«Hold me by the waist»: orders, advice and prohibitions in my lyrics

«Agárrame de la cintura bien fuerte, papito.»

Hold me tight by the waist, papi. It's the line that opens the central chorus of «Tattoo de fénix», single number 79 in my catalogue, from the album «Descubierto un nuevo planeta llamado Gayfolk». (The full lyric is on gayfolkplanet.com.) It's a dance-floor track, written to move to, and it's almost entirely in the imperative. Hold me. Spin with me. Dance with me. Feel it. Turn it up.

Rereading it, something struck me: it's a song that describes almost nothing. It doesn't tell you what the club looks like, or who the boy is, or what happened before. It gives instructions. And yet you understand the scene perfectly, because orders, lined up one after another, sketch a situation better than plenty of descriptions do.

That's what this piece is about. The imperative in my lyrics. The orders, the advice, the pleas and the prohibitions in my songs, how they work in Spanish, and why a lyric that gives commands can sometimes be the most vulnerable of all.

The mood of command

I'll start with grammar, because the Spanish imperative is stranger than it looks.

Strictly speaking, the imperative only has its own forms for «tú» and «vosotros», the informal you, singular and plural: «baila», «bailad»; «agarra», «agarrad». For the formal «usted» and «ustedes» it borrows the present subjunctive: «baile», «bailen». And the moment an order turns negative, the imperative vanishes and the subjunctive steps in. You don't say «no baila», you say «no bailes». You don't say «no mira», you say «no me mires», don't look at me. Every time someone forbids something in Spanish, they switch verbal mood without noticing.

Then there are the pronouns, which in the affirmative imperative glue themselves onto the end of the verb: «agárrame», «dímelo», «déjalo», «ignóralo». That often forces an accent mark the bare word wouldn't need, because the stress stays put while the word grows longer. In the negative, though, the pronouns move to the front: «no me agarres», «no me lo digas», «no lo ignores». Same order, said backwards, with the pieces set out in a different sequence.

And there's something grammar doesn't say but everyone notices: the imperative is the shortest mood there is. «Agárrame» has four syllables and contains a person speaking, another listening, an action and an implied body part. That's why songs adore it. It fits inside a single bar.

The dance floor gives instructions

«Tattoo de fénix» belongs to a very old family of songs: the ones that tell the audience what to do with their bodies.

Pop history is full of them. In 1960 Chubby Checker turned «The Twist» into a craze by teaching a dance through the lyric. Two years later Little Eva recorded «The Loco-Motion», which is literally a tutorial: swing your hips, now jump, now make a chain. In Spain, in the summer of 2002, Las Ketchup filled every village fiesta with «Aserejé», and half the country learned the arm routine. These are songs that work as instruction manuals for the dance floor.

My song does something similar, but aimed at one person rather than a crowd. «Sube el volumen», turn it up, it says, and that's an order to the room, to the DJ, to the world. Then, in the chorus, the order turns intimate: «baila conmigo, siente el momento», dance with me, feel the moment. And in the next block comes the most physical of all: hold me by the waist, spin with me, in this little shimmy of a dance.

I like that progression, because it moves from public to private. First you address the whole room. Then someone. Then their hands. The imperative keeps pushing the camera in until only two bodies are left.

And there's something else I find interesting. The narrator of «Tattoo de fénix» introduces himself with a phoenix tattooed on his chest, in what the song calls the heartbreak club. He's someone coming out of a break-up who has decided to rise again on the dance floor. «Sigo el impulso, no hay quien me frene», he says before the chorus: I follow the impulse, there's no stopping me. The orders he gives afterwards are those of someone who has taken back control. He no longer waits to be asked to dance. He asks, and he asks loud.

Move like that, in two languages

If there's one song of mine where the imperative truly rules, it's «Mi salvador», from the album «El día de la liberación».

It's a Spanglish track, and the curious thing is that the orders switch language effortlessly. Give me light, «dale color». «Mueve así». «Baila aquí». Light up this love. Half the imperatives are in English and half in Spanish, and they sound equally natural, because the imperative is the verb form that travels best from one language to another. It's short, it always comes first, and it doesn't need a subject to complicate it.

