Before I delivered a reading for our goddaughter’s wedding, my wife kidded me how I resembled the passage.
The epistle from Saint Paul to the Corinthians is a standard at Catholic weddings: “If I speak in human and angelic tongues, but do not have love, I am a resounding gong or a clashing cymbal.’’
She even offered to bring the miniature gong from her office and sound it while I read. Turns out it would have been the solemnest moment of the weekend.
A few hours after Mass, we witnessed the next generation of wedding receptions. If my generation – populated by newsroom crazies, my wife’s cousins, two former college rugby players and my mother scratching her head – knew we brandished a crazy streak 35-plus years ago, this generation humbled us. We are now the gray-haired, 60-year-olds shaking our heads, the grandparents on the sidelines.
My editor and I recalled our wedding reception in 1984 breaking several norms. There were some diverolls through the dance floor. Her cousin Jim took up a collection to keep the band playing another hour. When the party moved back to the motel, the police threatened my Uncle George with arrest if the rest of the revelers didn’t hold down the noise. In the wee hours, there was at least one food fight, and one widow drank beer from the best man’s shoe. It was an epic weekend before the term became fashionable.
But this generation is all about the dance floor.
We had an inkling at the Friday night rehearsal dinner when the groom’s buddies continued a gag from the previous weekend. Whenever a groomsman was honored, a chant of “set of 10, set of 10’’ rang out, and he dropped for 10 push-ups.
On Saturday at the reception hall, the dinner began with heartfelt recollections, speeches and toasts, followed by dinner and the obligatory father-bride and mother-groom dance. There was a new tradition too – bride-mother dance.
“Isn’t she lovely? Isn’t she wonderful?’’
The Stevie Wonder standard always melts a roomful of guests.
Within moments, it seemed like someone flipped a switch. The frat party and sorority bash was in full throat.
“Let’s get this party started,’’ the DJ screamed into his mic. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon!’’ His followers responded with shrieks and roars.
“That has pretty much been the standard for the past 10 years,’’ said my son, Liam, who was a backup shooter when he worked for a wedding photographer.
Forget the Electric Slide. Ditto on the Cha Cha Slide. Shout? Do The Hustle? Ancient history.
“Oh don’t you dare look back, just keep your eyes on me.’’
“I said you’re holding back, she said shut up and dance with me.’’
I had to look up these lyrics. That was “Shut Up and Dance’’ by Walk the Moon.
This was 2 ½ hours of a mosh pit with a pumped-up, pulsating bass. It was a crowd jumping up and down while waving arms.
“That’s what guys do, Uncle Jim, when they can’t dance,’’ my niece Leah informed me. Had I been on the floor, she would have been describing me.
“Grab somebody sexy tell ’em hey (hey)’’
“Give me everything tonight (hey)’’
More research required. Oh yeah, “Give Me Everything’’ by Pit Bull.
The floor shook and resembled a 3-on-3, anything goes, rebounding drill, except the drill was 50-on-50.
I consider anything by Miley Cyrus (“Party in the U.S.A.’’) or Neil Diamond (“Sweet Caroline’’ reminds me of a Cleveland Indians playoff collapse to the Boston Red Sox) forgettable. But Whitney Houston’s 1987 hit “I Wanna Dance With Somebody’’ and the Spice Girls chanting “Tell me what you want, what you really, really want’’ from 1996 had enough of a pulsating beat to make the DJ’s playlist.
Chanting was big.
“We at the hotel, motel, Holiday Inn.’’
“We at the hotel, motel, Holiday Inn.’’
That’s the depth of “Hotel Room Service’’ by Pit Bull. It will likely fade before next summer’s wedding cycle.
Wedding dancing now comes with accessories. The DJ furnished a box of multi-colored glow sticks that revelers were waving around. One fat guy inexplicably wrapped them around his belly. He should have opted for his biceps.
Then the DJ released a stream of fog onto the dance floor. I wondered where that came from. Within minutes, I had an answer. The bride, Lauren, was waving a device that looked like a T-shirt gun but was actually a fog cannon attached to a tank of water and glycol. She blasted the dancers.
“I was waiting to drag you out on the dance floor,’’ my wife said, “but he didn’t play one slow song.’’ Not even something we would recognize from Billy Joel or Earth, Wind & Fire.
At closing time, the DJ slowed down the crowd with Darius Rucker’s “Wagon Wheel’’ and had everyone singing “Rock me momma …’’
That’s when a conversation informed this white-haired, rehabilitated rugger of his place in this sprawling family.
“Hey Leah,’’ said the red-shirt kicker for Kent State football, “we’re all going to Shooters.’’
She was puzzled. “I thought people were going to the second-floor bar at the Hilton?’’
“Nah,’’ said the 20-something. “That’s where the old folks are going.’’
Morristown native Jim Holleran is a retired teacher and sports editor from Rochester. Reach him at jimholleran29@gmail.com or view past columns under “Reflections of River Rat’’ at https://hollerangetsitwrite.com/blog/
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