More, More, More
Mickalene Thomas
Susan Ross asks "Do You Think I’m Disco?"
It’s never been entirely clear how the essence of disco, that heady blend of salsa, funk and soul ramped up to 127 bpm that simply compelled people to dance, devolved so rapidly from the delightful naughtiness of Andrea True Connection’s 1976 hit "More, More, More" to the cringe-inducing cheesiness of Three’s Company’s Larry hanging out in his polyester knit shirt and too-tight slacks at the Regal Beagle. When most people think of disco, it’s the later image that comes to mind. And when most people ponder disco’s tragic transformation–and believe me, there are plenty of us who do just that on a relatively regular basis–we blame Tony Manero, John Travolta’s character in the 1977 film Saturday Night Fever. The incredible popularity of that movie thrust disco, until then a movement largely played out in black, Latino and gay clubs in New York and Chicago, into the national spotlight and sparked a craze. Almost instantly, the market was flooded with mass-produced hits that bled the vitality from disco and transformed it into a trend. The inevitable backlash was both harsh and swift. Within two years, disco was pronounced dead, its funeral celebrated on July 12, 1979 during Disco Demolition Night at Chicago’s Old Comiskey Park.
As odious as Tony Manero might be, not all the blame for disco’s tragic demise can or should be laid at his feet. As "Do You Think I’m Disco," the dynamic new exhibition at Longwood Art Gallery at Hostos Community College in the Bronx points out, racism and homophobia also contributed to the movement’s untimely death. Curated by Edwin Ramoran, "Do You Think I’m Disco" is an ambitious group show that aims to present the anti-disco movement as a radical reaction to the rising influence of gay culture on mainstream America. Featuring both marquee names (Carrie Moyer, Phil Collins) and rising stars (Kalup Linzy, Ivan Monforte), "Disco" is a glittering assemblage that is heavy on campy drag (Jason Keeling’s photographs of Linzy as Warhol Factory acolyte Dorothy Dean) and brazen sexuality (Nelson Santos’ disco balls). As a critical examination of the link between queer culture and the disco backlash, "Disco" widely misses the mark. The exhibition’s relationship to disco is framed largely as a celebration of queer culture, and the larger connection between disco and gayness require too much extrapolation by the viewer for the show to achieve its aims. Yet if we reframe the questions the exhibition poses we see that Ramoran has achieved the nearly impossible. With his selection, Ramoran has rescued disco from the realm of kitsch, reminding us of its initial–and enduring–authenticity, and causing us to rethink what disco was all about. My response to "Do You Think I’m Disco?" Yes, I do. Very, very much.
Admittedly, "Do You Think I’m Disco" is a spotty exhibition. While generally promising, at points the work was immature and overreaching. Negar Ahkami’s attempts to parallel the disco backlash with Islamic fundamentalism in Exile of the Farrahs or Tehran circa 1979 seemed out of step with the show’s scope, offering what is essentially an appendix to "Do You Think I’m Disco’s" story. Elsewhere, the work didn’t reach far enough. By limiting the definition of disco to, on the one hand, music (Karlos Carcamo, Looking for the Perfect Beat), or, on the other, to an aesthetic (James Jaxa, selections from the series "Outer Space Exploration"), the exhibition worked against answering the questions it raised. Finally, the relationship between some pieces–particularly Shirley Wegner’s Soldier Dancing on Ruins and Carrie Moyer’s Inflamer–and the exhibition’s narrative was simply unclear. Ultimately, the curatorial focus seems to have gone in and out a bit. Although uniformly lively, Ramoran’s decisions didn’t always appear to follow a single train of thought.
Despite these weaknesses, the sense of genuine enthusiasm and authenticity that drives "Do You Think I’m Disco" transforms the show into a buoyant and thought-provoking experience. An exhibition essentially rooted in a pop culture moment that has since evolved into an instance of collective embarrassment could easily have become an example of curatorial shtick. Yet Ramoran handily overcomes this danger by resisting any impulse towards irony and allowing the strongest pieces in the show to speak in delightfully unselfconscious terms. In several brilliant instances, particularly in works by Ivan Montforte, Elia Alba, Ramdasha Bikceem and Christian Marclay, the exhibition’s freedom from hipster nostalgia coalesces with such force as to fling the viewer right into disco’s sexy, buoyant whirl. In these moments, the show becomes a face-to-face encounter rather than an act of commemoration, and for that alone, "Do You Think I’m Disco" is remarkable in spite of its uneveness.
