When I got the RIP email, I was seized by a flashback – the moment of sadness instantly routed by a kindly brain circuit to a distant memory of sheer exhilaration. The summer of 1978. A crazy slumber party. The 45 rpm of Last Dance spinning on the record player with the arm set to return for interminable plays. A dozen or so 10- or 11-year-old boys doing what they envisioned disco-dancing to be, which I think was mostly jumping frenetically on couches and incorporating some faux-martial arts. Someone had also gotten their hands on a strobe light, and by the closing crescendo, a delirious chaos had set in. It’s the closest I ever came to a rave, and it can never be bested.
I have a lot to say about Donna Summer, and I’m going to say it later, but now I’m going to feel thankful for a wondrous slumber party memory and say a for-real prayer for her. She would like that.