Jon Anne Willow gives “A Little Respect”

By Jon Anne Willow

The year was 1988 in Iowa City, home to both the Iowa Hawkeyes and some of the Midwest’s more wild and wooly activist groups. I was head deejay at a popular dance club there for four years while a U of I student. On the night in question, I was over two years into my gig and immune to the human dramas played out nightly by the people below the booth, which was raised a half-story above the floor. I had become a student of human behavior, could’ve written a thesis on Youth Culture and The Progressive Influence of Alcohol. Sometimes I sometimes felt isolated, sometimes powerful, but generally I was grateful to be removed from the press of sweaty flesh, running mascara and boundless testosterone.

People routinely ascended the stairs bearing drinks, cash and compliments to get their songs played, but I rarely acknowledged them. It wasn’t snob cool that kept me from playing “Paradise by the Dashboard Lights” at midnight for a rich alumnus in town for a game, even for 20 bucks. I was deeply passionate about packing the floor, affecting everyone in the room with the music. I was affected. I always got off, no matter where my head was when I plugged in my headphones at 9:00. Quickly, the cares of the day would melt into the myriad play of beats, rhythm and lights. Three turntables, a mic, an eight channel mixer and some lights. Four people or four hundred; it was all good.

It was late, the floor was so crazy I had to set the weight of the turntable arms to 3 to keep records from skipping. My boss, a French Algerian named Fatah, had just yelled at me for the second time to play something that would get people off the floor and over to the bar. I picked up my new favorite single, Erasure’s “A Little Respect.” I knew it would be big soon, but it hadn’t been released and I figured it would lighten the load below. I dropped the needle, teased it into existence on the heels of Jane Childs.

Sweet, pop-laden beats hinted at an irresistibly hooky melody. At first people slowed down, looked up. A few took off. But a group of black turtleneck-wearing kids (the 80s version of art fags) pushed their way in. One of them was crazy hot, with black hair and black eyes, and dancing with an equally hot girl. I found myself staring at him, and then he noticed me. Our eyes met. I was singing along (I had played the record over and over in practice, learning the beats and breaks) and so was he. He turned towards me from the floor. He was singing just for me, gesturing to the booth, arms wide. I sang back to him, our voices drowned to silence by the music and the crowd around us. But we were alone. I almost forgot to cue the next record. When it was over, the dancers applauded us, sarcastically. I didn’t care. Fatah came up to yell again, then stayed in the booth to make sure I followed orders. My mystery man came to the bottom of the stairs and waited for a few minutes, but left when boss man showed no signs of taking off. A little later I noticed that he and his date were gone.

I waited a month for him to come back. He asked me out. I was pissy at his delayed response and said no, told him I was too busy, seeing someone, had to wash my hair. He gave me his phone number under a lame pretense. I threw it away. He didn’t come back again. I felt remorse, but was too proud to find him. I finally ran into him on the street months later. We made a date for ice cream. I had the flu that night and threw up behind a building. He patted my back, and I wasn’t embarrassed. We stayed together for years, until steamy attraction and similar taste in music just wasn’t enough.

It’s no thing, though. I’ll always have Erasure.

Send us a Rock ‘n Roll Moment of your own. But be advised: we may print it. I’ll take them at jwillow@urbanmilwaukeedial.com.