Phast Phreddie, The Boogaloo Omnibus would play wondrous Northern Soul records at The Subway Soul Club in New York, which exited into history earlier this year (New York, not the dance party). A number of times, when I lived in Windsor Terrace and the club was at Rififi (now consigned to history, like New York), I headed into the city at like two o’clock in the morning, just to catch the last hour.
No one would be there and I’d stand on the empty dance floor, colored lights sweeping the dark, eyes closed, swaying and soaking in the sounds of the city’s night.
Got home around five (probably after a stop at the lesser, East Village Stromboli’s) and never regretted the sleepytime trek, ’cause, you know, where else could I submerge myself in those sounds? (There were other places to get pizza.)
Well, now I am listening to a massive, multi-hour Northern Soul collection on Spotify. I have access. I’m free. I can sleep.
And it’s just not the same.
But hey, I’m in The North, a mere 30 miles from Manchester. That’s sumthin.
Geez. The music ended.
Maybe I should walk up and down the stairs.