There's a practical reason for that. In almost every language, the imperative is the first verb form children learn, the first one you pick up in a foreign language, and the one you understand even when you barely speak it. Anyone who's been to a club abroad knows that «dance», «baila» or «danse» land just as well once the lights go down. In a bilingual dance track, the imperative is the bridge.

And «Mi salvador» has a detail I find lovely: the orders aren't for the other person, they're a way of healing yourself. Move like that to kill the pain. Dance here to burn the fear. The imperative is aimed at a dance partner, but what it asks for is a kind of treatment. For the other person's movement to do what the narrator can't manage alone.

Go to sleep, the tenderest order

Not every order belongs on the dance floor. There's one that's almost the opposite.

In «Limón» the chorus is a lullaby: go to sleep, Limón, it's bedtime now, you're only tiny. Limón is a four-legged companion, and the song is a declaration of love from the one who looks after him: I'll always protect you, you'll never let me down. I've already talked about this lullaby in another piece about the hours on the clock, so here I'll only look at its verb.

«Duérmete», go to sleep, is an order, but nobody hears it as one. It's the tenderest order there is, because it's given knowing the other can't obey at will. Nobody falls asleep because they're told to. The lullabies of the whole Hispanic tradition are full of that impossible imperative: sleep, little one, the bogeyman's coming; «a la nanita, nana». They're orders that don't seek obedience but company. What they really say is «I'm here while you fall asleep».

I think it's a good lesson about the imperative. Its form is authoritarian, but its use can be the opposite. It depends on who says it, to whom, and in what tone. The same verb that's a threat from a boss is a caress from whoever tucks you in.

Don't look at me

Prohibitions are the imperative's dark side, and they turn up a lot in my songs.

The clearest is in «Licenciada en derecho», a song in which a woman walks through the city in heels with law books in her bag, repeating: don't look at my chest, I've got a law degree. The structure is perfect for a chorus. First the prohibition, negative and in the subjunctive, as grammar demands. Then a «que» that gives the reason. Don't look at me, because I'm something besides a body.

That causal «que» belongs to the spoken language. On the street we don't say «don't look at me because I have a degree»; we say «no me mires, que soy licenciada», more like «don't look at me, I've got a degree, you know». It's a «que» that elbows its way in, explaining without over-explaining. And the rhyme between «pecho» and «derecho», chest and law, does the rest. The prohibition becomes catchy, which is the best way for a prohibition to work.

Other prohibitions have another tone. Several songs use «no me hagas hablar», don't make me talk, which in Spanish is almost a polite threat: I know things I'm not going to tell, for now. In «No quiero otro novio cojín» there's a «don't make me go back to how things were» that sounds like a plea dressed up as a warning. And in «Toxina coreana» there's a far ruder «don't touch me» I won't repeat here, but it has its charm too: the shortest possible prohibition, from someone who has run out of patience for subordinate clauses.

Do not trust him, all of you

There's a form of the imperative that rarely appears in pop songs and that I love using: the one for «usted» and «ustedes», the formal you.

In «Carta de recomendación» the narrator writes, in the tone of an official document, a letter about an ex for whoever comes next. And at one point he addresses the whole audience: careful, girls and boys, do not trust that flea-market coordinator. That «no se fíen» is a formal plural imperative, with its subjunctive and its pronoun up front, and it has a very particular effect: it sounds like a public notice. A town-hall poster. An announcement over the station tannoy.

Earlier in the same letter there's a warning in the singular: don't trust his blue eyes, they're coloured contact lenses. Moving from «tú» to «ustedes» turns a confidence into a campaign. It's no longer a friend's advice. It's a public health alert.

The humour of the song depends heavily on that shift in register. The formal imperative carries all the solemnity of official warnings, and applying it to an ex in coloured contacts produces a mix of seriousness and absurdity that's very much my way of writing. Giving orders with a straight mouth and a wide smile.

Go back to your mother

Then there are the orders of expulsion, which in Spanish are a genre in themselves.

In «No quiero otro novio cojín» the narrator tells the ex, with no preamble whatsoever, to go off with his mother. I don't need a secretary, he says, I'm a businessman. And in «¡Que no pienso decir que mis trajes son de Zara!» there's a variant with the destination included: off you go with the idiot of the day.

