Posts Tagged ‘music’
So I’m in DC for the Lindy Exchange, and perversely, this post isn’t going to be about the exchange at all. Isn’t that just like me?
See, my sister is a local resident, and since I’m staying with her, I figured it was only right I let her talk me into checking out her preferred form of dancing while I was in town. My sister is addicted to salsa dancing, so on Thursday night we dropped in on salsa night at Dance King Studio in Leesburg.
Now, I’ve done a little bit of salsa, just like I’ve done a little bit of practically every other dance that’s going these days. I’ve even had a little zydeco led on me. Never tried contra, but whatever. I figure if you can follow at all, you can pretty much follow anything.
And that’s generally true. Following is following. You may not follow pretty or look like you know what you’re doing, but at least you won’t get your arm broke off or do anything really embarrassing.
Which pretty much sums up what was happening for me Thursday night. I was managing to get through most of the turns and make it from point A to point B in one piece.
But you know what completely eluded me? The aesthetics of the thing.
First of all, as a lindy hopper, dressing up to go out dancing means something different to me than it does to a salsa dancer. I wore the only heels I had with me, a pair of black Aris Allens that are vintagy-funky-cool at a swing dance, but at a salsa dance they could not have appeared dorkier. Girls dressed up for salsa wear tall, tall spindly spiky things on their feet. Salsa dancers cover the stylistic range between elegant and slutty, but they all appear to be aiming for sexy. This is in no way the aesthetic for swing dancing. And even though I wore the closest equivalent outfit I could throw together, I’m sure people were wondering why I was dressed like someone’s grandma. I felt like a total doofus.
Secondly, there’s the music. Oh, the music. I think that in order to be able to dance convincingly, you need to be moved by the music. And salsa music does not move me, unless it’s out the door. It sounds like circus music to me, and it was way too loud. But my sister, and here’s the important point, my sister listens to that stuff IN HER CAR. Enough said?
Finally, though, salsa dancers just seem to have a different idea of what dancing is actually FOR. As an outsider, it appears to me that they’re really hung up on the whole gender-role difference thing. The men are really manly, and the girls are over-the-top girly. And when a lead approaches me with that Magnificent Beast look on his face, well, it just makes me want to laugh.
Which I actually did, periodically throughout the night. I laughed. Swing dancing makes me laugh a lot, which is why I do it. But salsa dancers don’t seem to like that so much. As a matter of fact, the highlight of my evening was when one of these magnificent beasts led a turn on me, and accidentally smacked me right in the forehead. I about died laughing. I had to stop and have a short fit of hysterics. And the man just stood there, wearing that Mask of Zorro look, not even cracking a grin. Just stood there waiting until I had recovered and could proceed with the serious business at hand. If you don’t think that made me feel like the Special Child, think again.
So basically, salsa dancing, blech.
But I will say that salsa dancers do seem to be enjoying themselves every bit as much as I do when I’m at a swing dance. So I’m not disrespecting the dance itself. It may very well be that I am just way too awkward and unwieldy for this much more adult-seeming form of dancing.
In fact, I’m just perverse enough that I might for the hell of it buy myself a pair of those spiky things and give it a try again next year.
(P.S. Had the honor of meeting fellow dance-blogger Jason from “Dancing Past the Godzilla Threshold” at the lindy exchange last night, and if he’s reading this, he better get ready because I intend to ask him for a lotta more dances tonight!)
It’s Wednesday, and I’m almost recovered from the Portland Lindy Exchange this past weekend. And like every year, I have to ask: why do we do this to ourselves?
An exchange is a ton of work. Not just for the organizers, promoters, volunteers, hosts, venue operators, musicians, sound technicians, caterers and cleanup people. I mean just to attend one is a big deal. You travel by car, boat, bus or plane from wherever you come from to stay with strange people and live out of a suitcase for three days, risking no sleep, sketchy food options, and unfamiliar mass transit while you trust google maps to get you to random, out-of-the-way dance venues, often in the scariest parts of town. And all this for the privilege of paying a hundred bucks to dance with strangers for twelve hours a day.
Normal people would look at that list and say, “You’ve gotta be kidding.”
But we never claimed to be normal, did we? We swing dancers look at that list and say, “Aw, hell yeah!”
There’s always that one Christmas moment during every exchange that reminds you why you started this crazy dancing lifestyle in the first place. Mine usually happens at the Sunday afternoon dance, and it happened that way this year.
See, I’m normally kind of a middle-aged sort. On my non-dancing nights I’m usually in bed by ten. Pulling all-nighters is something I do only infrequently, reluctantly, and under extreme duress. Like if someone is in the hospital, or if there’s a lindy exchange going on.
