HOMETOWN

I went off to college in the fall of 1977, and Saturday Night Fever came out that December. If I was paying attention to the path outside my residence hall any given night during freshman year, I would see Randy walking toward Franklin Street in Chapel Hill.

He was a man on a mission, the closest thing our dorm had to Tony Manero, John Travolta’s character in the hit movie with disco as its core. Randy walked with purpose, dress-shoe soles on brick announcing his presence. Product in his blond hair, a couple of off-duty buttons on a fancy shirt with a substantial collar, he was a striding testimonial to various synthetic fabrics and soon to have a black-light handstamp to enter his favorite night spot.

Randy was headed to the Bacchae, which for a time was called Mayo’s Bacchae, the longer name including that of the establishment’s operator, a small-town North Carolinian with New York City tastes.

In the late 1970s, Tony Manero would have been right at home at the Bacchae. Its black-and-mirrored walls, lighted dance floor, colored strobes and faux fog were a backdrop for the pulsating, four-on-the-floor beat of the disco music: Bee Gees, Donna Summer, Yvonne Elliman, Heatwave, Chic, Wild Cherry.

I didn’t dress the part the way Randy did, although I’m sure I turned up at the Bacchae more than once wearing some residual polyester garment from my golf wardrobe. My clothing deficit notwithstanding, I met a couple of girlfriends there, one of whom I dated for about a year, until it became clear that her affection for Rod Stewart was greater than for me. 

It is jarring to think that the disco days are as far removed from today as the Charleston era was when we were grooving to “Never Can Say Goodbye,” “We Are Family,” “Le Freak” or “Boogie Oogie Oogie.”

Disco peaked in 1978 and ’79, declining soon thereafter, much to the dismay of my dormmate Randy, but not before making an appearance in the then-sleepy Sandhills. 

I was reminded of those times not long ago when I had a sandwich at 715 Broad in Southern Pines. In the mid-1970s that space was Castle of Dreams, which advertised being “The Best in Disco Entertainment.” Tuesday was Teenage Night, when those under 18 gathered to drink Cokes and summon the courage to ask a classmate to dance. The evenings would occasionally end with a beer on the sly out by a pond in Highland Trails, an activity that didn’t make my reply when Mom asked about my night out after I arrived home as the 11 o’clock news was coming on.

But the Castle was D-league disco compared to Crash Landing, which I discovered once I was of legal age. Crash Landing was located on U.S. Highway 1 North in Southern Pines, a large warehouse-style building situated on a slight rise, set back from the thoroughfare with a large parking lot in front sometimes not big enough to hold all the cars.

Many of us came to the Crash on college breaks and during the summer, catching up and doing our best on the dance floor. As was the case in Chapel Hill, there was a cadre of dancers at the Crash who knew what they were doing, who knew the kind of moves Travolta and company did in Saturday Night Fever. Most of us were just moving around, building up a thirst for a Budweiser or a Miller High Life. I had gotten put into a social-dance physical education class after most of the more common P.E. courses were filled up, but my foxtrot experience was of little help. On the very rare occasions I departed the Crash with someone’s phone number, it was harvested by conversation not my skill at the Latin hustle.

The best move I remember from the Crash Landing period involved a friend who was driving me home one winter night. Just as he was making a turn in Manly, it was suddenly like a fog machine was pointed at his sedan’s windshield. With the defroster obscuring his view, he made a left on the wrong side of the frontage road median. A highway patrolman was nearby and, blue light flashing, immediately pulled us over. They talked for five minutes standing in the cold, my buddy and the officer, then we were on our way. No ticket. No written warning. Just advice to be careful and go straight home. A lot has changed beyond the music.