STUDIO 64

The year was 1979. It was February and it was cold in Times Square, but tonight we wouldn’t be there because it was the warmth we were vibing toward. The hottest party in town was secret, private, exclusive, and passing you by. If you were looking for action in New York, it was never around, for what eluded you was found in it’s ever expanding underground. Past the pushing crowd and the bustle of the city, past the impossible red velvet rope and the hustling roar of the impenetrable front door, you could feel the building breathing, the music pulsing like your own heartbeat pulling you to the floor. On that night... you could be anyone. You would let your wildest desires drive you, your inhibitions control you, the studio seduce you, and your deepest fantasy take you... while that very fate lay with you in the glitter and glimmer of the shimmer of the spinning disco ball. In that Art Pop Palace we were Royalty. In between the notes of the beat, Kings and Queens, we were finally somebody. In the buttons of the satin and silk, we were something to everyone, and in a blur and whisper, we may have even been everything to someone. To be put simpler, we just were. Alive, in a capsule of time. To know it wouldn’t last forever would be the only truth. To know it would all be over soon, wouldn’t be the Fever we were searching for in our journey through. It was just another Friday night, but the high of our lives. It was hello and goodbyes, handshakes, and smiles, whiskey and wine, celebrities where the elite intertwined. We talked to them as if we were one, and the beauty of it was, they never seemed to mind. The difference between darkness and light was a fine line, because in the spot’s shine, we were odd together, so perfectly flawed, unholy yet divine. It was applause, sex and rock n’ roll, a moment in pause. From fleeting glances by the bar, to shadows meeting in the hall, to singing, dancing and loving in public, to intimacy in bathroom stalls... the club was like a biting drug we could never get enough of, and as the decade ended, when it was last call, all we could ever ask for was just a little bit more of 64. I met a young kid there, Montana, from Cuba, who bought me a drink and told me: The World Is Yours.