THE ROOTS OF CONTACT 1976 - April 18, 1978 - BAD POETRY

THE ROOTS OF CONTACT 1976

By

Peter Nolan Smith

Downtown
A disco.
Flashing strobes
Deafening drum bass
A young weekend crowd
Dancing

Sexually fearless males on 'ludes
Disco waifs on blow
All of us 99% dead by dawn__

A thin wanton teenager sensually sways to Donna Summer's ' LOVE TO LOVE YOU, BABY'
She dances with me
Her body seducing my drugged libido
She's high <>
"Love to love you, baby."
She lipsynches the chorus
"Love to you you baby."

Sara
Her name.
Sara is in high school
Private school
I push Sara away hard
Girls like her are danger
To themselves
To everyone around them__
I thread my way to the bar
"A vodka-tonic."
The bartender wants me
Jhoury pours a double and slips me a 'lude

I lean against the bar
A voyeur__

White boys dance with black men
Girls with girls
No one is straight
Not even 10%

The DJ pushes the beat on and on and on
I drop the 714
My second

Across the dance floor a brunette
Beauty
Alone
Surrounded by admirers
Famous
A Vogue model
Everyone knows her name.
Gia___
I am a no one, but I am the most no one here

Gia sees that
Her eyes fall on me
Mine on her.
Mirror to mirror
I know her

Gia famous
A Vogue model
I am no one
But I am the most no one here__
LOVE TO LOVE YOU BABY
Segue to silence
The dance floor stalled to a near-stop
The DJ smiles under a spotlight

More silence,
One second, two seconds fifteen seconds
Then Diana Ross' breathless voice
We all know this song
We sway
We all know what is coming
LOVE HANGOVER

Almost a ballad
Then Magic
The bass, the drums, the guitar and Diana on top of it all
Gia and I meet on the dance floor

She said her name
I tell her mine.
Names mean nothing in our world
Her body to mine
The 'lude hits
The madness of flesh

Gia and me
Immortalia
For now and eternity__

December 29, 1978 - East Village - Journal Entry

Disco was king on 1978. Rock and roll was a distant second and punk barely scratched the airwaves. Everyone was into Disco. Donna Summer, a Dorchester native, ruled the charts with MacArthur Park and Last Dance, Chic took over in December with Le Freak. The shout for Disco echoed across the country and world. While Jimi Hendrix had played the National Anthem soloing with her teeth at Woodstock nine years ago, thankfully no one disco covered GOD BLESS AMERICA or THE STAR SPANGLED BANNER.

Rock's dilemma is that the genre has stagnated with the corporate middle-of-the-road all stars simply recording formula stadium rock. Only metal and punk fight the trend with the old aged executives taking the easy path for profit. The radio is all MOR and Disco. Where have Motown and Stax and Philly gone? After the race uprisings of the 60s and 70s, white people didn't want to see blacks anywhere. The NBA is dying and disco has no politics to it.

I sit at home listening to the old 45s, playing solitaire, and await a phone call from an unknown source saving me from further ruin. None come, and solitaire loses its appeal once you cheat at it.

Tonight I'm going to CBGBs. I haven't been there since last Friday's peyote trip with Bill Yusk. Completely fried.

Rock and roll decay The Rolling Stones mellow Mainstream The Beatles dead Still on the radio Fucking Rockie Raccoon The stars of the 60s Fat, drunk, or dead Useless, boring, or wasted. Not Van Halen or Black Sabbath Certainly not Iggy Or the Dead Boys. They'll never make it on the AM charts.

Drinking beer has temporarily killed my thirst. In the world Iran awaits the Shah's death. Taiwan feels betrayed by our treaty with Red China. Murders never-ending murders across the USA. Fuck it. No one cares about anything,

The old wind shivers through the drafty windows. I wait for the clock to hit 11, then I'll head over to CBGBs. The Theater. The Dictators and the Dead Boys.