When Frankie Knuckles Plays

dancing-man-silhouette-hi“Tears” by Frankie Knuckles plays and my feet start to dance on their own. Gradually the rhythm snakes up my body and people start to stare thinking I’m having some kind of fit.
But it’s too late. I’m on my feet and dancing towards the dance floor.
The other thing that happens when my favourite tunes play is that I get this weird expression on my face. My eyes open wide and my mouth takes on a contortion somewhere between a sneer and a grin.
This is the time when my wife disowns me and makes quickly for the toilet.
I’m now in full flow. Shoulders shaking, hips wiggling, knees bending and feet going left to right.
I’m the only one of the dancefloor but to me it makes no difference. Some call it “The Zone”. Well, if that’s what it’s called then I’m definitely in it!
I’m pulling out moves that I made up back in 1976. At one point my left hand is in front of my face and I’m pretending it’s a mirror. My right hand is stroking my hair!
Forty years ago this would have been fine. But a 57-year-old man with silver hair doing it makes people a bit nervous. I’m sure I can actually hear jaws dropping.
Even if I wanted to stop, I can’t. It’s as if I’ve been taken over by some invisible giant puppeteer. He’s pulling the strings and I have to do what he commands.
I spin. Yep, you read that bit right. I spin! Not once, but three times. People are now moving away from the dancefloor in case the nutter gets dizzy and starts knocking over tables.
But that’s not going to happen. I’m experienced at this kind of thing. I think about doing a back flip. But realise that would result in serious injury. Not just to myself but to the ambulance men that would have to come and carry me away.
To everyone’s panic they suddenly realise that the DJ is playing the 12 inch and not the 7. This means that the horror show will have to last for nine minutes.
Then I start singing along with the music. Not quietly. LOUD!
“They’re dripping and dropping and dropping and dripping” I scream out over and over again.
My wife has now locked herself in the toilet cubicle. Too scared to come out.
I’m aware of pointing at complete strangers standing at the bar just minding their own business. As I point my fingers curl and I beckon them to join me on the dancefloor. They turn away and pretend not to notice me. My head is nodding and turning from side to side. It’s like a scene from the Exorcist.
At just six minutes into the song the DJ obviously thinks it best to draw this grotesque exhibition to a close and starts playing something by the Rolling Stones. That’s me done. I can almost smell the relief of the crowd as I return to my seat. I sit and take a large gulp of cold beer. My shirt is soaked in sweat.
My wife returns and sits beside me. She looks at me and shakes her head.
“I think it’s best if we leave. Don’t you?”
I nod.
“Yep. Probably best. Just in case he plays something by The Fatback Band.

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