Just before returning to the UK for July/August, my mind was turned to ‘what next’ and I really had a sense of going back to my late teens and early twenties :): doing some travelling on my own – I was a children’s summer camp ‘counsellor’ in New York state, worked on French campsites albeit then not on my own, making decisions particularly post uni about what and where, being an au-pair/nanny in California and then whether to live in Paris or Frankfurt, before I veered off to computing and a career starting in London. The world was indeed my oyster.
And yesterday in my desperate quest for a good bop, I replayed the 17-year old me who used to go to 2-dance floor Blackpool Mecca via the free coach from Preston bus station of a Saturday night to dance the night away – well until 1am in those days !!, before being dropped off close to where I lived because fortunately the coach passed that way – and yes most times solo. The solo nightclub visits, where I’d pay my entry and buy one drink only, continued in my time at Aston Uni. Had to be done for disco dedication.
So fast forward – a mere 40 years!!!!! and under ones own steam under a blue sky, and positive evening sun along the M55, 🙂 and the Mecca being long gone, to the planetary centre of dance – or so the claim goes –
for an 8pm to 1am Soul Party, celebrating a 75th anniversary of Tamla Mowtown.
I quickly realised that my bag and jacket were the same problems as back in the day – ok in a group when bags were placed on the dance floor in the centre, but no good for a group of one. I decided, having already paid £5 for parking to cover a considered staying power of no longer than 4 hours, and then £13 for entry to a music type that wasn’t quite what I wanted!, that I should stuff my denim jacket into my handbag, which contained all my keys, and my passport and pay the cloakroom cost of £2 per item, to be free of all encumbrances. Having handed over the grand sum, I then saw that my bag was hung up very visibly, and more accessible than I’d like and the young girl on duty did not convince me that she would match up to any potential clever fraudster/pickpocket who would of course recognize the value of my bag and what if she needed to go to the toilet? My trouser pockets felt very shallow and my only other options were to store the cloakroom ticket down my bra or pants, which would have been itchy if funky stuff had to be strutted or ones body shaken down to the ground. Fair to say that I then spent the next hour of my residency with my hands in my pocket on the ticket and a bit of cash, occasionally taking the risk of moving them (with my arms) to the music as I joined the Northern Soul homies on that dance floor.
All the tables were occupied when I arrived at about 9pm apart from the balcony, in which case I would have to keep myself, if the music wasn’t able to, on the dance floor, or keep going up and down in full view! The solo me prefers to stand (with hands in pockets), round the side from where I can move as surreptitiously as possible to and from, rather than go and ask an established group if billy-no-mates can sit at that free chair slightly to the side of them. The place was very popular amongst ‘people of my age’, so at least the hurdle of self-consciousness of mutton dressed as ….. did not present itself 😂.
The evaluation of whether I should indeed make the effort to go to this event took into account the fact that Leeds, Harrogate, York, Preston had not turned up any obvious disco nights for the middle-aged, nor were there any festivals happening. I knew that I was taking a risk with a 60s & 70s Soul Party, as part of a Northern Soul series, when what I was really wanting to propel me into hours of murder on the dance floor was their slightly younger siblings, disco and funk. I had also only too briefly clocked that my most suitable shoes (ie the ones I had on in preference to my flip-flops, or walking shoes) were my none northern-soul-shuffling-birkenstock-equivalent sandals. The first two leg movements on the famed floor confirmed that not being able to face going up into my Mum’s loft to do further clothes rifling, was a mistake. This tribe’s behaviours warranted more gliding around than the bump and grind LOL ……. of funk.
Anyway, 60’s soul classics alongside stuff like ‘There’s a ghost in my house’ which took me back to St Anthony’s youth club of about 1975, were cranked out, it was a good atmosphere and people were definitely there to dance. Unfortunately, the music just didn’t do it for me. I decided to leave around 10pm and console myself with a McD’s vanilla milkshake and my playlist via bluetooth on the way back. The quest goes on for Got to Give It Up, and You Make Me Feel blasted out by a fantastic sound system, but I’ll have to dig the shoes out.