Seventeen and underage, I remember being in this club Farmer’s in my hometown of Waterbury, Connecticut. At Farmer’s my girlfriend and I were in the minority, just like black guys and girls were in the minority, definitely not always by choice (read: selective doorman policy), when they frequented my disco haunt, Nite Life.
Inside Farmer’s that night, was a black undercover detective, I think that’s what he was, that, or a policeman. He frequented Nite Life, so I knew him, and had chatted with him a few times.
He told my friend and I that we shouldn’t be there. That it was dangerous for us to be there. I didn’t pay much attention to him. Sure, I had heard stories from friends, black and white, that perhaps less than desirable people hung out at Farmers–that there were drug dealers, and I don’t know what else, but when you are young, you’re invincible, and don’t want to listen to hearsay or some middle-aged man talk to you about supposed danger. A few black friends and acquaintances of mine from high school were there. And, like everyone else packed inside the spare space, I just wanted to dance and have a good time.
Then, Parliament Funkadelic’s One Nation Under A Groove came on, and I made my way out to the dance floor. It seemed the anthem wouldn’t ever end. As danger dissolved under funketeer angel wings, I wished it never would.