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We started at Giant’s Causeway and it honestly doesn’t even look real in person. Like you’ve probably seen pictures, but standing on those weird perfectly shaped stones right on the edge of the ocean is a whole different thing. It’s super windy, waves crashing everywhere, and you’re just hopping around on these hexagon rocks like… how does this even exist?? I kept thinking it looked like something ancient or man-made even though it’s not.

Also, the walk down there is way longer than it looks, so just be ready for that. Worth it though, especially if you like dramatic scenery.

Then we hit The Dark Hedges and yeah… it’s exactly as moody and slightly creepy as you’d hope. Those trees are all twisted and leaning over the road like a tunnel. Even in the middle of the day it had that eerie vibe. You half expect something to come walking out of the fog even when there isn’t any.

One thing though, it’s smaller than it looks online. Like don’t expect miles of trees, it’s more of a quick stop. But still 100% worth seeing in person, especially if you’re into that whole gothic/fantasy aesthetic.

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It was supposed to be a cheap night out at a baseball game, the kind of gimmick designed to fill seats and get people talking. On July 12, 1979, fans poured into Comiskey Park in Chicago with disco records in hand, lured by a promotion that promised those records would be blown up between games for the price of a 98-cent ticket. What no one could quite predict, or maybe no one wanted to admit, was how much tension had already been building long before the first record ever hit that crate.

By the late 1970s, disco had become more than just a genre. It had grown out of underground clubs and into something visible, something powerful, something that centered communities who had long been pushed to the margins. Queer people, Black and Latino communities, and anyone who had ever felt out of place elsewhere found something in disco that felt like freedom. That visibility, however, came with a cost, especially as the music exploded into the mainstream and began dominating radio, charts, and pop culture.

Backlash followed, and it wasn’t subtle. A growing number of rock fans began framing disco as something invasive, something that didn’t belong, something that needed to be pushed back against. At the center of that resistance was Chicago radio DJ Steve Dahl, who had turned his own career frustrations into a loud, performative rejection of disco culture. When he partnered with the Chicago White Sox to stage Disco Demolition Night, the event carried an energy that went far beyond a harmless stunt.

The crowd that night reflected that energy. The stadium filled beyond capacity, with tens of thousands inside and even more trying to get in. The mood was already volatile before the main event began, shaped by alcohol, anticipation, and a shared sense that this was more than just entertainment. When the crate of records was finally detonated in center field, sending shards of vinyl into the air and tearing into the grass below, it acted less like a spectacle and more like a trigger.

Within moments, the field was overrun. Thousands of fans surged past security, flooding onto the grass and turning the stadium into chaos. Equipment was destroyed, fires were set, and the game itself became secondary to what was unfolding in real time. It took police intervention to regain control, and by the end of the night, the damage was so severe that the second game of the doubleheader had to be forfeited.

But what makes this story linger isn’t just the riot.

It’s what that riot seemed to represent.

Because for many watching, both then and now, Disco Demolition Night felt like more than a backlash against music. Disco was deeply tied to queer nightlife, to Black artistry, to Latino culture, and to spaces where identity could be expressed openly. The anger directed at disco didn’t exist in a vacuum, and the crowd that night reflected broader cultural tensions about who was being seen, heard, and celebrated.

In the months that followed, disco’s presence in mainstream culture began to fade, at least on the surface. Radio stations shifted formats, record labels pivoted, and the genre that had once dominated seemed to retreat just as quickly as it had risen. Some would later argue that Disco Demolition Night accelerated that decline, while others insist the shift was already underway.

But culture doesn’t disappear so easily.

It changes shape. It moves underground. It reemerges in new forms, often in the very cities where it was once rejected. In Chicago, the same energy that fueled disco would help give rise to house music, a genre built on similar foundations of community, rhythm, and liberation.

And that’s where the story becomes something more than a chaotic night at a ballpark.

Because the question isn’t just whether this was the night disco died.

It’s whether this was a moment when something deeper surfaced, something about fear, identity, and who gets to define culture when it starts to shift.

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Welcome to Beers With Queers, the true crime podcast where we dive into the darkest, most twisted cases and involving the LGBTQ+ community and always with a queer perspective. Hosted by Jordi and Brad, we cover everything from notorious serial killers to unsolved mysteries, cults, and bizarre crimes.
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