Four or Five Minutes of Bliss

I recently saw a special episode of Siskel & Ebert at the Movies in which the two film critics ran down a list of some of their favorite moments in screen history. Most of the clips were fairly predictable, or at least understandable and well-defended, but about halfway through the program Siskel picked a dance scene from Saturday Night Fever as a fave, a choice that stunned Ebert. The scene, Siskel rhapsodized, captured the essence of the dance floor as a raceless, classless, communal sweat-box. In his opinion this was one of the more moving scenes committed to celluloid.

While Ebert stared at his partner in mute shock--it was as if Siskel had demanded that Sylvester Stallone be given a lifetime achievement Grammy--I found myself nodding in agreement with Siskel. Not necessarily about Saturday Night Fever, but about the strange magic of the dance floor and its powers of transcendence.

It dawned on me that it took courage for Siskel to go out on a limb in the name of disco, and I realized that there is a pervasive anti-dance-music prejudice among not only movie critics but "serious" rock fans, who think that for music to have meaning it must have "meaningful" lyrics, or at least loud guitars.

This attitude--what I call the Wayne's Worlding of pop--holds that dance music is somehow not as relevant as rock with a political message. It is, of course, a crock. Rock and roll's origins are in the motion of the body and the song of the spirit as much as the workings of the mind; no matter how trenchant the social commentary in a pop song, if it's wedded to a lame groove, it's not going to take off.

CONVERSELY, SOME BANDS make sounds so heavenly that they would mesmerize if the lyrics were about tree sap. New Order is just such a group. The English quartet doesn't break much new ground on Republic, their seventh album, but as one of the world's greatest dance bands, meeting their own standard is no mean feat.

Since 1980, bassist Peter Hook, drummer Steven Morris, keyboardist Gillian Gilbert, and guitarist/singer Bernard Sumner have been responsible for some of the greatest pop singles ever made ("The Perfect Kiss" and "True Faith," to name a couple). High-tech, synthesizer-heavy rhythms, fall-down gorgeous pop hooks, and Sumner's weak, vulnerable voice have combined for some truly memorable moments in rock history.

The result can be remarkable, even euphoric. Republic's high mark is "Everyone Everywhere," a love song that leaves the ground from the first note. It's set to a chugging, rolling beat and is rich with chiming guitars, though the lyrics are, like most of New Order's, childishly sweet and simple: "And when we kiss/We kiss as one/In a single breath/The world is gone."

Sure, it ain't Dylan, but I think that's the point. By keeping it simple--on both "Everyone Everywhere" and the rest of Republic--New Order achieves a kind of spirituality that most rockers out to change the world in three minutes are oblivious to.

Rock critic Simon Reynolds put his finger on it recently in a piece on revolution rock: "The bands with the neatest line in 'revolutionary' verbiage are always the ones with the most reactionary music. At the same time, it's the most apolitical, escapist, emotionally regressive genres that seem to offer the most futuristic, innovative thrills."

Who knows? Maybe the dance floor, with its de-emphasis of race, class, and gender, is achieving what 40 years of rock and roll hasn't been able to: true equality, if only for four or five blissful minutes at a time.

Mark Gauvreau Judge was editorial assistant at Common Boundary magazine in Bethesda, Maryland when this review appeared.