So this past Saturday night, I’m eating something that seems like dinner at around twelve-thirty a.m. And I’m half-loopy from exhaustion. Between dancing outside all afternoon and then subsisting on a quick snack and a nap in the car, my resources are severely depleted. And I’m looking down from the second floor balcony, watching the dancers below on the dance floor, and the music is getting louder and faster, while the dancers seem to be dancing in slow-motion, and there are tracers of light following them all around, and all the colors are running together, and I’m thinking, people pay their drug dealers good money for this sort of thing.
And then a few hours later, after a couple more rounds of dancing, getting a second wind, hitting the wall, collapsing and dying, and then dancing some more, I’m amazed to notice that I’m vacuuming. The dance is over, and the band is dismantling their equipment, and it’s daylight out. And I’m so crazy tired that my brain taps into some weird college-era neural pathway and I find myself craving Egg McMuffins.
After a long drive home, we finally fall in bed and sleep for a blessed couple of hours. Literally, just a couple hours, just enough to not die, before we have to get up, shower, and drive back to the dance again.
It’s the Sunday afternoon dance, and despite my crazy exhaustion, I know it’s going to be incredible.
I approach the venue, and I hear that distant music and the shuffling, stomping, creaking noises of dancing feet and the murmur of people trying to talk over the band, and it’s like coming home. I walk up the stairs, and there’s all my people. Some are sitting in the lobby with sweaty faces, fanning themselves. Some are dolling themselves up in the bathroom. Some are standing around guzzling water. And lots of them are dancing. I push my way through the clumps of lollygaggers up to where the band is playing, and someone waggles his eyebrows at me, and we’re dancing, and it’s so crazy hot in the room it’s like dancing on the sun.
The Sunday afternoon band this year was the Two Man Gentleman Band, and they were amazing. So funny and so danceable. I’m with all my old and new friends in this crowded, sweaty room, dancing Balboa the way it was meant to be danced, because there’s no room to dance any other way, in a swirl of faces and arms and legs and vintage dresses and sweat-soaked t-shirts and sloshing drinks, trying not to kick over chairs and tables and speaker stands, like it’s some crazy acid trip, only instead of Jimi Hendrix there’s old-timey dance music playing, and no actual drugs are involved. It’s desperately confusing and sort of nauseating, and I haven’t had this much fun since… the last lindy exchange!
And it suddenly hits me. THIS MOMENT, this crazy moment when I feel like I’m dancing better than I ever thought I could, with people who are healthier and nicer and better-looking and more talented than any other people I know, to this crazy band like no other, this one crazy moment is why we go to all that trouble. And it’s totally worth it.
Thursday we had a band, and it was fine and nice and everything, but there was this problem. See, they insisted on playing different tempos.
In our scene we have an extremely high percentage of swing dancers who have been dancing for two years or less. And almost to a person, these newer dancers have spent those two years learning how to do a swingout.
It isn’t their fault. Swingouts have been presented to these people as the holy grail of swing dancing. The message they get is that you can’t really say you’re a dancer until you learn to do a really fast swingout. It is completely understandable if, as a result, they assume that a fast swingout is all you need. In any case, it seems that for many, the swingout is all they’re interested in learning.
Because this is true, they grouse about fast music. See, many dancers have fallen into the trap of thinking that social dancing is nothing more than an opportunity to practice swingouts. I want to tell you right now that if you think social dancing is for practicing stuff, you’re wrong. Do that somewhere else. Social dancing is for being sociable first; dancing is secondary.
So anyway, people in our scene, especially the newer people, seem to have a lot of angst around music tempos. Tempi? They’re either mad that the music is too slow, because they want to practice their swingouts. Or they complain that the music is too fast, because they want to practice their swingouts.
If you’re a relatively new dancer, whichever camp you fall into, whether (A) you want your music faster or (B) you want it slower, you’ve probably succumbed to a common misperception. You probably think that slow music is easier to dance to, and therefore (A) you’re never going to get better by dancing to slow music, or (B) you’ll never be able to keep up with that harder, faster music.
I want to tell you right now that this is a fallacy. Slow music is not easier to dance to. It’s harder.
On Thursday, about half the songs this band played were slower and bluesier than what many in our scene are used to. And as I looked around the room, there were very few couples actually dancing slow. Instead, I saw a lot of people trying to do their fast swingouts to the slower music. Because they’d never learned to dance slow, they were trying to get that crazy spinny, momentum-y feeling they try for in their normal swingouts, and it wasn’t working. Instead, I saw a lot of “yank, stop, yank, stop” type stuff going on. It wasn’t pleasant.
