I Blister in the Sun

A case for more dance parties that end by 10pm

Photo by Katherine Sandoz

After only three notes— less than one second of music — the dance floor erupts with jubilation. Let’s be honest, most of us get it on the first note. We know this song, our hearts beat to it, it’s been in our blood for decades. The simple chords have entwined themselves through our lives from the thousands of times we’ve listened and sang along with it. 

The Violent Femme’s Blister In the Sun begins brash and boastful, charged with energy. There’s dancing, jumping, flailing. No headbanging, this song is a celebration of joy for joy’s sake, a perfect tempo for skipping to. I’m bobbing around with dozens of GenX’rs and two children. While I hold and  dance with my two-and-a-half-year-old niece, my brother does the same nearby with his seven-year-old daughter. 

The party on the dance floor bounces and scream-sings. The children love it, not just because all kids love dancing, but the little empaths absorb the joy bursting around them. Adults, normally boring, rule-enforcing grown-ups,  have transformed themselves into sweaty, writhing, jubilant beings of fun, much to the delight of the kiddos. 

After 80 seconds of wildly gyrating like no one is watching, the song sneakily begins to quiet itself. The bold bass softens ever so slightly, the confident drum beat stretches towards a murmur. This is not a surprise, we’ve been on this journey every time we’ve heard the song since 1983. It hits different when dancing to it though, as opposed to say the soundtrack to your Whole Foods shop, or in the background of a printer commercial. Right now I'm inside this anthem, or it’s inside me, channeling the beat through my body, bass vibrating from the speakers into my bones.

It isn’t just the song that softens, I feel myself ease along with it. I’ve been planning this massive party for over a year in my head, on paper for months. The lead up to it has been a sparkling, but strained, whirlwind of making costumes for chicken nuggets, orchestrating a grand entrance for the guests of honor, and sending out press releases with virtually no response while I execute my vision. Am I doing my best? What if I throw a big bash and no one shows up? Is this going to be a disaster? Am I bankrupting myself for a lark? My sister and her wee children have come to visit while my house has unexpected renovations involving dangerous tools. One inch of rainwater invited itself into my house four days ago, and insurance has no interest in replacing my destroyed floors.  Also, these past weeks saw me flying a thousand miles on hours notice to be by my father’s bedside in the hospital; watching my parents celebrate their 60th wedding anniversary— my Alzheimer’s stricken mother trying to explain to my barely conscious father the significance of the day; the decision to put my father in hospice; gathering the baseball hats and sports jerseys my father wishes to wear in his forever after. Every time my oldest sister calls or texts I wonder is this it, is this the call? Add to all of this a general sense of despair for the current state of world suckiness. 

All of these big feelings shrink themselves in time with the song, the music’s initial swagger creeping towards a tiptoe. The toddler in my arms wiggles with pure glee as we slow our movements along with the hushing melody. I gathered this we together, I marvel. All of the people cavorting around me are friends, people I admire, and some I’ve never met before. They’re here because I somehow convinced them to join my cockamamie shenanigans to throw an 80’s prom to celebrate the 16th birthday of a cheeseburger (more on that soon). I didn’t write, record or even request this song from the DJ, but I set us up for this fun.

Me. I did a thing and it ushered joy into our world.

My brother next to me crouches close to the floor as the drum beat shrinks to a wee finger snap, the singing to a whisper. He wasn’t supposed to be here, deciding only three days prior to finally attend one of my art events and to have a family experience beyond my father’s deathbed. His wife and daughter in tow, they landed at midnight on Friday, showed up at my door on Saturday morning, danced on Saturday evening, to fly out on Sunday morning. His daughter in his arms and my niece in mine respond to the hush around them as the adults, who were wildly dancing fiends less than a minute earlier, squat quietly.

These little girls don’t know what we know. 

Specifically that the microsecond before the song quiets to complete silence it explodes back to life. 

We explode back to life. 

Bodies and voices rocket with stratospheric exaltation.

My niece's wriggling little body can barely contain her joy, absorbing the energy around her. I feel my own little eruption: the outpouring of joy from my brother and niece at my side, my friends around me, the glittering whirlwind of my shenanigans swirling through our revelry — all while dressed in 80’s finery.

This burst of coming alive with the music, amidst this moment of wonder lit up an indicator in another part of my brain. 

This is a perfect moment, it reminded me. Capture this, not as an image or video, but as a radiant memory to brighten up the chambers of my heart, it instructed. 

My feet and legs springing, my hips swaying, my arms containing an ebulliently squealing tiny human, my lungs belting out lyrics, I welcome this perfect moment into my life.

The shitty shit isn’t invited to this party.