...There are probably more names. But whatever you call it, the derriere is a thing to behold. And hold. And poke, and squeeze and swat when the time is right. Which is pretty much anytime the other person gives you the thumbs-up, in my book.
But I digress.
Trapped and driven as we are by these squishy mortal coils, people tend to write songs about them. Even about specific parts of them. Especially the fun ones. The tuckus is no exception.
And so we embark on a journey in cataloguing those songs dedicated to a singular part of the anatomy. I do have to warn the faint of heart that (shocking as it may seem) songs about a sweet piece of back-meat are not for the...delicate of constitution. So kids, leave the room and let Mommy and Daddy throw down to some weird ass music.
In making this playlist—which is by no means complete yet—it quickly became clear that love of the derriere is almost universal in music. It crosses cultures, genres, moods, and even eras.
But even more shockingly, it makes a fucking rad weekend playlist.
Particular highlights include:
- "Big Ole Butt" by LL Cool J.
A song recorded back when the "cool" in his name wasn't said sarcastically.
- "Eat Yo Ass" by Eric Dunn
A heartbreakingly beautiful, homespun tune about booty licking.
- "Buttmachine" by That 1 Guy.
A sort of Bloodhound Gang monotone grind with mostly inscrutable lyrics. Also ,the album's title is brilliant: The Moon is Disgusting.
- "Throw it Back" by Jonn Hart.
Which I guarantee will find its way into other playlists when you are blown out and drinking hard with strangers after midnight.
There are also several required classics, and a few surprises mixed in. This is by no means an exhaustive list, but an ongoing project. So follow it on Spotify to get all the latest tushie tracks. And if your favorite butt-loving song isn't in there, mention it in the comments.
Throw this on shuffle at your next pre-game, happy hour, party, sexytime, or whatever, and see: exactly how long does it take for people to figure out it's all about bootay?
Until next time, shake it everyone.
With money enough, you do not buy tickets to concerts, or VIP tickets to concerts, or even go to concerts at all. They come to you.
It's no big thing if you are a prince or oil baron, to hire a pop star so you can tap your feet in person to the latest hits. This is true even if you’re a Qaddafi, and that pop star is Beyoncé. Which actually happened.
But what if you’re not royalty? Or not even a person, but a sugary, almost-banned hangover fuel? Here apparently, the rules are the same. Because deep pockets are deep pockets and everyone has a price—especially when only the most delicate, flaky layers of the upper crust will ever know the whole occurred.
Which is how I found myself walking up an alley along an overpass, to flash a “Do Not Fuck With Me” gold wristband at black-suited linebackers with secret service earpieces. To see a private Waka Flocka show sponsored by Four Loko.
The details of how I found myself there aren’t important. But upon arriving it became clear that I was no average elite. Not everyone’s wristbands were gold. And noticing the way security lowered their eyes, and the speed at which they got out of my way, I knew I was temporarily—albeit randomly—a Very Important Person.
So, this was how “the other half” lives. Where the drinks are free, and they give you a whole 24-ounce drum of swill instead of sips in a plastic cup. Where the DJ gives you respect because you recognize the Thunderheist song he’s mixing, and girls with green wristbands who will be on-stage with Waka Flocka suddenly find you interesting enough to talk to, and even offer their vape if you need a smoke.
The room looked like the kind of place people have weddings—pure “event space” someone rented out with the wave of a marketing budget, equipped with chandeliers, and fine speakers, and blue and magenta lights to jazz up the empty walls. Not the kind of place you get drunk on malt alcohol and slip around the floor in dark, mysterious concert fluids. Although that is what I did.
At this point I should now tell you precisely what happened when Waka Flocka took the stage. But after 48 ounces of carbonated antifreeze my recollection of the actual show is more a hazy montage of lights and bodies than some fine-tuned journalistic report. Except for one moment. When I turned around after realizing I was staring at the stage while everyone else watched Waka Floka perform on a table behind me, in the middle of the crowd.
The perfect scene to sum up the whole strange and brooding thing: a huge artist underneath a chandelier, barely out of reach, working to whip some freeloading crowd into a frenzy. To transport people who neither paid money to be there, nor might ever pay money to see him perform, but who saw him—with better "seats" than millions of fans. Because some alcohol brand had the cash.
And the truth is, it was fantastic. The kind of experience every music fan should hope for. Yet nothing short of one strange night of star-aligning freak coincidence could ever have put me in that room.
There is music that happens in places where money cannot buy you a ticket, but is the stern prerequisite to enter. That's the seedy underbelly of this whole thing. That when it boils down to it, something as democratic as fans supporting artists—the idea that you can buy a ticket or an album and earn some kind of real seat at the table, is a sham.
You are only in the entryway. True proximity is reserved for a different caste. And if you ever want to get there, you'll need to add a few more zeroes to your name.
When the storm came down on the thousands at Union Park and the announcement rang that “Pitchfork Music Festival will be closing in 20 minutes” and lightning grounded too nearby with a no-delay scream of broken air rolling overhead, not everyone ran.
I did. Rain flying into my eyes, shirt sucked on like a wetsuit I crashed through puddles and wiped my face and shouldered through the front gate into the street where I pushed in line and piled onto a bus of dry, wide-eyed passengers.
10 stops up Ashland the rain fell away and as I came off the bus, my pocket buzzed. The festival would be back on in 20 minutes. So I dashed across the street and cut another line to board a bus in the opposite direction, grinding my teeth at every slow-traffic brake. One more row back. Another row back.
At Lake the line already wrapped the corner of one block and went out of sight down another, so I walked quickly to the entrance and slipped under the dripping tent without showing a ticket and jogged to the lip of a puddle in front of the green stage and stopped, and breathed a sign of relief. 30 round-trip minutes, and I was in nearly the same spot I had staked out before the storm. So I stood and watched the crew unpack the amps again and mop the stage, and felt the wind dry the wetness off of me, and waited
for Kurt Vile to play.
What strange hold does this damn thing have on us that we endure such things for it? That physical frequencies can bring on every human feeling, and finite words be recycled into infinite meaning. That it encompasses history, and identity, and politics, and culture, and locks our fixations and foibles into time before we know how to see them for what they are. That it can start fortunes, inspire greed, bring ruin, and save us from the worst parts of ourselves. What is it about these sounds?
I have no earthly idea.