That being said… the question asked was “But why do you think That one can even dance?”

& …beyond “watch his fights,” it’s probably this:

The funniest thing that just struck me is the crow that languidly lives in my head-

a gleeful apparition seeded by the movie, but archetypically actually present in my life underground in Cincy after seeing that flipping movie all those times in the madness of a dude who I became clubhead friends with, eventually-

is a filthy-dancing dude who shook his ass in full Crow Regalia every Wednesday & Thursday (…some Fridays)…like under all that white face paint he was an Isaac Hayes era Black man thrusting his kids down from the cosmos. Not some lanky, goth Cincy suburban kid named Johnny who grew up with my Filipino sniper roomie.

Shaking his ass from the depths mined by NIN to the heady heights of Lil Louis. To anything with a good bass line, really. Trench flying, torso taped up to the fn tens, fuck the nines. Combat-booted out, spinning, stomping like he’d been spawned in them-

& then… he’d throw his head back, laughing like a maniac, beating the floor to fucking filth whenever he’d get us to pause in our respective getting our fn universes together to watch him gathering his.

We were the only ones that gave each other grace when it came to taking over territory in front of or on speakers & platforms to wild out in, like…I’d actually move to a platform if he showed up needing to go the fuck off on the floor due to how fn heinous Cincy was during the day for everybody underground. Voyeuristically.

& you’d never know it day tripping, about him. It made sense he became a deejay, in hindsight. First one I collaborated with, too, after yowling albums at my dad for him to play as a kid so I could go nuts making kiddie movies wherever I was in the house as he designed his disco deejay sets.

John? He got the drag queens I’d dressed in tight sweaters over pointy bras , bouffant wigs & astroturf circle skirts…& got my wanting those kids dancing down the runway to grab their sack lunches from them unafraid in that bible-thumping, cross-burning pit stop on the way to hell.

He got the finger being given in their hate-filled faces, many of whom we could point out from showing out underground as loudly as they did in the repressive light of day in 1995’s Cincinnati.

…and he made it so because we spoke the same language. He soundtracked it to Leave It to Beaver & Speedracer of his own accord…& made the Senior designers spin out, giving the childrenswear Sophomores that win.

But that motherfucker danced like a warrior celebrating after battle, still in armor, drenched in adrenaline and the blood of vanquished adversaries.

He was, in motion, the utter explanation of why Ghenghis Khan brought massive drum-lines to the battlefield. Battle is always a bloody dance.

Whomever he was fighting during the day he always kicked the ass of the night before on the floor, and it was like this gorgeous, double edged thing.

Because to know him was to know how nice and unassuming of a guy he was before dusk. But anybody dumb enough to try to go toe to toe with him would get stomped. Just during the day, they’d be surprised.

Angel Brynner, In honor of wild-dancin’ midWestern, crazy-assed genX Whyte boys, excerpt.