Like most artists that appear on the Pitchfork site, Larry Levan is not a household name. You could never imagine that Joe Sixpack and his burgeoning brood would be browsing through the marinaded goat's foot section in "Balducci" and that he would holler over the tender heads of his nearest and dearest, "Oi! You're that Larry Levan, aren't you? I saw you on 'Hollywood Squares' last month. You were dead funny, y'were! D'wanna meet my wife? She's your hugest fan-– ever since you dropped a bucket of cold porridge on Ted Danson's noggin! Brilliant telly, there!" Larry Levan would, doubtless, calmly replace the small packet of sun- dried oysters back on the shelf and walk away mildly amused.

Alas, that charming vignette of fame and worship probably never happened. But some people, amongst whom I count myself, wish that Larry Levan's recognition stretched further afield than the fanatic cadre of '80s groove and garage devotees. For it was in the late '70s and early '80s that Larry Levan was the house DJ and freakazoid genius- magician of the legendary disco, the Paradise Garage.

Levan contributed remixes to the underground dance label, West End, an imprint that, while never reaching the ornate lushness of rival Salsoul, could still be proud of releasing some true dance classics. When remixing, Levan's sights were never set on chart success (what a novel idea, Junior Vasquez!). He recast songs so that he could confirm his position as New York's number one DJ. His remixes were designed as long, spacy jams crafted to seek out the few people wallflowering at the Paradise Garage and enchant them onto the dance floor. They're also weird, perverse, bizarrely endearing, and nowadays heavily sampled. But Levan also seemed to have a sixth sense; he could figure out exactly which 12" would lead you out from the alcoves. For some, that 12" would be his version of Taana Gardner's "Heartbeat"; others unconditionally responded to the synthetic joys of New York Citi Peech Boys' "Don't Make Me Wait."

But that was then and this is now, and I'm here to tell you that "Don't Make Me Wait" still knocks my socks off more than any other dance record. Most electro compilations include Shep Pettibone's dub of this gem; but Levan's mix leaves Pettibone's in the dust, awkwardly oscillating. This is not to say that Pettibone was by any means a slouch-– his dub of Rockers' Revenge's "Walking on Sunshine" is simply astonishing. In a wholly different class though, Levan layers rhythm upon rhythm; each element, even the chorused vocals, is a rhythmic figure to be spun and contorted. There's not a body on this beautiful planet that would not be moved to this!

And herein lies Levan's talent-– he understands the funk. His mind is innately attuned to the One. How else could he have come with Sparque's "Let's Go Dancing," a tracks he enhances with rhythmic tropes similar to those on "Don't Make Me Wait." It's no surprise to read in the album's liners that Francois Kervorkian assisted Levan on the delightful "Let's Go Dancing." Indeed, Kervorkian has long championed this man's work and now wears Levan's crown.

But there are some tracks here that only Levan could have come up with. West End Records must have had real faith in him, too, because he was frequently liable to hand over the freakiest, most bizarre mix that the execs had to trust would work a treat out on the floor. This collection exhibits two such tracks: Loose Joints' "Is It All Over My Face?" and Ednah Holt's "Serious, Sirius, Space Party."

Loose Joints (formerly the Little All Stars) were Patti Labelle's backing band at the time, and having literally stolen studio time, Levan wanted to add madness to the slapback groove and replace the original male vocal with a Grace Jones clone that had all the emotional intensity of a rotting apple core. But skip back to Ednah Holt's number and you may find yourself a silly heap-- "Serious, Sirius, Space Party" came out of Levan's idea for mixing heroes of "Star Trek" and "Star Wars" with the freakish regulars of the Paradise Garage. Levan used a Dave Gilmour- like guitar to introduce the Parliament-ish space party, and Holt rollcalls the attendees ("Let your body work with Captain Kirk/ Do the rump with Mr Spock" she belts out, believing that such preposterousness could be happening right in front of her) before Levan runs amok on his trademark analog synth and mashes the entire record into a delirious frenzy of utterly charming ridiculousness.

The Paradise Garage finally closed its doors and dismissed its bouncers in 1987. And tragically, Levan died in 1992. There'll probably never be a club quite as inclusive and welcoming as the Paradise Garage, and there'll never be another remixer- cum- DJ quite like Larry Levan. This collection more than amply demonstrates the man's freaky styles and the immense debt dance music owes him. In a just world, he would be more than just a gameshow- hopping household name. Right now, angels are probably crowding around his DJ booth, bugging out on his delirious mixing. Or at least they should be. Care to join them?

-Paul Cooper