The Beat Goes on: Summer of 77

As the scorching July sun beats down on Corona-East Elmhurst, Queens, the neighborhood pulses with a different kind of heat. It's 1977, and New York City teeters on the edge of chaos and euphoria. The Son of Sam still haunts the streets, Mayor Ed Koch grapples with a city on the brink, and the recent blackout has left raw nerves exposed. But tonight, in this corner of Queens, none of that matters. Tonight, we dance.

Word spreads like wildfire: "They're jammin' at the 7." By 3 PM, 127 Park aka the 7 is already buzzing with anticipation. Suddenly, a behemoth of a Ford van, black as night, rumbles up. Out jumps Dancemaster's crew: Vince (aka Night Train), Rick, and Brian, built like linebackers and ready for action.

Dancemaster himself, his West Indian accent thick as molasses, directs the operation. The park house becomes their stage, with Rick ingeniously tapping into a lamp post for power. Vince scales trees like a modern-day Tarzan, hanging bullet tweeters "borrowed" from Astoria Boulevard's stoplights.

The crown jewel is the two Bertha speakers, adorned with the Larry Levan horns – a Richard Long original. This isn't just equipment; it's an alchemist's lab, transforming vinyl into gold. As the first bass notes ripple through the air from the Technics SL-1100s turntables and GLI Disco 3800 mixer, the park comes alive.

Enter Hyulah, the neighborhood's resident Five Percenter, pushing a shopping cart rattling with drums. He's here to challenge the DJ, but his wild rhythms are no match for the Richard Long Bertha speakers. The needle drops, and suddenly Herbie Mann's "Hijack" paints the air with sound.

The aroma of "cheeba" mingles with the sizzle of hot dogs from Jeff Harris's stand. Teenagers gyrate to "The Freak," the latest dance craze, while more seasoned dancers showcase their mastery of the six-step. Basketball games pause mid-dribble, and handball players abandon their courts, drawn to the irresistible beat.

As twilight descends, I arrive with my sister Christobelle, clutching my prized Spider-Man doll. At 11 years old, I'm too young to stay late, but old enough to soak in the electric atmosphere. Parents prowl the periphery, belts at the ready, searching for wayward children – a sight that will fuel neighborhood gossip for days to come.

A neighbor's complaint brings the police, but fate smiles on us – two of the officers are from the hood. With a wink and a nod, they give their blessing, provided things stay peaceful. The party rages on until 3 AM, becoming the stuff of legend.

In the background, 1010 WINS crackles with updates on the Son of Sam, and the recent blackout still haunts the city's memory. East Elmhurst, unlike the lucky southern Queens neighborhoods, had been plunged into darkness. But tonight, we're bathed in the glow of music and community.

As I make my way home, I can't help but notice the vibrant fashion on display. Girls sport hair bangs with intricate baby hair markings on their foreheads, some wearing Chinese Mary Jane slippers or colorful jelly shoes. Many flaunt belly button shirts, a daring new trend. The guys are decked out in polyester AJ Lester flare trousers, Pro-Keds sneakers on their feet, and proud Afros adorned with picks tucked into their back pockets.

The air is alive with the slang of the day. I overhear excited chatter about "the serious joint" – no doubt referring to tonight's epic gathering. Someone dismissively calls out "Poop-butt!" while another accuses a friend of "perpetrating the fraud." It's a language all our own, a verbal badge of belonging in this time and place.

Nu Sounds and their handmade speakers will grace the park next week, followed by the legendary King Charles. It's a summer of music, a defiant celebration in the face of a city on edge.

This isn't just a party; it's a moment frozen in time, a snapshot of a neighborhood alive with rhythm, resilience, and the unbreakable bonds of community. It's the summer of '77 in Corona-East Elmhurst, and we're making history, one beat at a time, while the rest of New York holds its breath.

By Ron Lawrence