Rhythm of the Night

Every once in a while someone will throw on a couple songs by Prince, and somehow it's just cheesy enough to be appropriate. And then other times, rare as they are, you'll hear a few tracks by the Beastie Boys that make you want to jump around.

But from my vantage point, most of the music at most Harvard parties is uninspiring.

It's the kind of complaint that seems barely worth recording--it sounds like the college equivalent to the kind of stuff that filled your high school newspaper. You'd expect to find a tirade about bad party music nestled between the diatribe about how there should be more school spirit and the one about how Student Council elections should be more than just popularity contests.

And it wouldn't be worth discussing if it weren't for a single undismissible fact: the same exact songs pop up at Harvard parties with a regularity that is frightening. I can't remember the last party I was at where I wasn't invited to Ride the Train. And every time I go out on the weekend, I can be almost sure that I'll be reminded (and reminded and reminded) that This is My Night, Dancing Free Till the Morning Light.

It's hard to know how a dozen or so songs have come to dominate the Harvard party scene. Do people actually like that one about another night, another dream but always you? Are people so full of cheap beer they don't even notice? Is it that Harvard parties--stuffed between an unofficial 11 p.m. starting time and an all too official 1 a.m. curfew--are so short that deejays feel like there's only time to play songs that everyone can recognize?

At a school with students from around the country and around the world, with dueling senior gift funds, with two different Republican clubs, it's awfully difficult to believe that everyone likes the same music.

So I asked a few of the more musically oriented of my friends about the phenomenon, and they all agree the homogeneity isn't as much a result of shared taste as it is a matter of convenience; a consensus builds that most of the songs following me from party to party can be found on a single compact disc.

Like beer at a fraternity and pizza at a child's birthday, their theory goes, the album has become popular because it's cheap, simple and a safe bet not to offend partygoers. And then it hits me: it's the Pulp Fiction soundtrack of its time.

Of course, none of my friends admit to knowing the title, let alone owning the disc. But I was determined to dig deeper, so I ventured out to Newbury Comics. And wouldn't you know it, the store known for it's wicked coolness features not only a veritable library of Charles Bukowski fiction, it also carries a large supply of "Ultimate Dance Party 1997," an Arista release. The album contains such classics as "[It's A] Beautiful Life," and the late but great "Macarena."

Did the Arista album create the commotion or was it the result? Were these songs, judged to be the most 'danceable' of the year (whatever that would mean), or were they thrown together because Arista happens to own the rights to each of them?

I feel like I need to know, so I call Arista, and after an extended game of "pass-the-journalist" I'm speaking with a dance music publicist named Danny. He's way too busy to talk--"It's 2 p.m. on a Wednesday!" he barks at me, as if I should understand what this means--but he does stay on the line long enough to confirm that the album has sold more than one million copies. "It's really not that complicated," Danny continues, "We just took the biggest hits of the year and put them on a CD."

So it's official--the album was designed to respond to trends, not to create them. That popularity begets popularity shouldn't be a surprise, I suppose, except for the fact that popularity is so often unpopular. Still, one would think there would be room for a disaffected minority.

Maybe that's why those Leverett House '80s dances are so well-received.

Dan S. Aibel's column appears alternate Tuesdays.