Hips don't read tariffs

Hips Don't Tariff is the thesis with percussion attached: the ring can tax crates, not the turn, not the sweat, not the night you already paid for with your body showing up. Clave Heat hits after the board closes and the mezzanine remembers Spanish Corridor slang belongs on a dance hall floor — sí, dale, así as spice, English carrying the story so nobody gets a language lesson instead of a pulse.

Shake the Floor still opens nights because booty-shake is the lock, not a side quest you do after the ballad. One More Turn keeps partners close without possession paperwork or a command barked from a falsetto throne. Sweat Don't Lie beats tablet romance every time the lights go dim and the clave keeps counting what the heart tries to fake.

Keep It Dim on purpose — hips louder when the room stops performing for cameras. Red Heel Relay for the dancers who leave shoes on the rail like trophies and warnings. Manifest Can Wait. Always after the set. Paperwork never learned clave and I'm not teaching it for free.