Before entering the more self-serious time of early teenhood, my friends and I tuned in to Minneapolis' Top 40 radio station after school most days of the week. While waiting to satisfy our fix for Third Eye Blind, we received the following message about every 15 minutes:
This is Tony Fly, inviting all the honeys down to the Stargate Nightclub, where every Wednesday ladies drink free until 10 p.m.! Yeah! Gentlemen, that means these women are gonna need dance partners, and stick around on Thursdays for Stargate's world-famous amateur bikini contest! It's gonna be out of this wor-wor-wor-world!""
Apparently struggling to be heard over the deafening pulse of the club, Tony's excitement built to a breathless exclamation over the course of a 20-second spot; the robotic echo of the last syllable encouraging us to imagine the kind of futuristic thrills possible in a bikini contest in a distant galaxy.
At the time, the effect was very compelling. Here we were at nearly 4 p.m., clustering restlessly around the glow of the Super Nintendo like moths in hideous blue school uniforms, while the most recognizable celebrity we knew was extending to us a personal invitation to come and enjoy 2-for-1 tequila shots on this fine homework-free afternoon.
Had I actually been allowed into a night club at the age of 11, I have no idea what I would have done, aside from backing fearfully toward the exit and leaving to go play tag in the parking lot. When I first set foot inside a club more than a decade later, I discovered that this was still my first instinct.
Apart from an improvised flailing, which, when performed in public places, tends to draw the attention of security guards, I can't really dance. When in a situation that calls for it I tend to oscillate uncomfortably between a wallflower and a gyrating threat to the safety of others.
Through deep concentration, I can order my body to twist in an understated way that doesn't upset other people's mixed drinks.
Unfortunately, after 15 minutes of this, my limbs go slack and my eyes glaze over while I await further instructions like a member of a brainwashing cult. Judging by the fact that most lyrics in club music take either the form of direct commands or reminders of what you're doing and why, I'd guess that I'm not alone.
To this end, an ""Everybody dance now!"" or ""I like to move it, move it"" would've been appreciated. But anything, even ""Drink the Kool-Aid / Board the spaceship,"" would've been less ominous and more helpful than what we were provided.
""Money money money money / Clowns clowns clowns clowns."" The voice came and went without elaborating on either theme. Money was simple enough. Like hearing a song about love, I could recall wanting it and having it. Now, after using the last of it to pay the cover charge, I wondered if there was a way I could get it back. But what clowns? Where? And what was the correlation between the two?
The chorus repeated itself with increased urgency: ""MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY/CLOWNS CLOWNS CLOWNS CLOWNS,"" still neither a clear directive nor an affirmation, just an unpleasant taste of what might happen if 50 Cent were contractually obligated to record with the Insane Clown Posse.
Rather than contemplate this possibility, we decided to cut our losses for the night and leave. As far as I was concerned, we'd called Tony Fly's bluff of 10 years prior. Now we could get back to living our lives as we'd always lived them, but older and wise enough to ignore advertisements sandwiched between back-to-back Matchbox 20 songs.
Send 50 Cent/Insane Clown Posse mash-ups to hunziker@wisc.edu.
