But Can You Dance To It?

Put me in a strait jacket when I'm around Haddaway's "What Is Love." It's the only way I won't move. (while I'm at it, I dare you to not do a single head nod just thinking about this song)

My skull needs to be put inside one of those immobilizer helmets, complete with rod inserts into the neck when Madonna's "Like a Prayer" pops on my car radio. That's if you want me to keep driving safely.

And if my ears pick up on anything by Calvin Harris? Oooph. Then place your bets on me embarrassing myself with out of date dance moves because mama don't care, I am dancing.

But when I think of songs impossible to not dance to, I can't help but think back on those moments when 3:27 on the dance floor felt more like 3million:27. My body herkyjerky from songs my brain couldn't decipher what type of beat signal to fire off to my feet neck arms hips, leaving me stiffer than an unoiled Tin Man. Even 10 years with Abby Lee couldn't help you patch together moves.

Like that time Danny Peterson pulled me to the dance floor. It was last call, and last call by a deejay is always a crap shoot. Flaxen-haired Danny came over and took his chances. The song? Gary Wright's "My Love is Alive." Nice thought for a wrap up, on paper slash vinyl, but "My Love is Alive" had the opposite effect.

First, think of that song.

Second, ask yourself, How do you move to a synthesizer that's set to triple twang punctuated with someone kicking over a milk bucket every ten seconds?

Things syntactically fall apart in the time between your mind decoding deciphering downloading and cobbling together a beat. By the time the neurological signal is complete, Gary Wright is off to setting a new bar code for you to scan. There is no way to time that shit.

See for yourself.
 

The end result is your body giving the All Clear to Shoulder sway right and your feet saying I thought you said Hip twist crouch left. Decades later, I realize the disconnect of music, lyrics, not equaling danceability. Which is why I'm shouting out to the universe for you, sweet blue-eyed Danny Peterson. That night on the dance floor, as if adolescence wasn't clumsy enough, life had to go and throw Gary Wright at you.

Who knows, dear fair-haired suitor, had fate guided the deejay's hands to serendipitously lay down the boogie with Wild Cherry when you pulled me to the dance floor, this post today may have been dedicated to someone else.

But it wasn't as bad as it could get, Danny. By that I mean, at least it wasn't "Dreamweaver."