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During the turbulent, half-year gestation of Slant’s now way old list of the greatest dance songs, which is what I’m now setting out to, if not refute, then at least annotate, I think I fought for no song’s inclusion more than the one I’m now consigning to the bottom of my alternate/additional list of 100. With similarly mixed signals, when the original list of 100 was set in stone and each participant was asked to come up with a list of three “honorable mentions” that we wished could’ve made the real list, I opted not to mention Donna Summer’s cover of Barry Manilow’s “Could It Be Magic,” itself a rework of a Chopin piano prelude. My line of reasoning was that, by that point, Summer was already well enough represented on the main list. (With three songs, she tied Madonna for the most overall mentions.) Plus, I had bigger fish to fry, like pointing out the lack of deep house on the feature presentation. Now that the list is almost as old as dance music itself (or at least reminds me of that time in your life when your parents realize you’re over half their current age and will always be henceforth), I freely admit that I unabashedly dig this tossed off album filler as much as I dig “I Feel Love,” “This Time I Know It’s For Real” and “I Remember Yesterday,” though in saying that I admit to having off-kilter Donna tastes — rarely looking for some “Hot Stuff” baby this evening. Maybe it’s the galloping tempo, maybe its the fact that the Moroder-Bellotte sound hadn’t quite hardened into the impenetrability they reached a couple albums down the road; the percussive kick is more organically propulsive than metronomic. Or maybe it’s the melodramatic heft of Chopin’s original chord progressions and the fact that what once was funereal is now treated as an erotic rush. Maybe it’s the fact that Summer unashamedly rehashes the bridge orgasm interlude that made her famous with “Love To Love You Baby,” only this time she can’t claim it to be a recording session lark that somehow ended up on the finished product. Or maybe it’s the fact that the bridge (Manilow’s own) that accompanies Summer’s moany plea to “come into my life” is tormentedly gorgeous (used to great effect during one of Looking For Mr. Goodbar‘s depressing sex scenes). Or maybe I’m just tickled by the mental image of Barry Manilow taking Summer high up where the stallion meets the sun. “Could It Be Magic” is the best sort of camp, one that’s apparently presented with grave sincerity.