The Death of the Dancefloor
An ode to our long-lost Saturday Night Fever
It’s 2:44 am. You’ve just left The Camden and begin the treacherously hazy trek to the queue for Coppers. After a quick pit-stop at the ATM beside Devitt’s, you take out your phone and respond to absolutely everyone’s Saturday night Instagram story with the ‘flames’ emoji. Next up on your to-do list of self-sabotaging behaviour, is the maladaptive act of sending a ‘you out?’ message, to 6 prospective contributors of a free breakfast that you’ve been talking muck to on Tinder this week.
Upon reaching the gates of heaven, (the door of Coppers) you fire the remnants of your purse at the woman behind the desk, making a beeline for the bar. You hear the intro for Whitney Houston ‘I Wanna Dance With Somebody’ and immediately slam the empty glass of jager down on the counter.
It’s time.
You’re now front and centre on the upstairs dancefloor, the human equivalent of a cattle mart. The dim lights flash, making everyone look somewhat handsome. There are bodies everywhere; some coherent, and some not-so.
Just when the crowd moves from rowdy, to downright lawless, you know that the weather forecast will almost definitely include a downpour of warm Heineken (normally at approximately 3:45 am when the hymn that is, Maniac 2000, begins to ring out on Harcourt Street.)
But by some ironic paradox, this is a cleansing ritual of sorts. The troubles and short-comings of the week gone-by, fall behind you. They sink into the cracks and crevices of the almost adhesive dancefloor, joining the concoction of other fluids, which are now cemented into the very foundations of this establishment. Beautiful, really.
Dancing Through The Ages
If the walls could talk, well they’d tell a good one. But what about the floors? There is no floor more abundant with the richest of stories and secrets than the dance floor.
Dancing, in all of its magnificent forms, has proved itself to be the centrepiece of every social gathering since shortly after the beginning of time. As the clocks have moved forward, so too has the rhythm of the night. The showband era which dominated the 50’s, 60’s and much of the ’70s, was very much unplugged by the ’80s, which heralded a new brand of both music and movement; think brightly coloured lycra, think bold and courageous perms, think neon, think more is more and less is a bore, think Whitney, Bon Jovi, and Michael Jackson. Think disco.
The nightclub scene on a global scale, has weathered many storms since then, none more testing than the current global health crisis. Now, I’m not suggesting that the return to this aspect of life is of paramount importance right now, (well, maybe I am) but it’s concerning, isn’t it? I suppose, the very essence of, and goal behind the nightclub experience, is that you would bump off someone who would — please God — find you bearable enough to engage in some very non-socially distanced activity.
Social Dis-Dancing Around The World
Other parts of the world have also considered alternatives to the much loved wall-to-wall cesspit that the club scene once was. The Dutch cohort has resigned to seated dancing. Hold me while I weep. That said, I’d be first in line for a look, if this ever became a thing on the Emerald Isle.
South Korea are showcasing their futuristic ideologies by introducing robotic bartenders, and our German counterparts have gone old-school with a drive-in disco.
A Rite of Passage
Adults of every generation will understand me when I say that the years spent ‘throwing shapes’ on the dancefloor are as socially and psychologically formative, as those spent in the playpen; both lending themselves to developmental experiences such as ogling at the world around you, mimicking behaviours of others, and making decisions which have the potential to negatively impact your well-being.
So where will the next generation go to have their hearts broken, and mended just as quickly? What will they do when a gruelling month of exams comes to a close? How will they celebrate the sporting weekends, before calling in sick to work on Monday morning?
I hold a candle for the dance floor; the highs and the lows, the wins and the losses, from the top-of-the-world Saturday night fever, to the bottom of the barrel Sunday morning fear. So today, for the umpteenth time in my 25 years, I turn to Saint Jude, the patron saint of desperate causes and hopeless cases; Jude, if you can hear me — is there any chance of a dance?