More than music, disco was a fantasy of glamour and easy sexuality. Encoded into its rhythmic eroticism was the promise of transformation. The music was, more than anything, a means of adopting a new identity, one that brought with the permission to be–and the promise that you would be–really, wonderfully naughty. Everyone was a bad girl when they listened to Donna Summer, and because it was a fantasy, there were no consequences for illicit behavior. Disco was a saucy, ironic mix of lewdness and innocence–sex without sex, if you will–and that is ultimately why people everywhere from Delaware to Des Moines were doing the hustle. "Do You Think I’m Disco" works to establish this history with the inclusion of several photographs that act in a documentary fashion. Both a 1979 photograph by Jamel Shabazz of two Brooklyn clubgoers and Linzy’s 2005 images of Dorothy Dean, for example, describe disco’s beginnings among black and gay men in New York. But the real meat of the show is the secret to why disco exploded outward, a long answer that begins with Bickeem’s installation, Get Ready. The intelligence of Bickeem’s piece is that it centers on a dressing table. The mood is set by a poster of Grace Jones, an array of cosmetics and hair products, and Diskman playing a 74 minute mix made for the exhibition. But the dressing table itself reminds us that disco’s magic began long before the music began to play. The excitement started when you heeded disco’s siren song, sat down in front of the mirror and transformed yourself. Lip gloss, hairspray, eyeliner; slipping yourself into your one shouldered dress; strapping on your high heeled sandals: getting ready was nothing short of foreplay. Bickeem’s installation is the prelude to a fantasy, and it can’t help but remind us that part of disco’s power was the way it could turn you on.
From here, transformation and fantasy become the driving theme behind "Do You Think I’m Disco." Alba’s brilliant offering, including The Men’s Room and Masks, which feature the gorgeous visage of the famed DJ at the Paradise Garage, Larry Levan, exceeds the equation of disco with easy gay sex and focuses our attention instead on the movement’s promise that anyone could adopt the mask and become a stone cold sexy disco fox. A strong selection from Mickalene Thomas’s 2004 series "She Works Hard for the Money" demonstrates how in the age of the women’s lib movement, the glamorous disco hooker became a strange figure of sexual and economic power. Finally, Marclay’s evocation of disco’s power to support gender transformation, which he produced by stitching disco album covers together, is simply fantastic.
Yet the summary statement for "Do You Think I’m Disco" is Monforte’s moving and delightful And I’m Telling You. This video features a gorgeous a cappella rendition of the tune from Dream Girls and it perfectly captures disco’s compelling theater of sex, passion, earnestness and naïveté. The singer, dressed in a plain white T-shirt in front of a non-descript background, could be anyone (although he’s actually gospel singer Marcellus Ari). He is almost impossibly sincere as he belts out the overwrought tune and, when it’s done, he appears both amazed and spent. Held in check by the performer’s boyishness, the song’s heady and absurd passion avoids melodrama and signifies instead a depth of feeling that the singer seems surprised to have experienced. It’s that simplicity, that lack of self consciousness, that the best pieces in "I’m Disco." Alba’s brilliant offering, including The Men’s Room and Masks, which feature the gorgeous visage of the famed DJ at the Paradise Garage, Larry Levan, exceeds the equation of disco with easy gay sex and focuses our attention instead on the movement’s promise that anyone could adopt the mask and become a stone cold sexy disco fox. A strong selection from Mickalene Thomas’s 2004 series "She Works Hard for the Money" demonstrates how in the age of the women’s lib movement, the glamorous disco hooker became a strange figure of sexual and economic power. Finally, Marclay’s evocation of disco’s power to support gender transformation, which he produced by stitching disco album covers together, is simply fantastic.
