‘Radio… live transmission…’
We got up. We moved. We moved in and around the music and each other. Tapped out bass lines, waved to drums, nodded to guitars.
We breathed and mouthed and sang and screamed, changing our voices.
We didn’t even know we were in the room. We didn’t feel the presence of the other people in the room. We closed our eyes and let the flashing lights wash over our lids. There was no carpet under our feet, only air. We could have been anywhere. We were everywhere.
‘Dance, dance, dance, dance, dance to the radio…’
We weren’t thinking about the words now, they automatically spilled out of our mouths like an overflowing cup of tea. Our bodies moved, anticipating the beats we knew were to come. The air hung heavily with memories, some not as old as others. We primed our lungs, throats and hearts, ready for the big scream…
‘AND WE CAN DANCE!’
Memories of screaming those words stumbling down a wet, leaf-strewn street in a neighbourhood much cooler than we were, trying not to slip on the slick, star shaped detritus. We were flushed, so happy, full of exhilaration and excitement inspired by a documentary. Trying not to girlishly scream at one of the idols in action during the film. Foggy spectacles from the cold wet and the lingering warmth of the pizza place…
We were still in the room, bathed in light and flashes of glow. Still moving, still dancing…
‘Dance, dance, dance, dance, dance to the radio…’

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