The Last Days of Disco?

In 1998, The Last Days Of Disco, a film by Whit Stillman set in early 80s New York, premiered to great success. It portrays the end of the golden age of discos, as well as the coming of age of its sophisticated protagonists, a group of young people who study and work by day, and spend their nights dancing on the exclusive floor of The Club, in the heart of Manhattan. As one of the anthology films about club culture and dance music, the soundtrack of The Last Days Of Disco is logically sensational: Diana Ross's I'm Coming Out, Chic's Everybody Dance, or, of course, Alicia Bridges' I Love the Nightlife, among others.

I saw The Last Days Of Disco some years ago and loved it. As well as Saturday Night Fever or the more recent Studio 54. With these movies, something curious happens to me; they provoke a certain nostalgia for a golden age that I never lived, not even remotely, since I grew up a few years later and, moreover, I did so at the antipodes of this world of magic, sequins and glitter, sophistication and sexual freedom. For me, I had to live my adolescence and early youth in an environment where no one wanted to look like Tony Manero – let alone Boy George. The punk aesthetic prevailed, the "paleta" sweaters – that's what they called them – Dr. Martens with steel toes, beers and calimocho. Rather than singing, songs were shouted – Kortatu, Barricada, Soziedad Alkohólika, Eskorbutu – and the dance floor looked like a battlefield – I never understood that what they called ska was a way of dancing. Anyway, traumas that fortunately I overcame years ago with cosmopolitans, Madonna records and memorable nights in the discos of Gaixample.

I return to The Last Days of Disco because I'm getting sidetracked. Its director, Stillman –who, by the way, lived for a time in Barcelona and in 1994 directed a film precisely named Barcelona which I haven't seen yet– also published a novel based on the characters from his famous film. I read it this summer. Originally, it is also called The Last Days of Disco, although the Catalan edition is titled –poorly chosen, in my opinion– Còctels i Caviar (Edicions 62, 2001). I admit it has been quite painful to read this novel when for months and months I haven't set foot on a dance floor due to the pandemic. In fact, making allowances, I have felt quite identified with characters who, as the story progresses, become aware that their great party nights are coming to an end. Their discotheques are closing down and we don't know when ours will be able to reopen.

I admit it has been quite painful to read this novel when for months and months I haven't set foot on a dance floor due to the pandemic

In this context of practically closed nightlife, I remember that, at the beginning of summer, many young people with the logical haste to conquer the world (end-of-course trips, music festivals...) were impatient because vaccination had not yet reached their age group. I remember that a young woman from Avilés –a clear exponent of the best-prepared generation in history– became famous for stating to a newspaper, convinced she was saying an obvious truth: "After the elderly were vaccinated, we should have gone next. We want to do things. People over 40 won't go out, right?" As if those over forty didn't want to do things. As if going out wasn't for us anymore. As if our disco days were over forever. I felt like answering her, via Twitter, but I immediately saw that many of my contemporaries had been tweeting their indignation for hours and that, therefore, our right to the night had already been perfectly defended.