Spanish has an enormous collection of ways to send someone far away. «Vete a paseo», go for a walk. «Vete a la porra», go to the club. «Vete a freír espárragos», go fry asparagus. «Vete a hacer puñetas». «Anda y que te zurzan», go and get yourself darned. Almost all of them are imperatives of movement, orders to relocate to an absurd or humiliating destination. What they share is that they don't actually want the other person to go and fry asparagus. They want to end the conversation. They're full stops shaped like verbs.

I like using them in songs because they have an energy no explanation has. After a whole verse of reproaches, a «go back to your mother» does what a slammed door does, but with style.

In «Buscando el polvo perfecto» a close relative of these orders turns up: the offensive piece of advice. Go and do some exercise, Romeo. Go cry to the plastic surgeon. Advice nobody asked for, which is really an insult wearing a recommendation's clothes. The form is a friend helping you out; the substance is a slap.

Go on, come on, pretty please

There's something about Spanish that startles people who learn it from outside: how direct we are with orders.

In English, asking for something at the table usually comes wrapped in questions and conditionals: could you pass me the salt? In Spanish it's perfectly polite to say «pásame la sal», pass me the salt, full stop, and nobody takes offence. Courtesy isn't about avoiding the imperative but about what surrounds it: the tone, a smile, a «porfa» at the end, an «anda» or a «venga» at the start. «Anda, pásame la sal.» «Venga, baila conmigo.» Those little words mean nothing on their own, but they soften the order until it becomes an invitation.

Songs play with that a lot. A bare imperative can sound like a fight, and the same imperative with a «papito» after it sounds like flirting. That's what happens in «Tattoo de fénix»: the «bien fuerte, papito» at the end completely changes the temperature of the order. It's no longer a demand. It's an affectionate joke, a wink across the dance floor, a way of giving orders with a grin.

I think that ability to command with affection is one of the loveliest things about spoken Spanish, and one of the hardest to get into a song without it sounding forced. When it works, the listener doesn't feel they're being ordered about. They feel they're being invited.

The instruction manual

One of my songs takes the imperative to its purest form: the manual.

«Manual de escape de un narci» opens by announcing that here comes the recipe, and then gives instructions in order, like the leaflet in a medicine box. First of all, don't give him a reaction. Never believe him. If he insults you, laugh. If he threatens to leave, open the door. Block his number. I've written about this song before, about the paradox of dedicating a whole song to someone you're advising people to ignore. Here I'm interested in its form.

The instruction manual is one of the imperative's oldest genres. Recipes, medicine leaflets, rulebooks, commandments. The Ten Commandments are, grammatically, a list of imperatives and prohibitions, and they've shaped thousands of later texts that copy their tone. Pop has a famous case: «Everybody's Free (To Wear Sunscreen)», which Baz Luhrmann released in 1999, based on a 1997 column by the journalist Mary Schmich. It's a whole track made of advice: wear sunscreen, don't worry about the future, dance. It was a hit across half the world.

What these texts have is that the imperative creates authority. Whoever gives instructions seems to know. And in «Manual de escape» that's exactly the point: that someone trapped in a relationship that's hurting them hears someone firm telling them what to do, even if it comes as a dance track.

But something needs saying clearly. A song can give strength, and I hope it does, but it can't replace professional help. If you're in a relationship that erases you, that makes you doubt yourself or that frightens you, talk to someone you trust and look for specialist support. If at any point you feel you can't go on, or you're having thoughts of hurting yourself, in Spain you can call 024, free and open around the clock, and in immediate danger call 112. If you're outside Spain, call your local emergency number.

Don't just stand there

The imperative also lets you speak to the listener rather than to a character.

In «Un político español» the chorus says we'll have to wait and wait for an honest politician to turn up worth voting for. And then come two orders that contradict each other beautifully. Well, wait sitting down. Don't just stand there.

The first is an ironic imperative, one of the most Spanish usages I know. When we say «espera sentado», wait sitting down, we don't want anyone to wait at all: we mean what they're waiting for will never come. It's like «tú sigue así», you just keep going like that, which means «carry on and you'll see», or «sigue soñando», keep dreaming, which means «that's not happening». The imperative says one thing and means its opposite.

