JUVENILE – "BACK THAT ASS UP"

by Dan Cohen

The year was 1999 and Juvenile was on top of the world. Unfortunately, Dan Cohen was not. Juvenile was fresh out of the gates of fame with his newfound rap stardom, Dan was just another sexually confused cog in the 4,000 that attended Poway High School. Juvenile had ice, bitches, a 37-city tour and a hit single. Dan had an average SAT score that sent his parents into deep concern, no ice, no bitches and was more concerned about the impending Y2K scare than he cared to admit.

Dan spent his days just trying to blend in to some sort of relaxed Southern Californian code he never understood. He had been scared into said conformity by what years later he realized was an immature overreaction to a horrible middle school experience. He spent his nights studying, rowing (so that whole “blending in” thing wasn’t working out all that well), conquering every Nintendo64 game known to man and wondering when he’d actually score the kind of babe the Beach Boys sang about. Dan was raised by parents of the 60s. He had an affinity for classic rock and was allergic to modern music. If you wanted recent, it wouldn’t get any further than the 80’s. He didn’t really understand the current scene. Grunge music sounded way too angry. “ What’s so bad about growing up in Seattle?” Years prior at his bar mitzvah, a mini-mosh-pit was birthed by “Smells Like Teen Spirit” which ended with a friend fracturing his ankle. The rap & hip-hop phenomenon had more expletives than he cared for. And let’s be serious, boasting about groupies and lots of money were problems Dan wish he had. “Stop bragging, you lucky assholes.”

The first time Dan heard what would be Juvenile’s career-defining anthem “Back That Ass Up” was the Homecoming dance in the fall of 1999. He had taken a girl, whom he had a massive crush on, to the dance. Her saying yes was unexpected, even if she was a close friend. Little Deuce Coop, he don’t know what he’s got. And now, the night he had waited for… was lost to wondering if, how, when he should make a move that he was totally unprepared to make. The ten couple limo, the Hungry Hunter steak restaurant and subsequent dance were all going by way too fast. No thanks to Dan’s flagrant insecurities: the constant, internal back and forth. “We’re just friends. Right? RIGHT?!” The obsessive question found itself back into his head time and time again, but never followed by a affirmative answer. It was as if he wasn’t hearing the music, while everyone (hot date included) around him danced their hearts out. He wasn’t able to enjoy his go-to moves like the robot, the shopping cart, and of course, the I-don’t-know-how-to-moonwalk-but-I’m-going-to-try-anyway-and-when-I-fail-I’ll-turn-it-back-into-the-robot. And of course, his request for “Safety Dance” had gone unnoticed by the DJ. Dan simply wasn’t enjoying himself…

And then the synthesized intro for Juvenile came on. Dan, a lifelong fan of Depeche Mode, immediately became interested by such a choice introduction. “Cash Money Records?” And without warning, a wave of white kids with an ethnicity-crisis started shaking in all directions from lessons that could only have come from the TRL video countdown and, if their parents didn’t block the channel out like Dan’s did, BET. There was a sexual awakening in the Poway High School gym. Dan smiled, his date smiled back. And there it was. The robot. The shopping cart. The I-don’t-know-how-to-moonwalk-but-I’m-going-to-try-anyway-and-when-I-fail-I’ll-turn-it-back-into-the-robot. It was as if Juvenile was playing Dan’s N64 and Dan Cohen was the on-screen hero. Juvenile dropped some beats that unlocked a secret code of awesomeness that brought Dan’s character to the next level. For 3 and a half minutes, Dan felt like part of something. Something that couldn’t have been provided by any amount of pretending to blend in, no Billabong shirt or Rusty surfboard, no Etnies shoes or Varsity jacket, no alcohol (well, yes, maybe alcohol), no limo ride or high five could’ve brought the satisfaction that Juvenile preached (fact: he would later become a preacher). At this point in his life Dan had never smoked marijuana, but at that moment, he was high.

As the night grew on, he ultimately wouldn’t make a move (or enough of a movement to be interpreted as a move). Lord knows he thought about it. And after the dance and after party, he came home and played N64 against his little brother who stayed up well past his bedtime up to hear the details about what he thought was sure to be the loss of Dan’s virginity (“Did you at least make out with her?” “No dude. It wasn’t like that.” “Lame.” “You’re lame.” “You pussed out!” “Fuck you, I’m going to bed.” “I take it back. One more game.” “Okay fine.”) The sense of disappointment was there, but gently mixed with a sense of enjoyment. It was this ability to take away the good things of the evening, to back that ass up, that Dan had learned from Juvenile.

One year later, Dan would get one brief glimmer of first base contact with this crush at his little brother’s bar mitzvah. It probably didn’t happen to Juvenile, as metaphorical as that would’ve been. After the Nirvana incident of 1995, Dan’s parents took control of the set-list. And besides, a lot of the kids were only 13 and didn’t understand rap the way that a senior like Dan might. “Posers.” Whatever the case, the DJ did play “Safety Dance.”