Before It Was a Classic, It Was a Cassette
In the mid-1980s, the sound of Chicago was changing.
At the edge of disco's afterglow and the birth of a new rhythm, a young poet named Jamie Principle crafted a song about longing, obsession, and intimacy. He didn’t write it for the radio , he wrote it for someone he loved.
That poem became “Your Love.” With the help of Frankie Knuckles, Chicago’s “Godfather of House,” Jamie’s track evolved into something much bigger: a club anthem that defined an era.
Though recorded around 1984–85, Your Love circulated quietly in the underground. Frankie spun it at the Power Plant, his club after the Warehouse closed. It wasn’t pressed on vinyl, it wasn’t on the charts — but it was everywhere that mattered.
The track finally saw an official release in 1987 via Trax Records — a controversial move, as Jamie Principle’s name was left off the original release. Still, the damage couldn’t outweigh the impact. Your Love had already become a cornerstone of house music — raw, sensual, hypnotic.
Then and Now: From Dancefloor to Data Core
And now, deep in the data vaults of Room 909, something stirs.
The tape whirs. Warehouse air hums. A bassline steady as a heartbeat.
In the shadows, the Record Dealer leans over the cassette deck — static melting into longing.
“Chicago, 1986 — Power Plant,” his voice cracks. “They called it a Warehouse-born romance. Jamie Principle wrote words that bled with desire. Frankie Knuckles pressed them to the floor. It wasn’t just music — it was confession. A diary carved into drum machines.”
From the smoke, Mr. Groove slides into view — sunglasses shimmering with strobe ghosts.
“You feel that?” he smirks. “This wasn’t pop radio love.
This was a pulse stitched into the night.
A record whispering across the floor: I need your love.”
The beat pulses. A Dancer sways beneath a neon heart glowing on her Warehouse Tee. Her lips move in silence, remembering something forgotten but not lost.
A 909 keycard flickers. A door opens.
Polaroids on the wall: Frankie behind the booth. Jamie clinging to handwritten lyrics. Dancers mid-ecstasy.
“Funny thing is,” the Record Dealer says, “this track almost never left the shadows. Politics. Labels. Ghosts. Yet in Room 909, the beat never dies. We keep what the world forgot.”
The music builds. Club reverb devours the silence.
Mr. Groove raises a single finger:
“Remember, Residents — love isn’t sung. It’s grooved.”
The tape clicks.
DISPATCH ONLY → Lovers’ Mix unlocked.