Conga (Miami Sound Machine)

Language: Dutch

I had intended to post "The Courtesy of Red, White and Blue Girls (Angry American)" (Toby Keith) yesterday, and in fact had the post more or less ready to go, and then my antivirus software kinda crashed my computer. I mean, that's not exactly what happened, but it's vastly more concise than what actually did happen, and in any case is the best you're going to get.

Consequently, no post yesterday, and the moment doesn't exactly feel right to post the Toby Keith now, so I'll sit on that one for a while. In the meantime: tonight, we are gonna party, up until we see the paddle!

I had a few years of Miami Sound Machine ("The Correct Machine of Miami," according to Babelfish and the Dutch) enthusiasm, which was a few years after everybody else did. I always used to have a bit of trouble with fads that way, but fortunately I'm also what is known in marketing parlance as a "slow adopter," which means that the most embarrassing stuff is on cassette and is thus unlikely to embarrass me in front of the grandkids.

And anyway, until Gloria Estefan left the Machine and went entirely easy-listening on us, I don't think she had anything to be embarrassed about. I mean, embarrassed relative to whom? Steve Winwood? Kenny Loggins? Eddie Money? Lisa Lisa and the Cult Jam? They all had hits in 1986 too.

-Jessi

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Progress; shake your body, baby; do the conga.
Whom can I not check longer? You.
Progress; shake your body, baby; do the conga.
You can no longer check whom I have blamed. (have blamed)

Progress; shake your body, baby; do the conga.
You who I can no longer check, no matter which feeling has blamed the rhythm.
The music (which becomes no stronger) fights to you, of you:
it does conga beats.

Everyone collects himself, now.
Feel around your body: heat?
You don't dance, yourself.
If you can't worry, make the music late.
Your foot movement is sweet! (The island is this way.)
Rhythm, as such, is sheer, and of the sugar.
If you want to do the conga
or to listen, you must beat.

Progress; shake your body, baby; do the conga.
You who I can no longer check, no matter which feeling has blamed the rhythm.
The music (which becomes no stronger) fights to you, of you:
it does conga beats.

Have you tried to feel the fire of wishes
since you went dancing tonight?
Because tonight, we are gonna party,
up until we see the paddle.
Improve me: bring
together what you seized, and get on.
As soon as music affected your system,
you are gonna end there: no matter.

Progress; shake your body, baby; do the conga.
You who I can no longer check, no matter which feeling has blamed the rhythm.
The music (which becomes no stronger) fights to you, of you:
it does conga beats.

Your body has tried progress: shake the baby. Do the conga
no matter who checks you: I no longer can.
You haven't blamed the feeling of rhythm, which becomes a stronger music;
You have tried conga fights, to
progress. Shake your body, baby; do the conga.
I can't matter. You no longer check your feeling, which
becomes stronger: not you. Whoever blamed the rhythm of music has done it.
Conga. The baby has tried to fight your body.