In-...: Searching For- Bust It Down Connie Perignon

“You found the groove. Good for you. Now stop digging. Some things are meant to be a mystery. Delete my number. Play the record once a year. That’s all I ask.”

His wife, Elena, noticed the change. He stopped grading papers (he taught music history at a community college). He stopped laughing at her jokes. At 2 AM, she’d find him in the basement, headphones on, replaying that single line— “Bust it down, Connie’s in the building” —like a prayer.

“You’re looking for someone who doesn’t want to be found,” Elena said.

He started where any addict would: Discogs. No Connie Perignon. No “Bust It Down.” Then forums: Who Sampled? , DeepHouse.org , the lost subreddit r/dubplate. Nothing. Searching for- Bust It Down Connie Perignon in-...

Leo drove to the address. It was a condemned funeral home.

He called old club promoters in Baltimore, DC, Philly. A man named Junebug remembered “a girl with champagne-colored hair” who showed up to an open mic in 2002, dropped a DAT tape, performed one song, and vanished. “She wore a corsage,” Junebug said. “Roses. Fake ones.”

Leo smiled. He took the dubplate, placed it back in its sleeve, and wrote underneath the Sharpie, in pencil: “You found the groove

“That’s what makes her real,” he replied.

“You didn’t find me. I let you. Now finish grading your papers, Leo. Elena is waiting.”

Leo hadn't cried since his father died. But when the needle dropped on the unmarked white label, his eyes just… leaked. Some things are meant to be a mystery

He looked up. The basement door was open. Upstairs, the shower was running. A faint smell of roses—not real ones, but the plastic kind—drifted down the stairs.

Beep.