Boogie-Oogie-Oogie-ing Back to ‘70s

Every now and then the boogie side of my brain kicks in, as it did the other night at the live performance of “Saturday Night Fever.” As I gyrated in my seat at the Shubert Theater, my shoulders ping-ponging, my voice humming to that great American dance classic “Disco Inferno,” I had a ‘70s fashion flashback.

Instantly, it all came back to me: the hair, the bushy upper lip, the platforms and especially the polyester clothes. “Here comes Mikey with Polly and Esther,” my friends used to wisecrack.

My friends think I’m over that disco boy era. But now with the Broadway revival of the popular 1977 John Travolta film, the current sitcom “That ‘70s Show” and reruns of “Charlie’s Angels” and “Tony Orlando & Dawn” on cable, I get the unstoppable fervor for the feverish look. I squeeze into my poly pants and an old Dacron shirt with a collar that could rival the wingspan of a 747.

Looking fashion rebellious, I land in the kitchen and turn on my disco ball, a gift--yes, a joke, of course--from a friend who knows me too well. And like Travolta in the movie, I flex my knees and point to my creator in gratitude for allowing me to survive (thank you, Gloria Gaynor) the Me Decade and all of its disco duds.

I’ve evolved since the days of Qiana shirts with a closet full of GQ looks. But back then I had the fever--had it bad: long Bee Gee hair, a Tony Orlando-styled mustache and an uncontrollable Tony Manero (Travolta’s film character) killer strut. I was a swiveling pelvic discoid, in good, bad and ugly petroleum-based body-hugging threads that defined my suave and slick style as I rocked my boat, shook my groove thing and rang my bell.

The style, circa 1977, was to appear as if your clothes had been spray-painted on by Earl Scheib himself. In taut shirts--floral and animal printed--I bumped, kung fu danced and spelled Y-M-C-A on lighted dance floors. I wore tight-fitting Angel Flight-labeled, wrinkle-free, dirt-repellent, flared pants that showed off every tendon, and wreaked havoc with one’s equipment.

Polyester--no blends--wasn’t a user-friendly fabric. I still carry the scars of my 20-year-old burns. Fashion hurts.

It was also boogie-oogie-oogie odoriferous. I might have gone into discos reeking of Aramis, but at the end of the night I was heavily scented with eau de sweat. The only place for perspiration, caused by marathon dancing in suffocating polyester to go was south: down my legs and into my favorite dancing shoes, another fashion statement: 3-inch-high, zippered-to-the-shins platforms. Mine were affectionately nicknamed Spark and Plug.

Polyester posing was nothing without those platforms and strands of puka-shell chokers or gold chains with medallions the size of hubcaps around my neck.

All the better to show off the coif, moussed and sprayed as I headed into the man-made fog at my favorite disco with my steady partner, Elsa. Now, there was a diva who knew how to dress for a night out in funky town: always a Danskin top paired with magenta disco pants slashed at the sides and gathered at the ankles, for that genie-in-a-bottle look. Her only accessory was the hairbrush she carried everywhere in order to fluff her Farrah-do.

The dancing and the music--as the film and the stage musical both point out--made you want to look and dress the part, escape from a hard work week or cramming for college finals or just celebrating another day of “Ah, ah, ah, ah, stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive.”

At the opening night of “Saturday Night Fever,” I wondered if other men in the audience were former disco maniacs, hankering for Qiana shirts, pressed to their flesh, unbuttoned to the navel.

They seemed to be catching the fever throughout the performance, bopping and occasionally singing along to something by the Bee Gees. The healthy dose of nostalgia for the generations identified by Xs and Ys was probably more like a docudrama of that era’s music and fashion. Well . . . it was fashion, in a kinda, sorta way.

C’mon, cut me some slack, here: Never--I repeat, never--did I ever wear a leisure suit. That was just too scary.