How did the narrator disclosed the ignorance of the village people and the remoteness of the village?(3marks)
Answers
Le Mouche discotheque is down on E 26th street, home of solid brick, garages, haulage yards, scrap metal, coupla blocks of flats, railway arches. Le Mouche can be located if you turn in at the small grubby marquee that protrudes from the nondescript doorway.
Inside a five-by-five porch, you trail down a list of companies and locate the den on the fourth. As I go in, there’s an old grubby tramp figure munching on what is probably a small pie. He catches my eye as I wait for the lift and just keeps nodding with the corners of his mouth turned down and his eyebrows raised.
As he turns away he just says “sure”, even though I hadn’t asked anything, and walks back out into New York.
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Exiting on the fourth, it’s hard to believe I’m in the same warehouse as the outside suggested. And to make things more unreal, when the lift closes behind me it’s impossible to tell there’s a door there at all. Everywhere there are mirrors. The carpet is lush underfoot and, although it’s only two o’clock on a Thursday afternoon, an unseen DJ is working to an empty club.
About five copies of me begin searching for life through the dark passageways and we come across it in what appears to be the main dancefloor section, though the clubs in town are large enough to house many different halls, and many do.
Two young men in shirts and jeans, one bearded, are rucking about something. As I get closer I can tell it’s the clean-shaven one with a dark complexion who’s upset.
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“Listen, now I told them special now that I could not accept the type with blue trimming. So what do I get? Blue trimming! Jeez, this is not good. I’m sorry, I’ll need the proper thing. You go tell them.” Throwing up his hands, he leaves the other guy shaking his head in resignation and packing the Indian chief headdress back into its wrapping.
A Village People photo session is a serious thing.
Phonogram press officer Barbara Salisbury, who’s accompanying me on the excursion, approaches the beard, whose name I could never remember, and introduces us. He is very friendly and commiserates with us over how our trip has been this far. (We landed an hour late in a gale that nearly trashed the plane and were delayed at John Kennedy for two and a half hours until TWA decided our luggage had gone disappearo. By the way, if you see an airport sweeper wearing red creepers, you are entitled to make a citizen’s arrest on my behalf.)
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The band, we are informed, should all be here soon, “ … and that” – he waves his arm stage left – “was Felipe. He’s the Indian of the group.”
The Indian, the cowboy, the labourer, the cop, the army bloke, the leatherman. Everybody is somebody’s favourite for whatever reason. Treading the line between what is deft and what is daft, their visual onslaught could leave only the most committed hatchet face uninterested and unhumoured.
YMCA will be found on jukeboxes in Bierkellers and French cafés, in any bar from Budweiser to Bass Charington. Though Village People have less than two hours of records to boast of, after three albums and a clutch of singles, they are solid gold worldwide celebrities, growing bigger fast enough to make your head spin.