Slow swingouts are not going to work until you’ve actually practiced doing them slowly. There’s a lot of balance and connection stuff that is much more difficult at a slower tempo, so don’t assume that because you can do one fast, you can do it slow.
Instead,( and leaders, I’m talking to you here) the next time a very slow song comes on, try this:
1. Put your right arm around your partner, and then assume you’re going to pretty much leave it there for the rest of the song. No breakaways. Reason being that for a less-experienced follow, hanging out in open position during a slow song is very embarrassing. She feels she needs to be moving around out there in some sort of sultry way, and she has no idea how, and she feels like everyone is staring at her. Unless she’s a blues dancer, keep her close.
2. Now, keep it simple. Forget about doing “moves” of any kind. No pretzels, no dishrags, no Texas Tommys. All you’re going to do is shift your weight from side to side. Balance your center of gravity over your right foot, then balance over your left foot. Leave both feet on the ground. Relax. Shift, shift, shift. Try to do this in time to the music.
3. If you get bored, you can throw in a quick-quick every now and then. What I mean is that as you’re shifting from side to side, you can do a quick shift-shift, exactly the same as the slow ones, except twice as fast. Still, no breakaways, no turns, no random Charleston footwork. Just breathe. Shift, shift, shift.
4. Once you’re comfortable with this, then you can try shifting around in a bit of a circle. Say you start out facing the east wall of the room, move around a little until you’re facing the west wall of the room.
Leaders, if you’re afraid of boring your partner with this stuff, let me tell you that if the follow knows anything about dancing, she will love it. This type of leading gives advanced follows something to work with. If you give her any room at all (don’t squeeze her with that arm), she’ll come up with all kinds of interesting ways to move her body, which she can’t do if you’re flinging her around. You may actually pick up some ideas on how to move yourself, so don’t be afraid to sort of copy what she’s doing if you feel like it.
Follows, if you’re not used to this kind of treatment, you may be momentarily confused as to why you aren’t being flung around. Don’t worry about it, just listen to the music. When you’re being led this way, your job is to stay connected, and then within that connection to explore moving yourself to the music. Don’t try to be fancy, just do what feels nice and normal. You can strike up a little conversation if you want. Slow music is for relaxing.
Once you’re able to dance this way, then take it to the next level by going to a few blues-dancing classes. You can still be a swing dancer, you don’t have to switch over to the blues dancing scene, just learn a little blues dancing for those slower songs. The information you learn about balance and connection is the stuff that is never taught in swing dancing classes, and it will teach you exactly what you need in order to do a comfortable, SLOW swingout.
Heard this song at the dance last night, thought I’d blather on about it a little here.
First of all, here’s the clip.
It’s the song “Killin’ Jive” by the group Cats and the Fiddle. This clip is from a movie called “The Duke is Tops,” a so-called “race film” from 1938, back in the days when black people and white people couldn’t be in the same movies together unless the black people were bringing the white people drinks on little trays, taking their hats, and not saying much of anything. So understandably, the black people said phooey and made their own movies.
These kind of pictures had all-black casts and were intended for exclusively black audiences. Made outside the Hollywood studio system, the pictures were low-budget but not necessarily low-quality; they were actually among the first successful “independent” films, which is pretty cool if you think about it. Sadly, Wikipedia tells me that of the around 500 race movies made between 1915 and 1952, less than 100 are still in existence.
Some of these remaining pictures are a treasure trove for swing dancers and jazz historians, because they feature such amazing singers, dancers and musicians. “The Duke is Tops” was an early vehicle for Lena Horne, and as Fred Sanford always said, don’t mess with the Horne.
Despite its rather deteriorated condition, I love this movie, and the scene with the Cats and the Fiddle is great. Incidentally, the group was organized in 1937 and, with a few membership alterations, stayed together until 1950. In a dozen years of recording, they never made it to the charts. As you can see, their style was a bit unusual, being built around their tight four-part vocal harmony, while at the same time they were providing all their own instrumental accompaniment as well. Plus dance steps and some acrobatic hijinks with the upright bass. Pretty impressive! If you compare the Cats and the Fiddle to a group like their contemporaries the Mills Brothers, it is clear they were a little ahead of their time musically, having more of an R&B sound that the world had not yet caught up with. But they get the last laugh, because they’re still being danced to today!
The other song you’ve heard by them is Gang Busters.
Okay, that’s all the blathering for now. See you on the dance floor!