The second, though, is serious. Don't just stand there is a call to action, aimed at whoever's listening. And the tension between the two is the one many people feel about politics: the scepticism of knowing nothing will change and, at the same time, the sense that standing still isn't an option either.

Look at me, don't say a word

Some imperatives ask for silence, and they're the hardest to write.

In «Me mola Zeus», after all the things the characters say to each other, there comes a moment when the narrator sums it all up in three orders: dance, don't say anything, just dance. It's a request for the words to stop. For the other to quit explaining, justifying himself, insisting he isn't looking for anything. For him simply to move.

In «Canguros» something similar happens with the gaze: look me in the eyes, the narrator asks, and immediately answers himself that he doesn't believe it. The order demands proof of sincerity, and the proof fails.

These imperatives share something: they ask for what can't be faked. Dancing without talking, meeting someone's eyes, falling asleep. They're orders that, deep down, are after a truth of the body that words don't give.

Orders we give ourselves

Some of the imperatives in songs aren't aimed at anyone but the person speaking.

In «Vas a escuchar un disco muy raro» there are the most everyday instructions, almost an errand list: leave the bag on the hallway cabinet, run off and tell tales to your auntie. They're orders to a character, delivered with plenty of mischief, but they have the tone of what you tell yourself before leaving the house. Grab your keys. Turn off the light. Don't forget your phone.

I think many people live with a constant inner imperative. Breathe. Hold on. Don't cry here. Smile, they're watching. That second-person dialogue with yourself is one of the commonest forms of thought, and songs capture it beautifully. When a chorus says «forget it» or «keep going», the listener often hears it as an order they needed to give themselves.

That's why imperative choruses stick in the head so much. We don't remember them as someone else's lines. We remember them as things we say to ourselves.

Asking by commanding

I'll finish with the idea that interests me most in all this.

The imperative looks like the mood of power. Whoever commands, orders; whoever obeys, keeps quiet. But in love songs and dance songs the imperative often does the reverse: it's how someone asks for something they badly need without daring to ask it as a question. Saying «will you hold me by the waist?» leaves room for a no. Saying «hold me by the waist» closes that door, or pretends to. It's a way of asking by commanding, of shielding yourself from rejection with the most self-assured grammatical form there is.

More than two thousand years ago Horace left us one of the most famous imperatives in history: carpe diem, seize the day. It has since been printed on mugs, tattoos and T-shirts, nearly always forgetting that in the poem it was advice given with a certain melancholy, to someone who didn't know how much time they had left.

I think the «hold me by the waist» in «Tattoo de fénix» has some of that. It's an order full of energy, of the dance floor, of night, of heartbreak survived. But underneath is someone just out of a break-up who simply wants to be held tight. And who has found, in a verb with a pronoun glued to its end, a way of saying so without the fear showing.

Frequently asked questions

Which Mike Sain't Louis songs use the imperative? Among others, «Tattoo de fénix» (hold me by the waist, turn it up), «Mi salvador» (move like that, dance here), «Limón» (go to sleep), «Licenciada en derecho» (don't look at my chest), «Carta de recomendación» (do not trust him), «No quiero otro novio cojín» (go back to your mother) and «Manual de escape de un narci» (block his number).

Why does the negative imperative use the subjunctive in Spanish? Because the Spanish imperative only has its own affirmative forms for «tú» and «vosotros». In the negative, the present subjunctive is used instead: «mira», but «no mires»; «agárrame», but «no me agarres».

What is an ironic imperative? An order that means the opposite of what it says, like «espera sentado», wait sitting down (it won't come), or «sigue soñando», keep dreaming (it won't happen). It appears in «Un político español» with «espera bien sentado».

Who writes these songs? Mike Sain't Louis, a lyricist, composer and music producer from Madrid who presents himself as the first AI songwriter. The music and vocals of his songs are made with artificial intelligence.

Where can I get help if I'm in a relationship that hurts me? Talk to someone you trust and look for specialist support. If you feel you can't go on, in Spain call 024 (free, 24 hours); in immediate danger, call 112. If you're outside Spain, call your local emergency number.