I don’t know much in this life, but I know this to be true: Wherever Sean Paul is, the party follows.
Every dance floor, every lounge room, every shower, every Friday knock offs, every setting where looses are let can be, and is, made immeasurably better the instant a Sean Paul song starts.
The music of Sean Paul has mystic party energy. It is a thrumming acoustic voodoo. There is no ass alive immune to its power. When speakers of any size declare “shake dat thing,” dat thing must shake. It is spiritual law. It is an ethereal contract. It is a sacred covenant with a sexy spooky ghost.
And it is for these reasons that I declare, in front of God and whoever else, that saying “Sean Paul” three times in a nightclub mirror should, by all rights, instantly materialise him in the room like Beetlejuice.
Having Sean Paul – Shon Pol, phonetically – be conjured into any nightclub he is verbally invoked thrice in is a supernatural phenomena that should be readily embraced by anywhere that’s ever run a “Foam Night.”
Sean Paul appearing on-stage like a spooky ghost to tell everyone that he has the right temperature to shelter you from the storm instantly takes a so-so night out to an unforgettable one. When the bump and grind is growing rusty and tired in the wee hours, a triple SHON POL in any reflective surface would be the grease that would keep the gears cranking well into the wee hours. If your big night out is a noisy hinge, a shimmering, mystic Sean Paul apparition is a big fuck-off can of WD-40.
Of course this isn’t without its pitfalls. Sean Paul himself would have to be perilously locked in limbo, never ageing, never allowed to stop, always being spirited away to where he is needed. The man would have to exist in a perpetual state of party. At no point would he be allowed to stop telling people to shake dat thing. His soul would grow weary as his physical body was slowly consumed by the spirit realm. For Sean Paul, it be a horrible existence: bouncing from club to club, sometimes hundreds in a single night, assuring all and sundry that he really does got the right tactics to turn you on, without once ever being able to prove it. The touch of another human becomes but a distant memory for Sean Paul, as he wanders the dance floors of earth a technical immortal, but a doomed one at that.
But on the other hand, fuck it’d be a shithot night on the googs whenever someone calls it.
So it’s a net gain, overall.
Sean Paul should magically appear in a nightclub anytime you say his name three times in a mirror.
These are the truths that I hold to be self-evident.
