On July 12, 1979, I was working as an usher at Comiskey Park — excited, like any South Side kid, to be part of the crowd, part of the team, part of the city. I was also a proud White Sox fan. But what I witnessed that night changed the course of my life — and the emotional trajectory of countless others — forever.
Disco Demolition Night, widely mythologized as a rowdy publicity stunt or a funny footnote in baseball lore, was something far darker. For those of us who lived it, it wasn’t funny. It wasn’t harmless. It was a violent, coordinated act of cultural erasure — an explosion aimed squarely at the Black, Brown and LGBTQ+ communities whose creativity birthed disco in the first place.
That night, Steve Dahl led the destruction of records not just by Donna Summer and the Bee Gees, but by Chicago’s musical royalty. The blast targeted songs like Chaka Khan’s “I’m Every Woman,” Earth, Wind & Fire’s “Boogie Wonderland” and “September,” and the Emotions’ “Best of My Love.” It burned up “Street Player” by Chicago, “Hit and Run” by Loleatta Holloway and Gene Chandler’s “When You’re No. 1.” Linda Clifford’s “Runaway Love.” The Invisible Man’s Band’s “All Night Thing.”
All of it — created by Chicagoans. All of it — obliterated in a staged inferno.
Let’s call this what it was: an act of terrorism against Black joy, Black success and queer liberation. It was a warning shot to people like me that our place in this city — our sound, our style, our celebrations — would never be safe once we gained even a hint of mainstream visibility.
And while many of us hoped that time might heal that wound, the White Sox made things worse on the 40th anniversary. In 2019, the organization doubled down, handing out 10,000 “The Night That Records Were Broken” T-shirts and having Steve Dahl throw out the first pitch. No mention of the pain. No acknowledgment of the lives and careers damaged. No apology.
Instead of using the moment to reflect and reconcile, they reignited the hurt. They trivialized an experience that continues to sting — decades later — for Chicago’s creative communities, for its Black residents, for its LGBTQ+ fans.
Disco was more than a genre. It was a declaration of freedom. It was a church for the marginalized, a dance floor sanctuary where everyone mattered and no one had to explain. And Chicago — our Chicago — was one of its most prolific homes. Beyond disco, our South Side has gifted the world with excellence in every musical lane: house music (which I helped pioneer), R&B (from Syl Johnson to his daughter, Syleena), hip-hop (from Common and Twista to Chief Keef, Chance the Rapper and Vic Mensa) and the blues (from Buddy Guy to his daughter, rapper Shawnna). Our city’s soundtrack is rich, genre-spanning and deeply rooted in Black innovation.
But Disco Demolition Night tried to silence that.
Nile Rodgers called it a “Nazi book burning.” Filmmaker Elegance Bratton, in the documentary “Move Ya Body,” rightly calls it a “warning shot” — a message to Black people to “know your place and stay in it.” Donna Summer, Linda Clifford, Chic and many others saw their careers nosedive due to the wave of hate that followed. It wasn’t just records that got blown up. It was a dream. It was livelihoods.
So here we are, 46 years later. Chicago is changing. The Sox have a chance to do better. To be better.
It’s time. Time for a public apology. Time to finally acknowledge the pain. Time to step forward as a team that no longer hides behind history but writes a new one with honesty and inclusion at its core.
If that apology comes, I’ll be the first to stand up and accept it. I want to believe the Sox are ready to turn the page. Not to forget, but to heal. Not to bury the past, but to build a future that includes everyone — on the field, in the stands and on the dance floor.
Let’s move as one city, one rhythm, one soul.
Vince Lawrence is a producer, cultural historian and co-creator of the first house music record, “On and On.” He is also the executive producer of the documentary “Move Ya Body” and a South Side native.