It was on this day, December 9, eighty-five years ago, that Louis Armstrong and his Hot Five recorded the seminal track, “Struttin’ With Some Barbecue.”
The tune was written by pianist Lil Hardin, to whom Armstrong happened to be married at the time. It remained an instrumental piece for fourteen years, until songwriter Don Raye (who penned such classics as “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy” and “Fry Me, Cookie, With a Can of Lard”) added some lyrics to the tune.
Now, on hearing the words of this song, one naturally pictures someone strutting down the street, carrying a plate of saucy ribs on the tips of his fingers and possibly doing a little truckin.’ A messy and probably dangerous enterprise, but understandable nonetheless. Yet it turns out that picture may be somewhat inaccurate.
The official website of the Cab Calloway Orchestra contains Cab’s “Jive Dictionary,” which is a primary source document of swing terminology. According to Calloway, the word “Barbecue” does not mean slow-cooked, spicy meat. It actually refers to “the girlfriend” or “a beauty.” So someone who is “struttin’ with some barbecue” is actually sauntering down the street with his sweetiepie.
So how did “barbecue” come to mean “girlfriend”? Aside from the obvious allusions to the lady’s being hot, spicy, saucy or what-have-you, I believe there may be a more complex etymology at work here. Interestingly, in the 1941 Barbara Stanwyck film “Ball of Fire” (another considerable compendium of hepster lingo), the Stanwyck character refers to a lady by the term “rib.” This would seem to reference the Biblical story of Adam and Eve, in which Eve was supposedly created from one of Adam’s ribs. Naturally, what is the first thing that comes to mind when one thinks of ribs? Barbecue!
Well, it’s just a theory.
Anyway, here is a link to the 1927 recording. Now dance your little hearts out!
Let’s be realistic; nothing in this life is perfect. No matter how great something seems, there’s always a catch. Even dancing has its downside. Only one, mind you, and it isn’t even all that bad. Still, in order to offer a balanced viewpoint, I feel compelled to point out this one unfortunate thing about dancing:
It ruins you for almost every form of what other people generally think of as “fun.”
I remember going to rock concerts in my younger days. I’d save up my pennies so I could drop a huge bundle on the price of a ticket. I’d get all dressed up, then spend hours standing in line at some crowded stadium getting trompled on by a bunch of drunken fools, just for the privilege of sitting there watching somebody else get paid to sing and dance around. Or I’d spend less money, get all dressed up and go to some seedy dive, just to stand in a crowd of drunken fools and watch someone less talented sing and dance around. I used to think of this as “fun.”
Nowadays, if there’s music playing, I have to be dancing, or there’s no point. To watch someone else having fun is no fun.
I used to go to parties. When I was in college, a party meant a lot of people crammed into a small house, each in some stage of intoxication. At least half the group would be watching something on a large screen. The other half would be trying to negotiate their way into each other’s pants. There was usually music in the background, but no one would be doing much about it. Any dancing would consist of either a drunken sort of jumping up and down, or pants negotiations, or both. I used to find this “fun.”
Later on, after I had kids, parties meant a bunch of wives perched on folding chairs in someone’s living room, eating cake off paper plates and discussing pediatricians, while the husbands were standing around a barbecue grill in the backyard, drinking beer and discussing sports. Usually the only music came from the room where the kids were watching the Disney Channel. And to be fair, I doubt anyone has ever really considered this “fun.”
Nowadays, to call something a “party” that doesn’t include dancing, proper dancing, seems like a cruel joke.
There are outdoor-type activities that people consider “fun.” Camping, boating, skiing, fishing and what-have-you. Now, I’m not immune to the beauty of nature and the salubrious effects of fresh air and wholesome recreation. And I guess you could say I enjoy the outdoors as much as I ever did (interpret that how you will). But nowadays I find that wherever I am, whenever I have a relaxed moment, my mind is soon replaying the latest YouTube video from my favorite dance instructor, or planning my outfit for Thursday night’s dance.
So in other words, I guess the downside of dancing for me is that nowadays, no matter what it is I’m doing, with few exceptions, I’d almost always rather be dancing.
Dante shows up at my house last night. Oh, great. I’d spent the day sitting around doing nothing, being depressed. Totally forgot we were supposed to go out dancing. I’m in my gross jeans and some random t-shirt, not even close to being ready to go out.
But he doesn’t look all that ready either. Says he’s tired. Been working a whole lotta hours lately. I mean, he’s as cute and fashionable as ever, but he’s got this sorta wilted look about him, like he could really use a nap.
