The Loop
Julianne Beffa
What Happened to “Grab Somebody Sexy” Music?
- By: Julianne Elise Beffa
Where’s The Sexy…
I miss the days when going out meant hearing one line echo over the speakers and instantly knowing the night was about to shift gears: “Grab somebody sexy, tell ‘em hey.” It was the cue, the invitation, the entire vibe distilled into a single lyric. You didn’t even have to think twice, just grab your drink, grab your friends, maybe even grab a stranger if you were feeling bold. That was the power of 2000s club music. It was sexy, carefree, and drenched in the kind of hedonism that didn’t take itself too seriously.
I say this not as a casual observer but as someone who has spent over a decade chasing nights from New York to Miami, London to Paris, the South of France to Barcelona, and of course Los Angeles. I’ve closed down megaclubs in Barcelona, gotten lost in sweaty underground basements in Brooklyn, and stood on tables at beach clubs in Cannes. If there’s one throughline I’ve noticed across every city in recent years, it’s this: the soundtrack has changed, and not for the better.
Somewhere along the way, the music that soundtracked our nights out stopped asking us to dance, flirt, and sing along, and started demanding that we either rage to murder ballads disguised as rap tracks or sway listlessly to house beats that never seem to climax. The soundtrack of nightlife has lost its sex appeal, and in turn, its magic.
The Golden Era of “Grab Somebody Sexy”
Let’s rewind to the late 2000s and early 2010s. If you were outside back then, whether in a sweaty college basement, a Vegas mega-club, or your best friend’s backyard party, you know the catalog I’m talking about.
LMFAO told us to “Party Rock” every single day. Flo Rida was instructing us to “Get Low” like it was a national mandate. Usher, Pitbull, Ne-Yo, and David Guetta practically wrote the textbook on bottle service anthems. Taio Cruz wanted to “Break Your Heart.” Ke$ha brushed her teeth with a bottle of Jack.
The beats were big, the lyrics were simple, and the energy was always geared toward the same goal: have fun, get reckless, make out with somebody you might regret tomorrow. There was no moral high ground, no brooding, no existential dread. Just a hook so catchy you couldn’t escape it and a beat that forced you onto the dance floor whether you wanted to be there or not.
And the best part? It was universal. Everyone knew the words. Everyone screamed them together. You could be in a dingy dive bar in the East Village or a $50 cover club in Miami, and the reaction to “Sexy and I Know It” was exactly the same. Pure, unfiltered joy.
Related | Is There Still Love in the Club?
Today’s Soundtrack: Murder Music or House Loops
Now, let’s contrast that with what you hear in most clubs in 2025. Walk into almost any spot in New York, Miami, or LA, and you’ll get one of two things:
Murder music rap. Hard-hitting, moody tracks about guns, enemies, and paranoia. It’s music that sounds incredible in headphones or a car but feels totally misplaced when you’re holding an overpriced cocktail and trying to make eye contact with someone across the dance floor. Nothing kills the vibe faster than a hook about pew pewing your ops. Nobody’s feeling flirty when the soundtrack sounds like a felony charge.
Endless house and techno loops. Don’t get me wrong, I love house music in doses. When I’m anywhere near water, on a boat or rooftop, or in the sun, it’s great. But somewhere along the way, “nightlife” became synonymous with the same four-on-the-floor beat repeated for hours on end, often without lyrics, without melody, and without any sense of climax. It’s not sexy, it’s not social, it’s hypnotic. Great for a warehouse rave, sure. But in your average nightclub? It feels like a personality vacuum.
The result is that the modern dance floor is either aggressive or detached, but never fun in that playful, sweaty, early-2010s way.
What We Lost
The saddest part is how much intimacy we’ve lost on the dance floor. Music used to be an icebreaker. Lyrics told you exactly what to do: put your hands up, take a shot, find somebody sexy, kiss them at midnight. Songs like Usher’s “Yeah!” or Pitbull’s “Give Me Everything” weren’t just hits, they were instructions. They pushed people toward each other.
Now, the music either pushes people inward (into their own heads while zoning out to beats) or keeps them posturing on the sidelines (trying to look tough while rapping along to violent lyrics). There’s no bridge being built between strangers, no flirty permission slip written into the chorus.
It’s like the communal language of nightlife disappeared. We all used to know the same chants, the same call-and-response hooks. Today, there’s no shared canon. A hit might dominate TikTok for two weeks, but it rarely becomes a staple that gets everyone screaming in unison at 1:45 a.m.
And yet, there are glimmers of hope. Every time Drake drops, he reminds us what the club is supposed to feel like. Tracks like “Nokia” don’t just chart, they unite the room. Suddenly strangers are rapping along together, drinks are in the air, and the vibe feels closer to 2010 than 2025. It’s no accident. Drake leans on the same formula that built the golden era: catchy hooks, playful nostalgia, and just enough swagger to make you want to grab somebody and move. In a landscape that feels split between paranoia and detachment, he’s the one artist keeping the communal spirit alive.
The Cultural Shift
Of course, music is always a reflection of culture. The 2000s and early 2010s were an era of excess, optimism, and escapism. Bottle service was booming. EDM was breaking into the mainstream. Social media was still fun, not anxiety-inducing. Celebrities were messy in public, and we loved them for it.
But now? We live in a time of social unrest, financial anxiety, digital burnout, and a nightlife industry that’s trying to cater to everyone at once. Rap reflects the reality of violence in America. House reflects the wellness-driven desire for a meditative escape. It makes sense, but it doesn’t mean I have to like it when I’m trying to have a good time.
There’s also the influencer effect. Clubs aren’t built around sweaty, chaotic dance floors anymore. They’re built around tables and iPhone cameras. Music that makes you jump around and spill your drink doesn’t play well on Instagram Stories. Slow head nods and curated vibes do. The music has adjusted accordingly.
Bring Back the Messy Joy
Here’s what I’m really arguing for: not a wholesale return to 2010’s pop-EDM domination, but a return to the spirit of it. Nightlife needs music that doesn’t take itself too seriously, music that encourages connection instead of posturing, music that makes you want to spill a drink, grab a stranger, and scream-sing until you lose your voice.
The best nights of my life weren’t soundtracked by deep cuts or experimental beats. They were soundtracked by songs everyone knew, songs that made the bartender, the bouncer, the girl in six-inch heels, and the guy in a snapback all yell the same words together. That’s what made nightlife feel like a collective experience rather than 200 people having parallel nights in the same room.
I don’t think it’s impossible. We’re already seeing flashes of it when throwbacks get played. Drop “Low” by Flo Rida or “Tik Tok” by Ke$ha today and watch the room erupt. Everyone still wants that feeling, we’re just not getting it from new music.
So maybe the question isn’t just “what happened to ‘grab somebody sexy’ music?” but “who’s going to bring it back?” Because I know I’m not the only one who misses it. The nostalgia is too strong, the desire too universal.
Until then, I’ll keep chasing those fleeting moments when the DJ caves and throws on a Pitbull track. Because for those three minutes, it feels like nightlife is what it used to be: fun, sexy, and gloriously unserious.
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