Disco and the Drunk

Ready to lay out on “YMCA”

Jan 17, 2025

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Debbie and I paid for arriving at the symphony hall “fashionably” late, barred from entering by closed doors until the first musical number finished, all to minimize disrupting others already seated.

My excitement level hovered on low because let’s face it, the prospect of listening to a couple hours of disco music failed to appeal, even if spruced by a full symphonic orchestra. In my opinion, disco ranks among the worst forms of modern music, “YMCA” being the exception, and even an orchestra with its strings, woodwinds, brass and percussion couldn’t help. Can’t understand how those BeeGees hit notes so impossibly high, it hurts to think about it.

If you don’t share my widely held opinion of disco, I’ll say two words to prove my point. “Car Wash.”

Unlike a stadium, the lobby where we waited lacked any kind of distraction, not even TV monitors to show the action inside. Trying to kick start the enthusiasm, I jokingly asked the usher how big the dance floor was. Someone asked a better question, “Can we bring in drinks?” Yes, if covered by a lid, which would prove an even better rule than making us wait outside until a stop in the music.

During the break, we followed the usher down the aisle, discovering our seats were not only in the middle of the row, but the same firm that designs airline seating applied its pencils and blueprints on these. Everyone stood to open enough room to allow us to squeeze past, body parts sideswiping. Thankfully, unlike a stadium, we didn’t snag on cupholders.

As punishment for our tardiness, the guy next to me held possession of the shared armrest. My seat narrowed accordingly.

I’d told Debbie on the way to the hall I’d brought a book on my phone. “You can’t do that,” she said. You’ll disturb everyone with your lit screen.” I said I’d cover it, we’d see. Phone at the forefront of my mind, I watched the dozen or so violinists, the violaists, the cellists and the bass stringers. A three-person rock band accompanied the orchestra, the drummer providing the strong beat disco needs to propel dancers. A trio of backup singers added to the energy by swaying and raising their hands, the lead singer moved on stage. The conductor was barely necessary.

At the next number break, the conductor turned to the audience, seated as we were in the grand hall built for classical music, with marble banister rails, tiered elevated boxes wrapped in a “U” around the floor, tight seats designed for motionless listening, and a Godly set of organ pipes in backdrop to the orchestra, all sans cupholders found in less formal settings. Orchestras do what they can in the face of declining interest in classical music. Including juicing the audience. The conductor smiled at all of us and said, “I don’t see any dancing.”

Permission granted, during the next song, a few stood and danced with their upper bodies due to the limited legroom, including one white-bearded guy who later identified himself as Santa Claus. He could’ve gotten away with the nom de plume, except for the fishing shirt he wore. I shook to the beat with envy because I could never have gotten away with a fishing shirt. Not talking about the bulge above Santa’s beltline, more that Mrs. Claus has different standards than Debbie when it comes to spousal attire in concert halls. Debbie looked amazing herself.

During the intermission stretching of our legs, I noted I hadn’t taken my phone out once to read, the concert so far holding my attention (no BeeGees). I jokingly told Debbie we had a reputation to uphold and we should wait until everyone in our row was seated before returning. Debbie vetoed it, the row was mostly empty as we reseated, and I enjoyed the single armrest, because my neighbor guy hadn’t yet showed. I also looked forward to “YMCA.” It would be tight, doing the moves, spelling the letters in airline/symphony hall seat cubicles, but worth a shot.

My head nodding back shows where the orchestra is

A new neighbor arrived, carrying a drink at an angle that made me thankful for the covered-cup rule. Her teetering served as proof of the proof of her drink and the ones consumed prior. Deidre the—I’ll call her that for the alliteration—grabbed my arm and because the orchestra hadn’t yet started playing, planted her face inches away so I could hear without missing a word. She explained she and her friend traded for these closer in seats and they wore sequined outfits for the concert, her friend not so much clothes wise but her boots were sequined, where Deidre wore sequined shirt, pants and boots and that she wanted me to know they traded for the seats. To break the one-way conversation that verged on an endless loop, I laid one of my best Dad jokes, which by the way, now that my kids are adults themselves, they actually laugh at my jokes, and I said to Deidre, “What draft pick did you have to give up for these seats?” She didn’t laugh—because of the booze, not the material.

A place for the Phantom of the Opera to see

Despite her leaning in and over me, her almost falling, me holding her lidded drink as she searched her purse for something while her more sober friend sat hands-free next to her, her habitual grabbing my hand to dance and twirl, even—I haven’t told Debbie this—her hand moving along a borderline area of my leg as she gauged my reaction, Deidre proved a harmless sot. When they called for volunteers to come onstage for a dance-off, I cheered loudest for Diedre to give it a shot. In her condition, she proved—and here’s a lesson for us all—to be sooo compliant to suggestion and I enjoyed the armrest while she sought her instant of fame.

The orchestra closed with “We Are Family,” an admittedly fun song we danced to, unobstructed by my returning sequined neighbor, who because I largely ignored her, silently put me up for adoption.

Trials By Writing by Geoff Mantooth

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