as promised a long, long time ago, heeeeeeeerrreeee’s bronski beat with my absolute favorite clubbin’ tune:

good old bronski beat. is it gayer than gay? you betcha. and i. don’t. care. see, a great dance song is a great dance song. period. it doesn’t matter, especially when the whole damn thing is infectious.

i certainly didn’t care about the band’s sexual orientation when i entered the melody, a now-defunct club in cespool scenic new brunswick, nj, [motto: it’s a shithole, but it’s our shithole] in the mid- to late-80s. club shmell, smell, hell, or any derivative you prefer, was the dive place you could often find me and my friends on a thursday, friday, saturday…hell, we loved that dirty old sinkhole, which has since been raized (but for which a devoted following still reunites to dance and reminisce.) i was wondering what would be painted on the walls that week, often in full dayglo technicolor. i was hoping i could make my fuzzy navel last for at least an hour while i bopped around. i was searching the upstairs and downstairs, pondering the sort of crowd that would be there (other than the regulars and often matt pinfield, who dj’d there among other souls. he is such a sweetie; i attended one of those reunions last february and was delighted to talk with him for a few minutes. in the words of junie b jones, i love that baldie.)

it was a filthy musical nirvana, a place where young johnson & johnson execs rubbed elbows with rutgers students who, in turn, danced around with the less-than-affluent townspeople at times. and it was the first place i heard hit that perfect beat, a song that, to me, screams flailing around with your girlfriends and ignoring the guys who are staring at you, wondering whether they ought to take a chance and ask you to dance. [answer: don’t bother.] ah yes. there i am, a gallon of stiff stuff in my punky tresses to make it stand up like a cockatiel.

(hey, i’m a jersey girl. i’m obligated to have big hair.)

so if you play smalltown boy or hit that perfect beat, you may make my hair stand on end; though now that i think of it, jimmy somerville’s banshee wail could do that to anyone, cosmetically-bolstered or otherwise.