Record Recipes #48

Danceteria.

A selection of analog recommendations for your listening pleasure. Pulled from my personal collection. Today’s issue: release your wiggle.

Prince - I Wanna Be Your Lover. We mourned 10 years ago, didn’t we? We passed around that Super Bowl performance and marveled at the gargantuan size of the catalogue even as we came to terms with knowing there would be no more new Prince. For a recent audition, I was tasked with learning some Purple Rain era guitar cuts and re-immersed myself in the body of work; beyond the nasty riffs it was the undeniable groove that reactivated some formative practices. Like so many little girls do, I started ballet class at the age of three, with jazz and tap dancing added to the slate not too long after. Annual recitals ceased at age eleven upon my move to Hollywood, but dance class is something I can never stay away from for long. I Feel for You

The B-52s - The B-52s. The original party band. Before inviting you to hop in their Chrysler as big as a whale, these Athens, Georgia scene queens injected a little levity into the blossoming New Wave sound with their kooky debut. Delightfully unserious, this record coexists with John Waters movies and lots of leopard print in my imagination. Flip further through that Rolodex of culture and I’m reminded of quarantine; during the majority of lockdown, I sought solace and sanity through constant virtual dance classes. My favorites were the Fosse workshops offered by Steps on Broadway. You can’t tell me Fred Schneider didn’t attempt the Rich Man’s Frug at least once. Dance this Mess Around

Madonna - True Blue. 40 years of papa preaching, living to tell, and dreaming of San Pedro. I’ve never identified as a Madge mega fan, and yet when Confessions ii arrived this month I had to let it rip. No one does mono-culture better than Madonna; my algorithm is full of joyous mash-ups of her early and late career hits mixed by boys in crop tops grinning ear to ear. If summer 2024 belonged to Brat, then let 2026 bear the summer we dance ourselves out of stagnation and toward absolution. White Heat

Let’s get physical (media).

I booked my trip to NYC to see the Jellicle Ball before the closure was announced, before hearing Danceteria and revitalizing my relationship to the Prince discography and jazz class at Steps. At first it was just an expanding ache for a change of scenery, then it became a weekend built around art and culture that feels at any moment like it may expire. It’s always my tendency to season even a short trip with literature that deepens the experience, and any excuse to break up with my phone is welcome these days. I’m going to devour this new book on dance in New York (probably on the flight), and I’m going to dance myself sore whenever possible.

Wishing you a very analogue summer, may your dance floor be a mile wide.

Keep listening.