If anything, the pushback from disco saturation was an act of self-preservation. No kid, just figuring out who he was and where he was going, would be prepared to have his assimilated rock ‘n’ roll identity stripped from him. If the resistance was furious, it was because they were not prepared to shuck the uniform that sheltered them in their transition from kid to adult.
I’m worn out from defending myself as a racist homophobe for fronting Disco Demolition at Comiskey Park. This event was not racist, not anti-gay. It is important to me that this is viewed from the lens of 1979. That evening was a declaration of independence from the tyranny of sophistication. I like to think of it as illustrative of the power that radio has to create community and share similarities and frustrations. It is for that magic that I wish to keep the memory severed from those who ascribe hateful motives to a wildly successful radio promotion.
We were just kids pissing on a musical genre. We were choosing to remain faithful to the bands that provided the backdrop to our lives.
And so, when Rod Stewart strutted to “Do Ya think I’m Sexy” and Mick Jagger preened to “Miss You,” it seemed the rock loyalty might be one-sided. Their heroes were appropriating disco beats and fancy dress codes. A further rebuke to the Chicago rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle happened in January 1979, when legacy rock radio station WDAI fired me to become a disco-only station. I had only been in Chicago for twelve months, but Chicago kids had grown up with WDAI, from the British Invasion onward. They felt stripped of something essential to their formative years. Their rage and resistance was directed at no ethnic group or sexual orientation; the loss of the station was simply a repudiation of their still-evolving psyches.
I got a job at The Loop, a rock ‘n’ roll altar. Callers welcomed me with warm wishes and the mantra, “disco sucks.” They were passionate about their music and their lifestyles. I tapped into it, both as a response to being canned to make room for disco, and to build a community so I could keep my job. My take was always based in humor, pointing out the discomfort of having to dress a part to go to a bar.
I borrowed Rod Stewart’s music and recreated “Do Ya Think I’m Sexy” as my anthem. The visuals were highly entertaining, but had no connection to sexual orientation or color.
I wear tight pants
I always stuff a sock in
It always makes
the ladies start to talking
My shirt is open
I never use the buttons
Though I look hip, I work for EF Hutton . . .
Do you think I’m disco
‘Cuz I spend so much time
Blowing out my hair?
Do you think I’m disco,
‘Cuz I know the dance steps
Learned them all at Fred Astaire?
Not a masterpiece, I know, and not a piece of social commentary. Just a few laughs at the guys a few years older who were willing to costume up to get in with the trendy elite. Some of them were older brothers, or the guy who danced away with your girl.
We were letting off a little steam. We were relaxing in our corduroy jeans and T-shirts. We were not quite ready to dress for success or give up our clattering soundtrack for disco beats. I never wanted to mount or lead a social movement. I wanted to entertain and to provide a release for kids who had too little money and too much awkwardness for the dance world. I wanted to say, The music you revere is great, and you are okay just as you are.
It is the right of each generation to declare, “This is who I am.” And to dance to the beat they choose to dance to—even if it is only head thrashing.
What follows is an oral history of the events preceding and following Disco Demolition, a look at Chicago culture circa 1979, and how Chicago house music followed disco. This book was written in the context of that period. And everything is on the record.
Steve Dahl salutes his Anti Disco Army
DAVE HOEKSTRA
On July 12, 1979, the Chicago rock ‘n’ roll station WLUP-FM and the Chicago White Sox collaborated on a twi-night double-header originally called “Teen Night.”
After the events of the evening, it became known as “Disco Demolition.” Fans who brought a disco record to Comiskey Park would be admitted for ninety-eight cents (FM 97.9 was WLUP’s “The Loop” position on the dial) to see the Detroit Tigers play the White Sox.
In the center of the country, American music was at a crossroads.
And Comiskey Park was a rock ‘n’ roll Gettysburg. What followed was one of the greatest promotions in the history of Major League Baseball. The White Sox had been averaging about 20,000 fans a night in a grand old stadium that seated close to 50,000. Neither team was very sexy in the standings. The White Sox were 40-46, in fifth place in the American League’s Western Division. The Tigers were 41-44 in fifth place in the Eastern Division.
About 70,000 people showed up for the game.
Security quickly got out of hand as the audience discovered vinyl records made great Frisbees. Several players rightly remarked they were afraid of getting hurt by a Commodores single. After the White Sox lost the first game 4-1, the promotion took place in center field. WLUP morning personality General Steve Dahl and his sidekick Garry Meier led their Insane Coho Lips Army to center field to blow up a large box of disco records. They were assisted by WLUP’s provocative “Goddess of Fire” Lorelei Shark as General Dahl led the crowd in chants of “disco sucks!”
When the records blew up, the audience flooded the field. Fans tore out seats. Bonfires were lit with pocket lighters. Chicago police arrived at White Sox Park on horseback. The second game was canceled. Disco Demolition became the first and only event other than an act of God to cause the cancellation of a Major League Baseball game. (The Cleveland Indians’ “Ten Cent Beer Night” in June of 1974 also resulted in a riot; the game was forfeited in the ninth inning.)
White Sox president Bill Veeck was the king of baseball promotions. In 1976, the White Sox were ready to move to Seattle, until Veeck bought the team from John Allyn. One of Veeck’s promotions during his inaugural year was outfitting his players in clam diggers and hot pants. No trend was too small for Veeck. And in 1979, there was Disco Demolition. “I was amazed,” Veeck said afterwards. “We had anticipated 32,000 to 35,000. We had more security than we ever had before. But we had as many people in here as we ever had.” The security at Disco Demolition was as innocent as a Dan Fogelberg song compared to that of U.S. Cellular Field in the summer of 2015.
The passage of time has shed a different light on Disco Demolition; the events can be refitted to today’s values. Dahl told me, “Most of the people calling it racist and homophobic are younger and have come out of college predisposed to think that thanks to identity politics.”
The front page headline of the July 13, 1979 Chicago Tribune sports section read, “When fans wanted to rock, the baseball stopped,” and columnist David Israel wrote, “Ten years after Woodstock, there was Veeckstock . . . As far as riots go, this one was fairly lovely. I mean, it isn’t going to make anyone forget Grant Park or the Days of Rage. It was a lot of sliding into second base and ‘Look-at-me-Ma’ jumping around for the benefit of the television camera.” After all, the Sister Sledge disco tune “We Are Family,” co-written by Nile Rodgers, was one of the hits of the summer of 1979. (It even became the theme song for the Pittsburgh Pirates.)
On the flip side, in December 1979, rock critic Dave Marsh wrote of Disco Demolition