There was a moment. There was a moment. There was a moment around midnight on the dance floor at the 211 when it really did feel like the beginning of something special—the vibe was all there—and it had nothing to do with the sound system or a famous musician or fun drugs or sexy people and everything to do with a genuine human connection.
The 211 is a (generally) free entry bar/dance club in the Parc de La Villette, that magnificent futurist park to the north of the city in Pantin where I’ve spent more than a few days lying in the grass and soaking up the sun.
A group of five of us stood in front of the DJ booth, smack dab in between the speakers to get the best sonic experience. We didn’t mind that the dance floor was mostly empty. As people filtered into the spacious bar dansant nestled up against the Canal Saint Martin, the sound system started skipping so much that the DJ had to leave the stage to make room for a group of sound engineers to take care of the problem. Their eyes bulged at the tangle of cables beneath the Pioneer mixing deck and their biceps strained to lift up the two large speakers so they could try and make sense of the coiled mess below.
Whilst they worked, a basic backing track played on a loop to maintain the illusion that this was in fact a real dance party in Paris and not something reminiscent of a college party gone wrong.
The backing track was a simple one, a four-on-the- floor rhythm that kept our heads bobbing, feet moving, and more than a few tentative fists in the air. My friends and I had come there to dance because the last time we’d come to the 211 for me and my twin brother’s birthday on—lo and behold—2/11/23, we danced until 3 a.m and walked home with new memories. A few months later, we had high expectations for another dance party, but hélas the sound engineers struggled to make sense of all the mixed-up cables and most of our hopes clung to what the DJ would do when it finally came time to re-ignite the party.
Like any good night out worth it’s salt in flavoring, there’s always a moment when the good vibes shake at the edges. A quick glance at the crowd of beautiful young faces hidden behind cell phone screens illuminated the more pertinent reality of the reason for this dance party at Le 211, a glorified photo-opportunity to capture an image of the artist formerly known as Mos Def, AKA Yassin Bey, who was already, allegedly, according to a stranger, inside the venue for the “after party” of his sold-out show at the philharmonic in La Villette.
A lot of people go out to see or be seen,
but that’s par for the course at most decent dance parties in Paris. Still, a small but devoted group of people on the dance floor began swaying to the simple, glitchy four-on-the-floor beat in solidarity, laughing when the speakers skipped and when the sound system went completely silent because during the in-between moments, it was still possible to follow the phantom rhythm and bob our heads.
As more people joined in on the impromptu clapping-and-soon-to-be acapella session, it felt like something, and when the music loop turned into a popular 1970s disco song with easy-to-remember lyrics and melody, dozens of people starting singing along.
As more and more people began clapping and singing to fill the silence when the shoddy sound-system cut out, it became apparent that few things in life are more moving than a group of human beings singing and/or dancing along to the same melody. The bobbing heads inspired feet to two-step to the groove, and after about a minute it seemed like the entire space was not only moving but breathing together.
When the music from the machines returned, if only momentarily, the crowd clapped louder and sang harder together, surprised to find themselves in rhythmic solidarity with so many strangers. Rigid bodies became fluid and faces no longer sheepish; a nascent tribe began to form on the makeshift stage; for a moment, all of us in the building were there.
What if the reason human beings like to go out dancing is to reconnect with a more ancestral type of human non-verbal connection? Inspiring—breathing into—people to sway to a rhythm of their own collaboration, breathing life into simple words with dozens of human voices whilst dozens of hands respect the beat is usually what a respected DJ with a fancy sound system hopes to achieve at the night’s peak.
But hélas,
the sound-system was soon jerry-rigged and so the machines took over again, and instead of using the energy of the crowd to influence him, the DJ began altering the rhythm every few seconds to make up for the lost time; he gave nothing of what he felt and only what he thought he was supposed to give, or what he had been told to play in preparation for the crowds who’d come to catch a glimpse of Mos Def Yassin Bey.
A well-positioned Fela Kuti song notwithstanding, the communal moment quickly faded as the speakers blasted brutish transitions into our ears, culminating with an unnatural roar from the crowd when the artist formerly known as Mos Def appeared and quickly disappeared behind a throng of cell-phone wielding fans.
The empty dancefloor was invaded by sexy egomaniacs with overpriced gadgets influencers who’d gotten what they’d come for, fifteen seconds of fame video proof that they’d seen somebody famous. Stories were posted and anecdotes were told—tu l’as vu toi? Il est trop beau! I almost shook his hand!—proof of the destructive illusion that recording a moment with a cellphone is ever akin to a real life experience.
The sound system began skipping again, but this time there was nobody left on the dancefloor to clap or chant or care. The moment was over. Outside of the venue, in the comfort of a chilled spring air and thin cigarettes, an elegant elder who’d been singing with us in the fertile space summed it up succinctly: “C’est dommage, c’était trop un scene.”
Yes, it had become too much of a “scene,” yet another place to be seen in Paris. But there was a moment, however fleeting. Yes, there was a moment when it felt like we were there—or at least, it’s the moment I’ve chosen to remember. So here’s to finding our tribes on an empty dance floor; to bobbing our heads; to creating our own rhythms with our loved ones even—or perhaps especially—when nobody else cares.
PS
A friendly reminder for the ongoing dance party season to raise your hands and not your cell phones in the air.
Here’s to tribes on an empty dance floor 🙌🙌🙌
Loved this.
I miss dance parties and how easy they were to come by when I was in my 20s. Now I just create them (solo style) in my kitchen to keep my moves fresh.
The filming of life instead of living it is something I will never understand. I caught my mother filming a fireworks display on her phone the other night and told her to cut it out. 😂