When the universally appointed “Godfather of House” Frankie Knuckles left Chicago’s Warehouse club in 1983 to start a residency at the Power Plant, Warehouse founder Robert Williams turned to a veteran of the city’s underground disco scene to pick up the reins. Although Knuckles’ time at the Warehouse in the late ’70s and early ’80s certainly laid the foundations and inspired his crowd to give the scene a name, it could be argued that the real architect of Chicago house music was in fact a wild and pioneering DJ by the name of Ron Hardy.
Between 1983 and 1987, the innovations and openness of this radical spirit at the renamed Music Box—both in terms of the records Hardy played and the way he played them—created a liberating and electrified environment for house music to grow. But although the name of the late Ron Hardy has achieved cult status thanks to live recordings posted on websites like Deep House Page, his full impact as a DJ and producer has not been fully recognized, and he remains an enigmatic figure.
Moving to Chicago in 1975, Robert Williams found a low-key party scene with no after-hours club culture. He immediately searched for a venue to house a party to match those he had attended in New York. Located at 116 South Clifton, U.S. Studios took its name from the not-for-profit organization set up by Williams. With a great space but no DJ, Robert turned to his two friends in New York for help. Larry Levan had his sights set on a new venture that would become the Paradise Garage, but after much persuasion, Frankie Knuckles eventually agreed to begin a residency at what would become known by regulars simply as the Warehouse.
Despite the story of the Warehouse inevitably getting wrapped up in the birth of house, in the early days it was part of a close-knit gay disco scene that included clubs like Carol’s Speakeasy and Den One. It was at Den One that Ron Hardy learned his art, creating mixes to compare with those of the more celebrated DJs in the clubs of New York. However, in 1977, just as the scene was bursting out of the underground, Ron Hardy moved to Los Angeles.
With Hardy on the West Coast, Frankie Knuckles brought a new aesthetic to Chicago nightlife. “Places like Den One, they were just bars really that ran through until around two,” explains Robert Williams. “The Warehouse, on the other hand, was a real after-hours club, so it was completely different.” With its newly installed Richard Long (RLA) sound system and devoted crowd of gay dancers, it wasn’t long before the club mirrored the New York rooms that had inspired Williams.
While the Warehouse was providing a sanctuary for many gay Black Chicagoans, disco’s infiltration of the mainstream gave fuel to the fire to those at the opposite end of Chicago’s music scene. In July 1979, during a baseball game between the Chicago White Sox and the Detroit Tigers at Comiskey Park, local disc jockey Steve Dahl led the “Disco Demolition,” which saw the ceremonial detonation of hundreds of disco records. It remains one of the better quotes through dance music’s history when Frankie Knuckles later remarked that “house music is disco’s revenge.”
The out-of-control atmosphere in the Music Box was augmented by the many edits Hardy incorporated into his sets. Taking old disco classics and rarities, the sound scientist would reconstruct them often beyond recognition—a raw yet soulful new music was born. Whereas Frankie Knuckles’ edits were primarily intended to extend the dance-floor euphoria through soulful fluidity, Ron Hardy used the tape machine and EQ to jolt his crowd with a manic dark energy that teetered on the edge between beauty and chaos. “Ronnie was doing a lot of his own edits as well, and a lot of his edits were very repetitious. Very high energy and very repetitious,” said Knuckles to Bill Brewster in Faith magazine. “He would take a song, and he’d run that for ten minutes, before the song even played. And then he’d go into the song or go back to another ten minutes and just played one particular part.” But it was these very sound manipulations that created the wild intensity of early house as dancers screamed for mercy. Listen to Hardy’s prescient edits of the Dells’ “No Way Back,” Nightlife Unlimited’s “Peaches & Prunes,” or Blue Magic’s “Welcome to the Club,” and it’s not just the repetition that creates the dynamics, but the way he builds tension and release. And to the ears of his more youthful crowd, this was the sound of the future, and music they could truly call their own, inspiring many more to become bedroom producers. For Robert Williams, it was Ron and not Frankie who most inspired the new generation to become house music’s pioneers. “It was at the Music Box that the music changed,” he states. “People like Marshall Jefferson and Steve ‘Silk’ Hurley would come through and they would hear his edits and beat tracks. He was more influential to them than Frankie was. Ron definitely changed the sound.”
While Frankie’s club may have given a name to this new music, he wasn’t exactly receptive to the rawer, homemade music he had helped spawn, as disco historian Tim Lawrence explained in his liner notes for the Soul Jazz compilation Acid: Can You Jack? “Knuckles was relatively inaccessible, not just physically with regard to the foreboding design of his new booth, but also psychologically, with regard to his intimidating superstar status.” Robert Williams concurs with this view: “These kids were part of Ron’s school of learning. They were mainly heterosexual, and they jelled with Ron, because he would play their music and Frankie wouldn’t.” Unlike his predecessor, Ron Hardy became a supporter of these raw productions, regularly accepting and playing the untried tapes being passed to him. By 1985, the Music Box had become a breeding ground for young talent and a testing ground for the homemade music of the city’s youth, the best of which would be snapped up by Larry Sherman’s and Rocky Jones’s infamous labels, Trax and DJ International.
Adonis, whose “No Way Back” became an anthem of the scene, recalled to Tim Lawrence how important Ron Hardy was to the creative flow in the city: “I mean, you could bring him a record, he didn’t care who the hell you were. He didn’t have to be your best friend or anything. If the shyt sounded good, he was going to play it. So Ron Hardy actually made people’s careers, because he had that kind of authority and power.” Chicago DJ and producer Gene Hunt—who played at another of Chicago’s important house clubs, Medusa’s—would go on to work with Ron Hardy on the track “Throwback 87,” one of Ron Hardy’s many unreleased tracks of the period. “I got doctored by a musical surgeon,” he explains. “You’d give Ron a track, and he’d take it and put other things on top of it; he’d redesign it and manifest it on everybody