Tomasz Jedrowski

And then the music stopped. The record had come to an end; the low
crackle of the speakers could be heard between the suddenly naked chatter
of the crowd. We looked at each other, bemused, in anticipation. A new
record was placed on the deck by a gangly boy in green bell-bottoms. At
once a string of quick, light beats prepared the room, gathered our attention,
ecstatic, simple, and single-minded. And before we knew it, Blondie’s siren
voice had filled the room, sending a rush through us. We didn’t know the
words, not a single one, but we understood everything about “Heart of
Glass”—all its elation, its decadence, the pleasure of self-indulgence. We
made our way through the crowd to the middle of the room, where we
dissolved ourselves in her voice, in its high flight, in the rising and falling
melody, in the motif of the beat, the beat that was there from beginning to
end and begged to be followed. Our heads spun along with the record. Our
bodies became instruments of the song, extensions of it, and we formed as
one, dancing in a triangle, swaying from side to side as if possessed. When
the song ended, another one began to play, one just as good and catchy and
seductive, and we gave ourselves to it. It was as if someone had taken us all
and placed us on a platform on top of the world. We danced until sweat ran
down our backs and foreheads and we could no longer catch our breath.