Yesterday I drove down to Portland to attend the Dubtribe show with Dori. Dubtribe are pretty damn oldschool, and Dori and I are pretty damn oldschool, and as the space started to fill up, it became clear that pretty much everyone there was oldschool. Dori leaned over and commented that there were lots of groovers in the house, and my brain snapped to attention.

Groovers! I’d totally forgotten about the distinction. You see, back in the day there were ravers, clubbers, and groovers (also known as “housers”). Realistically, there were a million other nuanced cliques, but let’s not get distracted.

The distinctions could be broken down superficially, if necessary: Groovers were dressed to sweat (comfortable shoes, more cotton); Ravers were dressed to play (bright colors, lots of toys and accessories); Clubbers were dressed to impress (heels, sleek coordinated outfits). The distinctions are ridiculous in hindsight, but there was a time when my friends and I used to say, “We’re not ravers — we’re groovers!” HA! Oh I laugh at those days when the semantics were so important. It’s not a rave, it’s a party! it’s a Gathering! Yeah, yeah, buddy. Save it for the judge.

Regardless, for one night it was nice to be back amongst the (aging) groovers. I danced until I couldn’t dance any more, then I danced some more even harder. Then I almost threw up from dancing too hard, so clearly at that point the dancing finished for the evening. It’s not as easy to kickstep all night when you’re flying on only a Rock Star, but with a little determination I got in a good 4 hours.