Over & Over [Kon's Find a Friend Remix]

Over and Over, time and time again…

“You can’t be nobody’s lover You can’t be nobody’s lover’Til you’re somebody’s friend…”

A refrain that cuts straight to the heart of friendship, love, intimacy, and the quiet endurance of bonds that last a lifetime.

Over and Over was released in 1986 on Warner Bros. Records, written by Patrick Cowley and Sylvester, and produced by Cowley shortly before his death. Like much of Sylvester’s later work, the song strips disco back to something more devotional—less about the rush of the dancefloor, more about emotional truth. It’s a song that insists on care, on trust, on reciprocity. Love, it reminds us, begins with friendship.

One of the greatest gifts in life is being able to live unapologetically. Not everyone even considers that possibility—often because the world quietly, or loudly, tells them they cannot. This song will forever remind me of a true ally I met at school, someone I still know and cherish today.

I already knew I was gay at eleven. I was also fortunate enough not to experience the full brutality of being read as other—non-binary, effeminate, or simply different— if I had attended many West London comprehensive schools in the 1980s.

It helped enormously that I attended a school for fledgling thespians, models, and creative types. That was the ticket. Our cohort was bad—everyone a star, everyone natural about it. Being effeminate didn’t make you a pariah; in some cases—provided you had talent—it was a golden ticket to popularity, television work, even the West End. We were allowed to be expressive. The arts were a haven of inclusivity long before the word became a buzzword in the late 1990s.

I remember giving Dani a gold necklace during a school break. I gravitated toward strong women, and even then I wanted to honour her strength of character. She wasn’t fake or performative in her friendship with me. And though she sometimes scolded me—with superior sarcasm—her loyalty was formative. One of my earliest experiences of true allyship.

Keeping in touch through school reunions is one thing. Many of us make the effort—to reminisce, to marvel, or to quietly throw shade at how we’ve all changed. But Dani went further. She regularly commented on my early social media posts, reminding me that my instinct to write mattered—and that it shouldn’t be allowed to fade.

On one such exchange, she said:“You need to listen to Over & Over by Sylvester.”

I pushed back.“Nah… I’m sure it’s not as good as—” (I can’t even remember the song I tried to counter with.)

She replied patiently:“Shaun… just listen to it.”

And well… what can I say?

Last year—knowing I’m the original Chaka head—she invited me, out of the blue, to see Chaka Khan at Hampton Court Palace. Anticipating my flakiness, and not wanting me to feel guilty, she added, almost nervously:“Don’t worry if you can’t make it. I’ve bought VIP tickets for us though. Who else would I go to see Chaka with? We can bring champagne, drink it on the lawn—I’m bringing a hamper…”

It was magical.

From watching Michael Jackson’s Thriller on Betamax in my family home in 1980s North West London, through warehouse raves in central London in the mid-to-late ’90s, to restaurant reunions with our school cohort in the 2010s—our friendship has been forty years in the making, yet still feels new. We don’t ask intrusive questions. We understand that our lives differ materially and socially. What remains is a genuine energy of respect—and a shared, bygone London feeling.

This exhibition has connected so many strands of who I have become. And I feel blessed to trace that journey through memory, music, and mates like Dani.

So this is for you—original IT girl Dani. The first person to buy a ticket when the Reunion 79-21 portal went live.

I see you.X