Grew Vision: The Art (4:06)

We’re going to dance.

Your mind is going to dance.

(that’s right)

Were going to dance, and have some fun.

It’s 1990 and you just backed out of your laneway on a quiet Sunday morning to go for a drive. Twist on the radio knob and you catch this bass line you have never heard before.

Dig.

“Is this disco?” you ask yourself. “Disco on a Sunday morning?”

It sounds like a party that you want to be at. Timpani bongos get your feet tapping on the gas pedal. You notice some background conversation of dancers as they prepare for their assault on a dance floor in your brain. You turn left at the stoplight to get in the right state of mind. You’re starting to groove.

I couldn’t ask for another. I,I,I,I..

No I couldn’t ask for another.

“Who is that singing?” you say to yourself. “That voice--it’s so familiar.” The groove by now has entered your morning brain space like the odor of baked cookies from a memory when you were five. Sing it baby.

You reach down to turn up the stereo and take a right at the bakery. As you begin to shake your shoulders in the driver’s seat you remind yourself that there is this park on the edge of town you and your club-pals used to go to at seven in the morning after a serious night of raving. You wonder if it is still the place to be. You recall playing The Pet Shop Boys, Joy Division, Kraftwerk and wearing glow-in-the-dark bracelets. You remember what it was like to dance for nine hours straight. You were feeling old when you got up this morning, but not anymore. Lady Miss Kier has just brought you back to life.

Groove is in the heart.

Waiting for the red light to turn green, you spot a twenty-something out for an early morning walk with her tiny poodle. She is dressed in a one piece spandex outfit that fits so tightly around her body you think it could have been painted on. It’s bold diamond shapes of green, red, and yellow jump out at you like flowers on a clown’s balloon trousers. But she's not to be laughed at.

Cow-bell solo.

Now in both ears.

Watch out.

Her strawberry-blonde hair is slicked back tight and held in place by a thick black headband that makes her forehead appear bigger than it is. She notices you looking at her and stops. In a daring smile, she raises her arms above her head like she is about to take flight. Taunting you to get out of your car, she bends her knees and shakes her ass to the rhythm of your stereo. You want to dance with her. It’s as if you remember her. I’ve been told; she can’t be sold.

She’s not vicious, or malicious. Just de-lovely, and delicious.

Watching her on the corner, you think to yourself that there is no way she could be dancing for another.

And then she pauses. Her groove is exchanged for swank. Rap interlude:

This new mix will define the fresh decade. This is Brooklyn in 1990. Rapping and spinning; dancing and grooving. The beats, the electricity, the groove; it’s all flowing. It’s funk and it’s disco. It’s rap and it’s electric. Four teens stumble along the sidewalk drunk and disheveled. You remember what it was like to watch the sunrise for the first time. You recall getting high and dancing for nine hours straight. Your mind flashes back to a time when you owned music that no one else had heard before. That innocence is something you wish you could get back to. Drugged up and drunk, sweating on the carpet, laughing with good friends without judgment. What ever happened to moral-free evaluation?

You crank up the stereo once again.

Baby, just sing about the groove.

Groove is in the heart.

You drive by the wanderlust and her dog determined to get to the park now. You have forgotten what it is like to feel music rather than just hearing it. Turn right at the end of your town’s main drag and you see a large barn that you don’t ever remember being there. There are piles of cars parked out front and you can hear the drone of multiple voices screaming and shouting over a loud amplifier. As if some greater force is guiding the steering wheel, you turn into the long laneway towards the barn. The music and voices grow louder in your ears. And then--

Pop.

Snap your fingers.

One-two-three…

“Break it down brass section: I’m walkin’ into this dance party,” you tell yourself. The scene is nothing like you have ever witnessed before. Hundreds of kids wearing outrageous costumes; dancing without a care in the world. You’re dressed too plainly but no one seems to mind. Smiles welcome you. You develop a swagger you didn’t know you had. Introduction through body movement. One young man leans into you and winks:

“Groove--is in your heart.”

There comes her voice again. For a moment you debate looking for its source. And that’s when you realize--it’s not an external song at all, it’s internal. The song you heard is in your head. As you rave on you remember the car stereo hasn’t worked for months. You can’t stop dancing. You look all around the barn and you can’t find a DJ or amp or tables or speakers anywhere. This song won’t stop playing and you can’t stop grooving. No one can. But there is no music in the room. It’s inside of you; it’s inside everyone else.

The bass line fades. You can’t wait to hear what your mind is going to play next. The young man laughs, “C’mon y’all. Y’all look crazy, man.”

You agree. And you love it.