IV. The (Attempted) Murder of Disco

For a brief, dazzling moment in the late 1970s, disco was everywhere. It was the sound of possibility—of bodies moving together beyond the boundaries of race, gender, and class. On the dancefloor, as Tim Lawrence writes, “race, colour, belief, and sex were minor details in the dance. What was important was: can you get down?” The disco was a place where difference became energy, not threat; where the only requirement was the courage to move.

But this freedom was too much for some. By the late 1970s, disco’s very success had made it a target. It was music made by and for Black, Latino, and gay communities — people who had long been told their joy was dangerous. As disco crossed over into the mainstream, its origins were often erased, its spirit diluted, and its popularity resented by those who saw their own dominance slipping away.

The backlash was swift and violent. The most infamous moment came on July 12, 1979, at Chicago’s Comiskey Park: “Disco Demolition Night.” What began as a publicity stunt—blowing up disco records between baseball games—became a riot, a public spectacle of hatred. Nile Rodgers of Chic later said, “It felt to us like a Nazi book-burning.” The message was clear: this music, and the people it represented, were not welcome in the mainstream.

Rolling Stone’s Dave Marsh saw it for what it was: “your most paranoid fantasy about where the ethnic cleansing of the rock radio could ultimately lead.” The destruction of disco was not just about taste—it was about power. Disco had become “too gay, too Black, too female, too much.” It was a threat to the old order, and so it was attacked with a fury that went far beyond music criticism.