#22 - Bop Gun Wedding

Bop Gun Wedding

3/16/04 (#22)

Worst song selection for a wedding reception that I have personally heard? "You don't have to be a star", Marilyn McCoo and Billy Davis Jr's paean to ordinary joys----"You don't need to be a superstar, I'll accept you as you are"----gee, thanks, how chivalrous of you. The song is a love song, to be sure, but it's a pathetic, last-guy-left-at-the-closing-bar love song, dressing itself in cliches in a vain attempt to distinguish itself as something more than a rewrite of the more direct "Love the one you're with." At the Holiday Inn on a Friday night? You might get lucky. On a wedding day? Not appropriate. Sure, there are worse songs: Adam Sandler chose the quintessential for The Wedding Singer ("Love Stinks" by the J. Giels band), and an inebriated rendition of Rick Springfield's "Jesse's Girl" sung by the best man would certainly have a few of the ushers ready to leap forward and steal the microphone should a drunken-uncle-style impromptu monologue seem imminent. But coming in fifth or even tenth place in a "worst choice of song" competition is not much better than coming in first.

I had the pleasure of being best man to my good friend Jamie a decade ago, and the bride had specifically requested "soft rock" and 70's songs for the reception. I had a mild glow from the numerous champagne toasts and thirst quenching rum-and-cokes, and when it came time for cutting the rug, the rotation of Eagles, Bob Welsh, and Air Supply left me sidelined. The party needed a catalyst, or so my early 20's self thought. At the time, I had not yet noted that most of the guests at the wedding were old enough to pass judgement on "that new guy on The Tonight Show", Johnny Carson, and that even Fleetwood Mac's "You Make Lovin' Fun" was met with scornful looks and comments like, "What is this jungle music?". As a musician myself, I arrogantly believed that I understood what the party needed, so I carried 2 rum libations over to the DJ booth and proceeded to convince the good gentleman that the portable parquet dance floor would be packed if he'd simply take one bit of advice: drop the cuddle rock and crack out Young MC's "Bust a Move".

Perhaps needless to say, I was mistaken.

At the opening beat, I grabbed the closest bridesmaid* and hit that foldaway dance floor bouncing. Yet before the second verse had started, I noted that I had much more elbow room than expected. I was shocked---"Bust a move" is an infectious, funky dance tune, and if you aren't careful, you might find your leg doing an Elvis impersonation while you are busy trying not to listen. (Flea and Chad from the Red Hot Chili Pepper's are the rhythm section on that track, and their groove is funkier than even the stuffed-animal pants that Flea wears in the video.) I was busy getting my white-boy groove on, so glad that for an instant I was not hearing some cheese-filled duet, when the bride came bopping over, leaned toward my ear, and inquired angrily, "Who requested this shit?!"

"Me!" I bragged.

Perhaps needless to say, wrong answer.

She looked at me incredulously, released a half-hearted giggle, then shuffled her feet (off-time) across to the DJ. I witnessed a brief conversation, nods from the DJ, and the next song to come on was "Ripple" by the Grateful Dead. I sat down.

But ten years later, I have no regrets for inviting Young MC to the reception. Dancing is such a peculiar form of...well, of what? Expression? Exhibition? Anyone who has witnessed the Weebles-on-an-unsteady-boat chaos of the average wedding dance floor knows that for many, dancing is closeted energy, and alcohol unlocks the closet door. Tuxedo jackets draped over rented chairs, bow ties dangling from chest pockets, horrifically colored bridesmaid shoes left under table as the barefoot celebrants shimmy in their silk and taffetta. Others gather around the bar, full of fear, like the shipwrecked soldiers described by Quint in Jaws: Inevitably, some sherbet-colored great white or Miller-inspired hammerhead will approach the huddled mass around the bar and tear a body free from the pack, mercilessly dragging the helpless fool out to the dance floor. The survivors toast the departing party, laughing at the victim's reluctant footsteps, but inside each knows they could be next. The most petrified depart in hopes of finding a plausible diversion ("Have you seen this ice machine? It's amazing") elsewhere in the reception hall.

I should note: I am a terrible dancer. A bystander's assessment of me having "two left feet" would likely lead to another onlooker replying, "Wait, where's the second foot?" I perspire like a cartoon character being grilled by the animated police, my entire repertoire of "steps" can be demonstrated in the span of a single line of lyrics, and a casual observer might suspect that I am applying for the job of spokesman for the poster campaign, "Friends don't let white friends dance." But I have in my corner the most essential of weapons: enthusiasm.

I confess, as a rule, when the music starts I'm apt to nestle in with the warm bodies around the beverage station and pretend the bartender is taking forever to make my cola, or perhaps I will be seen investigating a rumor involving a new-fangled ice machine. But a wedding---it's a celebration of joy, and to refuse a dance is to show disrespect. If one of the sharks gets hold of my hand and I am forced to bump with the fearless, then by gosh, I'm going to dance.** I know I look foolish, but I look foolish fairly frequently, and usually without the alibi of it being intentional. I defy my fears, and perhaps my better senses, for this good reason:

It is impossible to dance and be unhappy simultaneously.

If you try to defy this assertion, you will find that dancing is more powerful than gloom. George Clinton urged the world to free their minds and their asses would follow, but he and Funkadelic were actually working in reverse of that concept: They recognized that the ass is easier to free than the mind, so they started there. Of course, for me, dancing to Funkadelic is considerably different than dancing to a punk band or christian rock. I have friends who dance, period. Music starts, they dance. I do not have the music in me to that degree----I think it comes into me, reaches that second left foot and gets confused, has to consult the map, eventually backtracks and takes up residence in the receptive confines of the brain. But look at a any dancefloor full of people---every single one of them is having more fun than they were the moment before they went out on the dance floor. Even the bride's uncle, who danced as if his shoes were metal and his steps were being dictated by erratic magnets below the floor, had a smile he could not hide. It's infectious, if you allow yourself to be infected.

I love dancing at weddings. Perhaps it's the tuxedo (I have been part of the wedding party of most weddings that I have been to, so it's the wardrobe of my memories), a rented superhero outfit that leaves me feeling just different enough to be daring; perhaps it's the shoes, which allow you to shuffle and slide enough to suggest the possibilities; or perhaps it's a simple matter of feeling fabulous among friends and celebrants on a day devoted to joyousness. Frankly, I don't care why. Just know that if you are getting married, and the DJ likes free drinks, I'm gonna bust a move.

* Despite being in the wedding party, this woman was, like all of the bridesmaids, a complete stranger to me. Wedding advice: If you are going to have strangers walking down the aisle---his friends behind him, her friends on the opposite side of the aisle---then you need to do something ahead of time to get these people introduced. My cousin Shawn is having a hike up a hillside in the Bay Area for all of the wedding party, a fabulous (albeit exhausting) bonding experience; Russell Crowe had a 4-day event over a weekend---softball, barbecues, swimming, so that when they were married on Monday, everyone knew each other and had shared experiences. If you are planning a marriage, and it doesn't involve Las Vegas, you should do something similar.

** One or more of you may be thinking, "Hey, we can get Bill to dance at a show." Stop it. Right now. Until the day Cougar covers "Bust a Move", I'm going to sit and study the dynamics like I usually do. (By the way, Cougar, if you do, I'll gladly offer my services for vocals----though I'd rather hear Tom do it.)

(Finally, about the title: "Bop Gun" was Parlaiment/Funkadelic song, and George Clinton described it this way, loosely paraphrased: "You see someone uptight, who isn't having fun, and you shoot them with your bop gun and make them dance." A great song, though probably not for the wedding chronicled above.)

©2004 wpreagan