Sonic Dancefloor of Disobedience--A Narrative

Dim, colored lights flash while a synthetic drum machine throbbed a tattoo in my brain. The noise was like a meat grinder while the singer growls, voice somehow not matching the beat, but maniacally reaching out through it: “You cannot

suture the future-- though you might try... Yes sir, they’re gonna save us! Absolution guaranteed! (For a small additional fee)” I smirked slightly at what some might see as lyrics that would offend the religious right as a parody of one’s soul being saved, my expression contrasting the serious faces around me on the dance floor. Someone gets into my dancing space, stomping past me in a flight vest and Frankenstein’s monster’s boots, his arms flailing low, but similar to an air traffic controller’s movements. I shoved him out of my way and our eyes meet. My body-language shouts “This is my piece of dancing real-estate. Get your own, or be forced out” He nods, and I could already feel his acceptance flowing out, touching every member of the Industrial club and telling them that I’m to be treated as one of their own. I smiled, continuing to dance, because this was my home. This is my life, what I was born for, I thought to myself. This was my first concert. I had driven myself to Orlando the week after I turned eighteen to see Pitch Shifter, my dark muses of music and philosophy. In my mind, this concert was a turning point for my life.

“God awful waste-of-space, dumb, degenerate low-lives!” “Mal-adjusted FREAKS!” the band was painting a satire of what people called us. We knew that life was going down the toilet and that movies and books like Blade Runner, Clockwork Orange, and Fahrenheit 411 wasn’t that far off if the world kept up with the themes of social and political oppression, the eventual barrenness of the planet and the inevitable dry-rot of morale complete with man-killing machines from technology we were not ready for and cannibalism due to pollution and overpopulation. Why not embrace it for what it was? Eventually, we’d all be in A Brave New World and yes, Big Brother was indeed watching. Obviously, most people weren’t as enlightened as us, and most “cyberpunks” and “Rivetheads” as we called ourselves, were ostracized for it. I continued stomping my feet in outrage of the world not seeing the truth. My heavy boots jingled with many buckles as if lending themselves to the music as my fists punched out at air, the breeze from my movement feeling refreshing, despite the stale air. I bent down low and placed my palms on the smooth parquet floor as if I was hit by a bullet and was going down. My cheek briefly touched the dance floor, sticky with sweat. My hair plastered to my neck and face as I stopped all movement. The music thudded against my body, breaking down my facade of stillness. My body pulsed from the inside out with the building beat of jackhammers in my ears, siphoning down my body and into my blood. Suddenly, I gave a mule-kick out, my feet missing another dancer my millimeters. Goths dance like they’re pulling spider webs out of the attic; Goths are ethereal and they mope artistically. We Rivetheads are angry and we dance like we’re at war-- as much with ourselves as with everything else.

Finally exhausted, I looked around at the other patrons as I went across the huge dance floor to get a Diet Coke-- Five dollars a glass. I rolled by eyes, paid up, and looked out over the sea of my people. They were bouncing and stomping and grabbing their heads in mock depression as the band continued on their synthetic music-makers, tweaking at knobs, playing with keyboards, looking like mad scientists of music, come to unbrainwash us with sonic disobedience. I gave another self-satisfied smirk. I hid it in my ribbed plastic cup of (mostly ice with a drop) of Coke and behind my Marlboro cigarette as looked out at the club. Suddenly, I knew why people legged their kids when I walked past them in the supermarket, now that I saw versions of myself all over. We were a sea of military and medical paraphernalia, black leather, and spare computer parts. Robotic, post-apocalyptic