probably don't tell Priests in seminary school. I doubt they spend much time in seminary school discussing the rebellious nature of teenagers,
and disco? I have no idea what the Catholic church had to say about disco. By that time in my rebellious life I had long since excommunicated the
Pope and stopped hanging out in his house...for a time.
It was right around that time, this time when my Uncle, my replacement Father who was always called by the honorific Father, humiliated me in front to
that special someone who only wanted to "just be friends" anyway, and shortly after when I would come to despise The Bee Gees. Not because of their
falsetto voices, or their disco dress, but because I never really wanted to shake-shake-shake, shake my booty, I just wanted to win the affections of
a girl who wanted to win the affections of someone else, and during this time, while a nation still tried to lick its wounds over a lying President
they all called "Tricky Dick" - as if all Presidents before him were Saints, just like Dicks Mother - and Chevy Chase made fun of Gerald Fords
bumbling antics, the whole disco thing was this bizarre anomaly.
This was the time when several of my friends and I, wanting to rebel against the girls who placed what we thought too much sacredness on prom, all
wrote letters to pop stars and celebrities asking them to the prom. It was just a goof. Tom wrote Linda Ronstadt, Christ wrote Farrah Fawcet, Craig
wrote I don't remember and I wrote Donna Summer. Donna Summer was hot, hot, hot, and that moaning on Love to Love You Baby
only made her
hotter, and of all the letters sent, Donna Summer was the only one to reply. It was a rejection letter, but it was the coolest, sweetest rejection
letter anyone could ask for. She explained she was on tour at that time and even sent a copy of itinerary to prove it, but thanked me for asking and
told me she wished she could be there with me at my prom. It was cool and while none of the others bothered to reply, all my friends took the same
amount of giddy pleasure that I did that Donna Summer turned me down for the prom.
I didn't pick Donna Summer because she was the "Disco Queen", I was just really enamored by her looks and that voice, and I never really saw her as
disco and interestingly neither did she.
Donna Summer's early records were concept-heavy and experimental, but she wanted more – she aspired to be a pop grande dame on the level of
Diana Ross. "I do not consider myself a disco artist," she told Time magazine. "I consider myself a singer who does disco songs." She elaborated
in her 1978 Rolling Stone cover story, telling Mikal Gilmore her voice was too big to be confined in any genre. "I've sung gospel and Broadway
musicals all my life and you have to have a belting voice for that. And because my skin is black they categorize me as a black act, which is not the
truth. I'm not even a soul singer. I'm more a pop singer."
Disco, for me, was a brief three or four month period where I would comb my hair back like John Travolta and pout petulantly as I danced. For
whatever reasons, for me, disco could never be as cool as The Rolling Stones, The Beatles, Eric Burden, Led Zep, or even Willie, Waylon, and The Man
in Black. It took me years to come to appreciate the prescience of Gaynor's anthem, and I only now am coming to give poor, poor, pitiful K.C. a
break for his infectious music.
P.S. It was NMSU's radio station in the SUB that turned me onto REM when they were still singing songs that no one had any idea what the hell the
lyrics were. I used to hang in the lobby of that student union building studying, and here is where I discovered REM, Camper van Beethoven, and The