A mosh pit has formed in the middle of a disco-lit dance floor and about seven ruddy-cheeked, muddy-booted college students are throwing themselves around, screaming lyrics to a song blaring out of a portable speaker:
I like the girls that do drugs (Drugs!) Girls with cigarettes in the back of the club (Club!) Girls that hate cops and buy guns (Guns!)Girls with no buns, girls that’s mean just for funsI like girls who make love, but I love girls who like to fuckThat’s what’s up!One long-limbed lad in high-waisted jeans, who looks as if he slightly disapproves, has moved off the main dance floor to do some kind of tap dance with the heels of his cowboy boots. A smiling girl in a loose white dress that gives her a fresh-off-the-prairie look has taken off her hiking boots and socks and is floating around near a tall athletic boy sporting a messy blond mop and dirt-spattered Dickies boiler suit.
But the song they’re all moving to doesn’t fit the general vibe of the evening. There is no alcohol here and certainly no drugs. The girls wear minimal or no make-up and, if they’re in a skirt or dress, it falls well below the knee. The “club” is actually a slightly shabby hall with a grand piano and a couple of other musical instruments, while the dance floor comprises a faded Persian rug weighed down by a wooden lectern. A large watercolour painting of an old hydroelectric power plant looms over it all, somehow congruous with the incongruence of the rest.