Gimme Three Steps

I have returned from a wedding adventure of such unparralleled Missouri-ness that I cannot speak on everything without becoming consumed by that place that is the Show-Me State. This is a very different Midwest than the one I know and love; I want to call it the South, and I don't think I'm too far off with such a claim.

But to give you a taste of sweet, Kansas City BBQ, here's a juicy little ribeye:

At the reception, some members of our table of Northerners grew upset at the lack of dancing and requested the venerable "Celebration" by Kool and the Gang in an effort to incite a rhythmic uprising. Quite ineffectively, the song convinced only our small group and half a dozen kids to wander to the dance floor while 80% of the guests blankly stared at the proceedings. Eventually accepting defeat to a southern rock dance-mega-mix, the elder members of this coalition-of-the-willing stepped down.

Now, to set some context totally out of place, when Brandon (the groom) had hired the DJ, the two had discussed the musical line-up for the evening. A conversation which went a bit like this:

Brandon: Well, what kind of music do you think you'll be playing?
DJ: I've got a lot of Skynyrd.

At which point, Brandon took it upon himself to assemble a collection of Frank Sinatra tunes and the like to be the centerpiece for his particular occasion. Now, back to the reception...

"Gimme Three Steps", the Lynyrd Skynyrd song you know that is not "Sweet Home Alabama" or "Freebird", had been a running joke at our table due to the exchange between the groom and his music maestro. So, it was fitting that it would pop up in the playlist and just as fitting that we would chuckle.

But upon hearing those salty opening guitar licks, something hit the crowd at the core of their being. By the words, "I was cuttin' a rug down at a place called The Jug," no fewer than 22 guests were cuttin' it. Young, old, not-that-old, the dance floor was packed, and I could only imagine the DJ with a vindictive smile on his face.

It was at that point that I realized I was in a different place than from where I came.

God bless Missouri, really. You have opened my eyes. Without question, your stalwart, conservative, noncredulous manner and your unparralleled-but-in-Alabama love for Lynyrd Skynyrd will open many more eyes as well.

Congratulations to Brandon and Renee Baker; may your days be filled with the promise of "What's Your Name?" and never the forlorn emptiness of "Tuesday's Gone".