Life of the Party

Before receiver was returned to cradle, the RSVPs delivered, the BYOBs assigned, you could already hear the music.

You could smell the oily skewers and garlicky mystery pockets of dough that would too soon be sitting cold on rickety fold-out tables. You could already feel trace effects of the liquor, lined up, softer to harder, on a messy kitchen counter serving as makeshift wet bar.

Like a favorite movie viewed one time too many, it all flickered up, frame by frame. Not quite joyless--not just yet--but predictable nonetheless.

You already knew who would argue with whom. Who would disappear for a few hours with whom. Or which desperate duo would drift upstairs to end up underneath a pile of coats and other assorted outerwear.

You knew who would “get lit” and slide down the wall drunk with laughter and who would become morose and withdrawn, then throw out a year’s worth of saved-up barbs aimed at no one in particular.

You knew who would begin to push the furniture against the living room wall to “get the party started right.” And who would feel free enough to “dance” uninhibitedly at the center of the room--alone--until the cops came knocking and shut it all down.

And somewhere, mid rewind, in the midst of the party season, it hit you that it wasn’t always this way, that once there was much more to that great party.

What once constituted the great urban to-do--the fabled “tear the roof off” house party--was a simple plot, character-driven, not high-concept. Food and drinks. Talk and dance. Sweat and tears. Depending on age, region, ethnicity and hand-me-down tradition, splintered activities might transpire--wee-hour bid whist, a folk guitar or till-dawn dancing in stocking feet.

Good hosts knew that “food” meant something beyond bags of chips and pre-packaged dips and that “drinks” didn’t include screw-top wine. Those with motherly instincts provided help-yourself one-pot meals: Spaghetti. Beans and rice. Or the festive regional fusion creation “tamale pie.” And “music” wasn’t simply a stereo turned on low to the jazz station or piping out house or electronica. LPs and tapes, and a friend with a trained ear who could pay attention and flip sides, provided the evening’s crucial heartbeat.

Post-adolescence “Parents Away!” parties--the darkened room and expertly equalized stereo--were about constructing worlds. Those who were good at it early, the future Steve “Studio 54” Rubells (“The man who threw a party the world will never forget”) or the real-life Holly Golightlys, recognized that this kind of construction was delicate, requiring more than just throwing some food on a bridge table and taking the lock off the front door. They knew that a party wasn’t a party until not just a room but a mood was fully transformed--painted by cool, blue light, or a brassy, angular mix of tunes, all in unexpected juxtapositions.

Simplicity has always been key: Good crowd, good pacing equals strong foundation. What fuels conversation, then, is not necessarily what guests have in common--but the differences that somehow end up fabricating something new.

Things got complicated when the stack-of-records-on-the-spindle parties gave way to DJ’d parties, and ultimately spun off to itinerant gatherings, clubs without “structures.” The thoughtful construction that once produced great parties became, instead, a vibe that could be carted around town from garage to bowling alley to aging, tattered ballroom. There were ambience parties--teaming sound-effects records or art rockers’ concept albums with sound-down televisions tuned to “video snow.” There were theme parties: The ‘60s. Dead presidents. Blue food. Peeled-down, austere loft parties. Then nouveau jam sessions begat raves--and somehow, somewhere in there, the outlandish began to feel derivative.

That’s something we might expect of wintry, tradition-strangled family gatherings (“My! An MFA in Creative Writing? So what kind of career does that lead to?”), but we don’t expect it on the tech-vibe level.

Even raves fall into ruts. Same faces. Same paces. Same conversations and tensions. And, with all of the itinerant one-upmanship, the holidays, with their too-easily traced celebratory template, only make it more apparent.

Crushing people into an airless room and lighting some candles is certainly one interpretation of party, and so is the mile-long dinner table done up in crystal and linen--yet both can be equally soulless if not tended to, or tended too much.

Some hosts might be too hands-on--”Oh, your ice has melted, let me get you more.” Or so pooped from prep work that they aren’t hands-on enough--wilting in the corner as their party collapses at the center. Or not quite conscious that putting on the “Jammin’ to the ‘70s” tape after dessert isn’t always going to “get everybody up! Get funky!”--unless we’re being ironic.

In a city as faddish and ever-changing as this one, a good annual throw-down, the party that becomes a Party, is groomed but not fussy, inventive but not overly curated. It understands the basics--then improvises.

At its core, a party’s very currency is its magic. Magic you can’t quite put your finger on. No matter how small the room or limited the budget, what ignites a gathering is playing to imagination and the promise of an encounter with some shade of the unexpected. It’s the series of emotions the evening might take you through, the old roads you might walk, the new doors you might open.

Tonight, as the clock counts forward, remember: no pressure. The best parties simply overtake you, unexpectedly. They can be, as consummate party girl Holly Golightly knows, one of the very best cures for a case of the “mean reds” or the holiday blues.

At the very least, when that party hits the right notes, finds its momentum, you’re in the middle of the room, in the middle of a mix, the middle of a thought and the center of attention--no posing, no expectations. Brand new.