So my friend Tad calls me up and says there's this great new club opening up downtown. Some sort of throwback-y disco type place. Now, I hate dancing, but I thought it might be fun for peoplewatching so I agreed to go.
It was located in not the greatest part of town, but you could hear the music for blocks. Surprisingly, once we arrived there wasn't really a line outside as we had expected. Just some big, bald bouncers. I looked around and there were maybe about 8 of them, of roughly the same look.
"That's a lot of bouncers," Tad said.
We paid our $18 cover, walked in and sure enough, disco was thumping. Do The Hustle, to be exact. Tad and I headed over to the bar for a drink and there were even more bouncers there! I leaned over to the bartender and asked, "This some sort of tough guy convention?"
"Yeah, you could say that," he replied.
"Graham!," Tad said while poking me with his elbow, "look up there." He pointed towards the ceiling above the center of the club, "That disco ball looks funny."
"That's no disco ball, Tad, that's a disco swastika!" And sure enough hanging high above the dance floor was a giant, mirrored swastika, turning and throwing little squares of light across the room.
And then I listened to the music again. I knew something was odd. It wasn't Do The Hustle at all; it was clearly Jews That Hustle! There was no mistake: we had happened upon a Neo-Nazi disco.
I walked quickly to the DJ and looked at the collection of records arrayed before him. The titles confirmed my suspicion: I Will Survive (the Zionist Conspiracy), Negro Inferno, Cristalnacht Fever, I Love the White Life. I was stunned. How did this scene even come about?
Figuring I was safe for the moment, I went back to the bartender and asked him about it.
"Well, that's an interesting question with a none-too interesting answer. See, some of the boys just got tired of the Nazi-rock and metal thing. They wanted something fun, they wanted to dance. So a few of them got together and decided the time was right for a new scene."
"And they decided on disco?", I replied.
"Stranger things have happened. Look at Tiger Woods."
The bartender shrugged and went back to making a Cyclon-B (Jager & French's mustard). I made my way towards the door and grabbed Tad, who had been chatting up some girl in a "Can't Gestapo the Music" tank top.
"Dude," Tad said, "did you know that 'Gloria Gaynor' is an anagram for 'Go, O Aryan Girl'?"
"Tad, shut it."
And with that we left Stalag 54 beneath the dying strains of Funkyschwitz, never to return. Yes, the night ended prematurely, but I think we both became just a bit wiser to the world around us.