It started with those swinging paint cans… The jaunty walk… The crease so sharp you could shave with it double-knit pants…and a world I had no idea about. It all crested on foamy waves of glistening three-part harmony, the top so high only dogs could truly appreciate it.

“You can tell… by the way… I use my walk… I’m a ladies man… no time to talk…”

“Jive talking… telling me lies…”

“Comin’ alive… and the nights… on Broadway…”

“Night fever… night feverrrrrr…”

“More than a woman… to…. meeeeeeeee…”

And the near-threat of the sinister threat, “You should be… (swoop swoop) daaaa-annnncin’….”

It was everywhere. If the earlier singles had been treacle and challenging of my young patience—I also hated Barry Manilow and that damn dog Mandy with an unholy fervor—this was inescapable. It was in Time magazine, parents were trying to learn to “Do tha hustle…” and wearing gold medallions on scandalously open rayon shirts.

This was not the pink and green suburbs; this was bridge and tunnel… kids aspiring to another world, or possibly even eschewing it in the name of their own euphoric, golden-footed high. Because like music, dancing releases endorphins in a mighty way.

“Night fever… night fee-vurrrrrr….”

They wore white satin, tight pants, had blown-dry hair. They were like Cyclops or unicorns, mythical beasts—unlike the daddies where I grew up. And my friends were crazy for them. Mostly crazy for Barry, who’d don the white satin for his big duet with Barbra Streisand on the even foamier “Guilty,” not to mention the glaringly pop fondant of Kenny ’n Dolly romping through “Islands in the Stream.”

Sheesh, they were disco. In a way even Donna Summer, who passed last week at the far too young age of 63, wasn’t. They somehow managed to exude nightclub fabulosity without any suggestion of the seamy demi-monde that seemed so intriguing about too much of disco’s glory. They were squeaky clean, not Warholian. The parents loved them. Heck, the ethnic kids all around Cleveland, Ohio, could be seen everywhere in the sans-a-belt slacks and the rayon shirts, gloriously unbuttoned to reveal virgin skin.

None of them were testosterone-driven to actually have chest hair, something the Bee Gees seemed to have gloriously blown dry and back-combed. They were Ken dolls, sexually non-threatening, yet somehow desirable.

It was easy to write them off. Until you had a friend who knew something about music listen with you. They’d point out the swooping harmonies… They’d talked about the percussive dynamics, the grooves that would scoop you up… The way the melodies were almost aerodynamically shaped.

“So, you’re telling me…” the argument would begin, “that these guys are musically sound?”

“Fraid so,” would come the reply. “Unfortunately, there’s a whole lot more Beach Boys in here than you want to believe… And just because it’s not so clean and perky, don’t think that the musicality is any the less.”

I said a bad word. It started with “F.”

I had to reconsider everything. Everything.

Whirling like a disco ball with lights pointed every which way, the music just kept churning, turning asunder and rushing towards those hooks that glide up, higher, higher, higher. Lyle Lovett may’ve written about “An Acceptable Level of Ecstasy,” but this was the aural equivalent of an amyl nitrate popper busted beneath your nose.

Not that I did whippets or whipping cream canisters. But I knew the sketchy kids, and they loved the stuff. Talking in that same falsetto squeal sucking on helium and acting like outlaws.

Maybe the technical achievement warranted some extra consideration. I just couldn’t tell anyone… I mean, really?

And, truth be told, it was thrilling to see John Travolta burn down the dance floor, all liquid and serpentine, snap movements and quick spins. Nine years of modern dance, a lifetime of “dancing school” to properly ballroom and an odd addiction to jitterbugging with my friend John Griener who could flip, roll and slide me any number of gravity-defying ways.

Flesh-covered poetry, melted like caramel maybe. Better than figure skating…and somehow libido-inducing, even for a kid whose hormones hadn’t kicked in yet.

It was a time: those thick harmonies of “How Deep Is Your Love.” Pillowy or downy. Like jumping into silky clouds or whipped cream mountains that you’d never hit the bottom of. Narcotic in a super-sweet way.

Play that stuff late enough at the Ground Floor, and the quiana dresses would swirl as the groping and steam began to rise. You could only melt into another, the forensics suggested to a kid with dinner plate-sized eyes, sitting in a banquette taking it all in. And take it in I did.

So, this was the suburban jungle—and the Bee Gees, if not the guide, were certainly the game-caller. Effective and technically excellent. A veritable trampoline of hormones and want to, blown-dry to perfectly feathered hair, an Italian horn or coke spoon dangling down where the buttons found the holes and the heels always flashing, the soles and hips moving snap snap snap.

