ABSTRACT
All my life I’ve liked the wrong music. I never liked Elvis and rock ’n’roll; I always preferred Rosemary Clooney. And since I became a socialist, I’ve often felt virtually terrorized by the prestige of rock and folk on the Left. How could I admit to two Petula Clark LPs in the face of miners’ songs from the North East and the Rolling Stones? I recovered my nerve partially when I came to see show-biz music as a key part of gay culture, which, whatever its limitations, was a culture to defend. And I thought I’d really made it when I turned on to Tamla Motown, sweet soul sounds, disco. Chartbusters already, and I like them! Yet the prestige of folk and rock, and now punk and (rather patronizingly, I think) reggae, still holds sway. It’s not just that people whose politics I broadly share don’t like disco, they manage to imply that it is politically beyond the pale to like it. It’s against this attitude that I want to defend disco (which otherwise, of course, hardly needs any defense).
