When I was a kid, my father used to refer to Phil Collins just by his first name. It would drive me absolutely crazy. Even as a thick-glasses-wearing, feathered-hair, pastel-plaid-sporting, knobbed-knees little girl, I knew that was utterly lame. I would respond, “Oh, your good friend, Phil,” sarcastically. He would sing “Phil’s” songs so loudly, and his face would scrunch up really seriously like he was singing backup. I hated Phil Collins and what he did to my dad. But one day, in what I recall was 1987, he made me listen to Another Day in Paradise. It absolutely moved my 6-year-old self. I felt the pain of the woman on the street begging for money. I wanted to defend her, confront the man that ignored and humiliated her. Demand he not “pretend he can’t hear her.” A good portion on my pre-teen years were spent trying to decipher the importance of Martika’s Toy Soldiers- first contemplating an abusive relationship, then finally realizing the not-so-subtle drug addiction message. I spent much of my drama-filled teenage years listening to U2’s older favorites like Sunday Bloody Sunday, New Year’s Day, and even the newer AIDS anthem One, wondering why God didn’t create me to be a West Berliner, new-wave teen that wore thick-striped black and white t-shirts and hot pink Doc Martens. Bruce Springsteen’s Streets of Philadelphia was another song that pulled at my heartstrings as he reflected on loneliness and despair one feels when suffering from AIDS. Finally, my early college years came and I absolutely adored the abortion reflection of Ben Folds Five’s Brick- finding it honest, sensitive and creative. From the cheesy to the somber, I have always liked the more subtle “message” music. I want a song that has a story to tell, an opinion to be aired. But when you ask what song conjures up some of the best memories, I’m not waving a white flag or confronting President Bush’s wars on terrorism, the working-class or women’s rights, instead I’m dancing like a dirty hoe on the dance floor.
When the first musical lines of Lil’ Jon and the East Side Boyz classic hit “Get Low” start, there is never an empty dance floor that doesn’t fill. And I’m not going to lie, I often make it my personal goal to be in the middle of that packed dance floor. Ba-dum-bum-dump. Ba-dum-ba-dum-ba-dump. Owww… This was the song that brought the color to my senior year of college. In 2004, there was not a party complete that didn’t feature this song once- the genius of this song was awaited at every frat party, bar crawl and formal dance. Within the first lines drunk and sober alike, would crowd the dance floor dramatically pointing “from da windooowww” and then “ta da wall.” This song made it perfectly acceptable to sing along to themes such as testicle sweat, ejaculation (so affectionately referred to as “skeet”) and the diverse actions “booties” can partake in, including popping, dropping and of course, getting low.
This song produced a myriad of different emotions and reactions from everyone around me throughout my senior year. There were moments of relief. “I just talked to the DJ and he said he’s definitely playing it in, like, 3 songs. AGAIN!!” Moments of protest. “If this Nuevo Laredo bar doesn’t play it let’s just get the whole bar singing it!” Moments of panic. “Oh my god, I was in the bathroom when I heard it start playing and I just stopped peeing right then and there, zipped up my pants and ran out here! Yee-ow!!” Moments of revelation. “Wait, I thought he was saying, ‘Can I play with your dandelion?’ but just realized he’s saying, ‘panty line!!’” And moments of absolute brilliance. One early-semester afternoon of procrastination, in sweat pants and t-shirts, one of my housemates, Brad and I produced what was probably one of the more genius creative endeavors in which I have ever collaborated. For hours we videotaped ourselves giving dance instructions to the tune of “Get Low.” Me with my faux Bronx-Puerto Rican accent, and him trying to ghetto-it-up South Hamptons style with talk of the “mean streets.” We improved demonstrations of the ridiculous dance moves we invented on the spot. Moves like the “Alabama Crab Dangler” where I jumped up and wrapped my legs around Brad’s torso, and twisted my body a lá the 1980s Snake, and the “Spider” which entailed Brad and I, arms hooked together, back-to-back, crawling around on the floor. We showed this, now lost, 30-minute video wonder to everyone that would watch, and I, myself must have watched it at least daily. It made me happy. Perhaps disturbingly happy. It also created an even deeper dependence on “Get Low.” Our specific dance moves were not applicable with other such dirty songs of the day like “Freek-a-Leek” and “Toxic.” The “Weegle”, which entailed Brad lifting me up and me dropping down and wiggling my ass about, could only fit perfectly during the “now, stop, uh, and wiggle wit it” part of the song. When Lil’ Jon demands all the “ladies dat know de look good tonight” to “bend over to the front, touch yo toes, back dat azz up an’ down…” we shamelessly did a sexed-up version of the childhood game “leap frog.” The dancemoves were absolutely interdependent on “Get Low.”
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