Party Like It's 1989
As some of you may have noticed, I am not terribly hip.
I mean, even though I live in New York City, I occasionally hang out at the mall. It's a fancy mall, but still. No amount of Aveda hair whip can mask the stank of an eighth grade pastime.
But I have fun, dammit. And that brings me to today's topic.
Last Friday, Andrew and I celebrated our friend Topher's birthday at Culture Club. For those who don't know it, it's entirely 80s-themed. The walls are covered in big painting of Ferris Bueller, Madonna, and the like, and there's a DeLorean hanging from the ceiling.
If you opened up my head an examined the inner walls of my skull, you'd see they're decorated in just the same way.
Better still, Culture Club's playlist is almost entirely devoid of remixes. Instead, you get 80s songs with their original lyrics and melodies in tact. And the remixes that are played still bear a strong resemblance to the originals. You can grab your specialty cocktail--cleverly punning on names like George Michael or Banarama--tear your eyes off the televisions that loop old videos, and head to the dance floor for a few songs you actually recognize.
And you know what? Good! I hate--yes, I said hate--dancing to mind-numbing, repetitive techno. For me, the anonymous thumpa-thumpa massacres the potential for fun.
That's probably becasue when I dance, I want to pay attention to the songs. I want to be able to sing along, act out the lyrics, get excited for the key change. I don't want my dance music to be in the background.
I know there are millions of people who disagree with me, and that is totally fine. Y'all go ahead and have a great time with your 12-minute dub mixes and what have you. I'll be at Culture Club--or, frankly, in my living room--going wild to some original Taylor Dayne.
Don't like it? Tell it to my heart.
Or at the very least, tell it to my blog.