1. THE CLUB AT 15 LANSDOWNE STREET

Listen. The music here is louder than anything you will hear. It is made by machines: a clanging of metal on metal, the twanging of invisible red-hot wires, a shuffling of wood and sand, and maybe, just maybe, the sound of something human. A woman coos in a muted voice, as if she were speaking through bed sheets. A man wails deep; his anguish, supposedly lashed to a sexual moment, is only the synthetic spawn of the recording studio--artificial, abstract. A chorus of women chant undecipherable orisons to some street-wise goddess of love. Their voices are synchronized to a single, thin line; you can't tell if there are three, ten, or thirty women singing.

Look. The guts have have been carved out of this huge, high-ceilinged warehouse and the walls have been painted bright blue. A plush veneer--carpets, mirrors, glittered cushions--has been splashed over the walls and floors. In the middle, in the big empty space, people are dancing. From up above them seem one pulsating mass--a motley, throbbing protoplasm that expands and contracts in rhythm to the newest disco song. As the music reaches fever pitch, it threatens to engulf the upper mezzanines, slide out to the hallway, push itself out the door and burst smokily all over Lansdowne Street.

Look closer. These people are bored.

2. The Man With the Orange Cape

Turning around and around and around with only the slightest trace of ballet training, the boy refuses to sweat. He whirls on a small round platform set eight feet above the crowd, nearly nude, brandishing a large glimmering orange cape. A dark oval beauty-mark is stencilled on the front of his thigh. He thinks about how hot it is under the lights. Up here on the smooth plaster cylinder he is safe; it is his turf, aloof, contained. Despite the energy of his grinding movements, no emotion glides over his soft face and glazed eyes. Perhaps he imagines that there is a razor-tin glass wall around his little world that keeps out the fat curls of smoke and perfume and breath thickened with alcohol. Here is no tall, thin, hipless model. The boy is a bit short and very muscular--he resembles classical statues of Greek god. Perhaps he pretends he is centuries away, dancing in some ancient mystic ritual. The glass wall deflects all human contact: he will twitch his butt at you but he will not meet your eye.

3. The Tourists

She and her husband are the first couple on the dance floor. The years between them add up to a tweedy century. They swirl in a self conscious foxtrot, counting every two beats as one. Their time is halved like this: for a few minutes they will dance absent-mindedly, staring in wonder at the crowd; then they will close their eyes, hug closer, and do a fair imitation of themselves thirty years earlier.

They are dancing at a wedding. The man smiles indulgently and it becomes obvious that it was his wife's idea to come here tonight. Occasionally his eyes turn smoky as a plunging neckline or tight pair of pants parade by. His wife is less happy--there is a quality both frantic and clinical to the way she examines the couples of men who walk by hand in hand. The woman frowns and squints, as though she were looking for something she had misplaced, like a handbag or a half-finished drink. Perhaps she is looking for her son.

4. The Half-Hearted Hustle

"Saturday night brings out the amateurs," my friend Morgan explained. I laugh, trying to envision Ted Mack among this sleek-satined, strobe-lighted decor. "Let's face it--disco clubs were a fad. They peaked maybe ten months ago. It was all over about three months ago." We are sitting in a small anteroom towards the front of the club where they serve a limited menu of hot foot. No one is here to eat and all the high-backed bamboo chairs are empty. A young couple, the man in aqua double knits and the woman in a gay flowered dress, walk by, giggling. Morgan rolls his eyes and turns to me, "Let's face it, all the turkeys come to discos now." The aqua man slides a nip at the flowered girl's ear and she shrieks, "Jesus, Harry, not in public" Ted Mack wouldn't feel so out of place after all.

The changing surface of 15 Lansdowne Street reflects all this. Expensive cover charges are dropped, then raised, then juggled desperately from night to night in an attempt to draw a larger crowd. The management retrenches, closing the club at two now instead of four a.m. The lavish vases of fresh-cut flowers--crisp white carnations and crowds of blue irises the color of twilight--are gone. The bare walls have emerged from behind them, triumphant. Heavy and silent, they tolerate the denim-bedecked transient dancers and ache from their loud stream of music. The smaller inanimate objects--little glass tables, sculptured plastic chairs, ashtrays that bear no name--huddle in groups, almost afraid: their conspiracy against the walls is over. 15 Lansdowne Street is waiting to become a warehouse again.

5. Time Out

In the cooler air of the bathroom women are divided into two camps: those that look like Bette Midler and those that are thin. The former sport needle-thin eyebrows, wavy permanents, and blood-dark lipstick that shines like grease within the neatly-pencilled borders of their mouths. The latter droop against walls and sinks and toilet stall doors, saying nothing; they seem to think that being thin is enough. They're embarassed to be here, as if admitting to human functions belies their lifeless mannequin status.

A few of the women have come with other women, and a few have come with gay men, but most are here with straight dates. In fact, almost half of the people here tonight are straight, which is bad news for a gay bar--when a bar turns increasingly straight, the gay clientel, whether out of resentment or discomfort, will move elsewhere. 15 Lansdowne has tried to limit the number of women (one way they do this is by demanding stricter picture identification from women at the door) but when finances get shaky, a customer is a customer.