It's a Holy Ghost Party

I sometimes have trouble understanding people who don't like going out dancing at the club. Luckily, this was not an issue for me last night because I found a club to go to on a night with a slammin party, and I even had a gay friend to accompany me. Score.

Let me get the minor details out of the way first. Last night, there was a White Party at Tilt, which happens to be a very cute club, certainly of the degree I'd not expect in Rochacha. In fact, this club was way, way cuter than the dance clubs in the Twin Cities (although that's not hard to do) and had a way better DJ. Go figure, the town is a-shambles, but there is a hot gay club. The night started off pretty scary. I've never been to a club that opened its doors at 10 pm, especially in a city where the bars close at 2. So, when I show up, in lovely white from head to toe (including white sweatbands around my wrists) I was taken aback that there were only a handful of people, and very few of them observed white party etiquette, b.k.a. I wish a motherfucker would come to the club in non-white. So for a few minutes, I was standing at the bar alone, and dressed for the event, unlike the other couple of early birds.

Soon, "Let the Music Play" by Shannon came on in the Lounge portion of the club, and I thought, alright, this place is getting better already, and within minutes, the club was packed with fine people dressed in white. I breathed a sigh of relief, as it became clear that the Rochesterians would be able to bring it like I needed last night. After a few beers in the lounge, we moved our party to the dance floor, and let me tell you, the DJ was hot, hot, hot. So were the go-go dancers (hey boos). It was your typical melange of popular songs remixed,but the remixes that he was playing were often tribal, frequently soulful, and never the lily-white fare I came to expect in my years in Minneapolis. The Get Me Bodied remix was COLD AS ICE! There may have been only one or two songs that didn't move me. Not a bad average, by any means. 

The dancefloor was hot, hot, hot. There was dude with the faux-fur (I hope) Russian-type hat with the earflaps and white sunglasses. He looked a lot like Batt Biller and danced pretty damn well. I was thinking that the hat was highly impractical, but now that my ears are suffering constant ringing, I'm thinking that earflaps weren't a bad call at all. There was Chocolate Twinkie, who was working it on this platform right next to where I was on the floor. We caught each other's eye just when the DJ switched it up to a slammin beat and simultaneously gave a "Hey!!!!" of appreciation, and then laughed and continued working it. Last, there was the  Rosario Dawson lookalike, wearing a sexy bohemian/artsy outfit with the cute hat and elbow-length fingerless gloves. Homegirl could dance, and we also caught each other when things got really hot.

Which brings me to my point. I find it hard to believe that there are people in this world who don't feel the need to experience the release, community and sense of life that happens in communal dancing. When I hear people say, "I don't dance," or, "I'm not into the club scene," I silently judge and pity them. More pitying than judgment, actually, because I wonder if there's ever a time and place where they are physically able to let go of their self-consciousness.

I'm like everyone else, I love going to the club to look cute, see who else is looking cute, meet new people, get drunk, yadda, yadda, yadda. But all of that stuff really goes away if the music is right. At that point, I really couldn't give a damn how stupid I look because the rhythm seems to bypass that part of the brain responsible for editing and controlling my behavior, and goes right to my funk receptor. Of course, I'm not sure why I'm writing this all to you, as I don't think I have a single friend who doesn't like to dance. (Thank God.)

Still, I have had some quizzical looks cast my way when I say that going to the club is like going to church for me. Maybe that's because I went to crazy Pentecostal church as a little kid, so church was full of screaming, shouting, dancing, and other out-of-control behavior. It freaked me out then, but now I know better. Those Pentecostals were just looking for an acceptable way to get loose and cut a rug. Of course, they'd tell you different, and they'd tell me I'm going to hell for writing this. Still, I challenge anyone to tell me the difference (in purpose) between the following videos.

Pentecostal Break Down

Bomba

House

Aight, den. I've got some more chilling and healing to do, and earplugs to find for my next excursion. If there's one bit of wisdom that I can impart as a final message to this post, it is this: find some cute sweatbands to incorporate into your clubbing outfits. I can't believe I lasted this long without them.