Don't Stop the Music

"In the seventies, disco was hugely popular in America. Chicago birthed house, Detroit gave us techno. White people loved it, Black people loved it even more—except for one group: rock fans."

"They deliberately equated disco with Black gays and started boycotting it. In the late seventies, MLB's Chicago White Sox ran a promotion: turn in your disco records and get a 98-cent ticket discount. During the intermission, Chicago radio talk show host Steve Dahl detonated all the surrendered disco records in the middle of the field."

"The White Sox expected twenty thousand people to show up. In reality, fifty thousand arrived before the gates even opened, and thousands more climbed over the railings after the start. Records rained down from the stands like hail. When the explosion hit, tens of thousands stormed the field, and the White Sox had no choice but to cancel the game outright."

"After that, disco became taboo. You have to understand, the social climate back then was still conservative. Magazines, TV stations, newspapers wouldn't touch sensitive content. Radio stations refused to play disco. Overnight, disco vanished from America, reduced to a niche hobby for a tiny minority."

"Those rock fans back then probably never imagined that disco's death wouldn't keep rock on top—it just gave hip-hop a chance to rise. They deserved that." Joel was still bitter about the past.

"Luckily, disco music started developing in Europe, especially the UK. Nightclubs, raves—those concepts were all blown up by the British. The House of Commons later passed the Public Order Act, which stipulated that 'playing continuously repeated musical melodies outdoors to more than twenty people constitutes a disturbance of public order,' punishable by fines and detention..."

"Maybe we'll live to see electronic music revive in America!" Joel exclaimed, caught up in the moment.

Ryan watched a young girl not far away, frantically shaking her head. Just moments ago, he'd seen her swallow a few pills commonly known as Molly.

It was past midnight. The lights were growing dimmer. Ryan frowned, called over a club security guard, and pointed at someone nearby using a flashy "popcorn" nitrous canister. The guard immediately stopped them.

Tennessee was a red state—strict about this sort of thing, at least in public. But in a private booth, it was a different story, a bit like plugging one's ears while stealing a bell.

Joel set his empty glass on the table. "The last hour of the show is the real highlight."

He had Ryan pull out the USB drive containing the finished "Termor." Over the past three hours, Ryan had listened to plenty of popular EDM, and now he could clearly feel how Termor differed from those songs. Termor had a structure so simple it could be called crude, with more prominent heavy bass beats, and even now, it still sounded a bit worse than the version in Ryan's head. That made him worry whether the live audience could accept it.

He and Joel returned to the DJ booth. As the intro began to play, Ryan saw a few men and women on the dance floor instinctively glance their way.

During the breakdown, more layers of sound joined in, and the crowd shifted from confusion to gradual adaptation. Then came the buildup, as the riser effect kicked in, and you could clearly feel the tension mounting...

3.2.1.go!

In an instant, the lead melody and all the other parts hit together—the richest sonic texture, the pent-up energy bursting like a floodgate thrown open! Massive reverb paired with the volume cranked to max bombarded the audience's eardrums, backed by a simple, catchy melody that was enough to shake the soul!

Joel beside Ryan started screaming. Just as Ryan expected the others on the dance floor to react similarly, he found them all frozen in place, not moving a muscle.

Then, the next second, everyone snapped out of it. In that moment, every person in the club felt like they were standing at the peak of life, as if they owned the entire world.

After that came the sobering-up period of release. The second breakdown stripped away all the heavy drums, returning to the rawest melody—but it heralded a new storm on the horizon.

After two climax sections, the music entered the outro. Joel began mixing in another EDM track.

A few seconds later, the middle-aged man who'd been sitting in the booth stood up straight. Cigarette dangling from his mouth, bottle in hand, he staggered over and tossed two crisp green bills their way.

The man demanded, slurring, that they play that song again.

The manager hurried over, scooped the fallen bills off the floor into his pocket, then straightened up and gestured for Joel to comply.

Over the next hour, "Termor" was played on repeat more than ten times. Ryan carefully observed everyone's reactions—men and women, old and young—each one seemed hit by some kind of "frenzy spell," their expressions wild, no longer even glancing at the opposite sex beside them.

Ryan figured it was the combined effect of the drugs and the pounding EDM.

"Get the crowd going, jump around, kid. Don't stand there like a log." Joel, standing nearby, couldn't help but remind him.

Joel had already completely let loose—arms raised, head shaking, sweat beading across his forehead and neck.

Ryan, on the other hand, felt a bit shy, stiff as a board. He figured his past life definitely hadn't involved much club dancing.

·

Two in the morning, the club started clearing out. Men and women who'd found new partners paired up and left. Joel and Ryan sat on the couch. On one side of Joel was the suit-wearing club manager; on the other, a promoter with access to beautiful women.

"Joel, where did you get that track? Compared to tonight, your so-called 'original songs' are crap!" The manager's eyes lit up. "Did you see the state of those guests? They were like crazy people! The bartender said sales in the last hour tripled the usual!"

Joel shook his head, not taking the credit. He pointed at Ryan beside him. "That song was this kid's idea."

The manager and promoter finally gave Ryan a proper look. Two girls were sitting next to him, both part of the "atmosphere group." They'd noticed him earlier when he was at the DJ booth.

"I thought he was your cousin or something, here to get a taste of the scene tonight," the manager said. He called Ryan over, pulled two bills from his jacket pocket, and handed them to him.

"This is your extra pay for tonight," the manager said.

Ryan looked at the two green bills in his hand, marveling at how smoothly he'd made his first real money from music, then peeled one off and offered it to Joel.

"Keep it. I get a fixed cut here." Joel didn't take it.

The promoter immediately pulled out a portable camera and snapped a group photo.

"Kid, what's the name of this track?" asked the promoter, who had a tattoo under his eye. He pointed at the Myspace page on his laptop screen. He'd recorded the live scene earlier and uploaded the video to the social site. Several people had already commented below, asking for the song's name.

Seeing this, Ryan remembered what Joel had said about promoting music online.

Times were changing, technology was advancing. If you could leverage social networks, maybe you could get exposure fast...

Just as he was thinking, the girl beside him in the fitted long dress—part of the atmosphere group—leaned in closer.