To not know is frustrating, but somehow sweet.

Sitting here, thinking Robin Gibb has been the miracle we all needed to believe in, I wish I didn’t understand. I wish—with all the death that’s been tumbling since Steve Popovich checked out last spring—that this pinwheel of untimely deaths could…just… STOP.

62, 63 is young. And these are not deaths by misadventure. Too many good times coming home to roost; the eternal Russian roulette of high living, fast cars and the disco inferno of random coupling in a bathroom or balcony beyond the falling starlight of a refracted mirror ball.

No, this is cancer. The thing we’ve been trying to cure—but that is taking more, not fewer lives as chemo barns and dialysis centers become profit centers. It’s what no one wants to say…

And like my innocence, it lays slaughtered if undiscussed before me.

But we’re getting to the point where whistling by the graveyard isn’t working any more. It’s too hard to pretend all these hands aren’t getting folded, one after another, every week it seems. Heck, every day if you’re really paying attention.

Earl Scruggs so profound a passing, no one mourned Doug Dillard, who passed last week. Or Robert Nix, the drummer from Atlanta Rhythm Section, who found his way to the next realm at 4 a.m. on Sunday; which I only discovered from Georgia Sattelite Dan Baird’s Facebook page, where a sucker-punched gap-toothed rocker posted from his own disbelief...

Dillard, obviously, because of both his stamp on Southern California country rock from the Eagles to the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, as well as being one of “Those Darlings” on The Beverly Hillbillies has a certain amount of roots traction, but what about a guy whose band’s greatest claim to fame may be turning the turntable from 33 1/3 RPMs to 45 RPMs when playing the single “Imaginary Lover” yielded a performance that was oddly similar to Stevie Nicks during Fleetwood Mac’s witchiest success.

They are falling like dominos. It’s getting to where every day you expect to hear about the next one. You won’t know why, or how… Just that we’re hemorrhaging these artists, these forces of music back when music really, really meant something.

Even the stuff you didn’t really like stamped you in ways that defined you.

Each one who passes, like rhinestones on a Nudie Suit or sequins on a disco tube-top: enough go and you feel moth-eaten, shabby, bare. More like a welfare motel than a place like the Chelsea once was. Not squalid chic, just broke down like a hooker who’s turned too many tricks and can’t remember the Johns’ names any more.

“Baby, right,” you say, too numb to even engage, too disoriented for anything more than getting through it.

Worst part is, I never got jaded. Some hit me harder than others, but they all gut me in different ways. These deaths all tell me things about the passing of time, bony fingers tugging at my wrist, papery whispers echoing in my ear about inevitability.

Wasn’t it all supposed to be gay and fey and shining? A miracle of tempos, white people finding the beat, tossing their Well Balsom’ed manes as the blocks of dance floor light up beneath their feet.

Isn’t that how I remembered it? Isn’t that how it was? So how does it all end like this?

Ronnie Dunn won the CMA Song of the Year for a rafter-clearing gospel ballad called “Believe.” It contains the lines: “I can’t quote the book, the chapter or the verse/
But you can’t tell me it all ends… with a slow ride in a hearse…”

It’s hard to believe these days. What to think, heck what to know.

Everything you ever thought is shifting. Even as the rhythms rise up, wave after wave of harmonies breaking all around you, the memories flooding back.

It’s the end of another day, another star has twinkled that last time, surged bright than black. There’s a void where the light once shone, and my eyes sting from the tears and squinting.

This is more than vulnerable, teetering here on the abyss of gone, gone and more gone. What was once an object of parental torture, watching adults do things incredibly embarrassing, while telling you, “Hey, I’m hip…” That was agonizing and laughable.

Ironically, now that I’ve attained the age of reason and knowing, it’s just agonizing—and I’m not, as Todd Rundgren sang, sure what to feel.

I can put on my disco slippers, slide into the night, turn a couple New York Hustle steps, raise a glass of champagne and think about “Auntie Mame.” The lose-it-all-and-laugh broad who declared, “Life is a banquet, and most of you son of bitches are starving.”

Yeah, maybe that’s the post-disco-decadence-apocalypse declaration.

Live now. Live deep. Live real. Live out loud.

Take it all in. Taste and savor. Touch and exult in the texture of skin, salt, loss, velvet, satin, burlap, canvas, but especially love.

I find myself—a person chronically closing phone calls with “I love you” anyway—making sure people really know. Because we don’t know. Anything more than right now, anything more than here we are. Maybe that’s enough, maybe that’s all there is.

Maybe we should just throw our hands in the air, and enjoy the ride. After all, there’s no money back and it is what we—like Robin Gibb—make it.