Dancing had sounded so great the day before, when we’d dreamed up this plan. The Rigamarole is Portland’s newest, up-and-coming swing dance, and it was about time we checked it out. But here it was six o’clock, totally pitch black outside and blustery cold, and we’re looking at an hour-and-a-half drive to get there. We’d be lucky to make it home by one a.m.
“Probably I should just get some sleep tonight,” he says.
“Yeah, and I’ve got laundry and stuff I should do.”
We sit there looking at each other, all glum and discouraged.
“But you know,” he says, “All I’m really gonna do is go home, get in an argument, and then play video games and eat.”
I pictured myself flopped in the recliner, watching the Sanford and Son Collection and wishing I had a life. “All right,” I said. “Give me twenty minutes.”
Nineteen minutes later, and we were out the door.
And it was the awesomest night ever! We show up at the venue, and for one thing, there’s all my people there. I kept spotting folks across the room that I was so happy to see. The ultimate was when who should come rolling in but Chris Harm, who I hadn’t danced with in forever. People just kept showing up, and it felt like a party.
The music was fantastic, my shoes were functioning properly, and my outfit was unproblematic. It seemed like every dance was more fun than the one before it. I hadn’t been there but a half-hour or so, and already my face was sore from smiling so much. And just the two dances I had with Chris more than compensated for that ridiculous drive!
Turned out there was gonna be a Jack and Jills contest. I hadn’t planned to participate, but at the last minute I looked at the list and there was one follow spot left open. So what the hell.
And that was seriously the most fun I’ve ever had in a contest. I had already decided I was just gonna enjoy myself and not worry about my dancing; there were so many good dancers in the contest that it was anyone’s guess who the judges were even going to notice. So I just appreciated the extra dancing space, and danced how I dance.
Anyway, me and Dante both made the finals, which was totally cool. The five couples who jammed it out at the end were so top-notch, it was a great thing to witness, and I seriously did not envy the judges for having to pick out winners from that amazing crew.
Of course, Chris won first place; it would have been odd if he hadn’t, especially dancing with a follow like Noelle. And then I was lucky enough to land David as a partner, which is how I ended up coming in second. He and I each won a copy of Glen Crytzer’s new CD, which was super cool because I hadn’t had the cash with me to buy it on Sunday when he played at Mindy’s dance. So that added a whole ‘nother layer of coolness to what was already an amazing night!
With the prospect of another hour-and-a-half drive home, Dante and I didn’t stay long after the contest winners were announced. But we spent the whole drive home thanking each other for talking each other into not staying home, and swearing never again to blow off dancing in favor of sleep or laundry!
Have you ever had a dance like this?
Last night I was dancing with this kid who also leads and follows. We were switching off roles, experimenting with cutesy ways of getting into and out of a lead or follow role. Turns out there are a million ways to do this as long as nobody gets thrown on the floor.
So at one point during the song, he looks at me and goes, “Wait, am I leading?”
Both of us crack up, and I’m like, “I have no idea!”
What was so great about it is that we didn’t even stop dancing for a second. We just kept going along, totally connected, totally feeling the music, and neither of us had any idea, or really cared, at that point, who was leading and who was following.
We were just dancing! What a concept, right?
To me, this is the ultimate point of learning to dance the opposite role. You finally get to where it doesn’t really make much difference who’s leading and who’s following. You’re just connected with your partner and the music in one big cooperative project.
I think you only get this kind of situation when you’ve got a lead who’s so open to listening to his (her) follow that he (she) can switch instantly into response mode when the follow initiates something. And you have to have a follow who’s willing to not only feel and act on her (his) own musical impulses but actually take responsibility for communicating them clearly to her (his) partner.
In other words, a lead who knows how to follow, and a follow who knows how to lead. Or, of course, two of one or the other.
And I think there’s just something so symbolically right, so evolved, about all of this.
So what do you all think? Am I wrong?
Does it seem to you that most people who love swing dancing, and swing music, just love old stuff in general?
Let me offer my ownself to you as a case study, just for arguments’ sake. I think my tastes are fairly typical for a typical swing dancer. Let’s see now…
Of course, I love old music. So do you, so do we all. Isn’t old music what brings a lot of us to swing dancing in the first place? And certainly keeps us here. Otherwise we’d probably be salsa dancers or westies or something.
What about old movies? I know a lot of us get renewed inspiration from watching, not just the old dance clips on YouTube, but any of the old black-and-white movies that feature random song-and-dance numbers as wildly improbable adjuncts to their already far-fetched storylines. But I love ALL old movies, and ONLY old movies, from the sublime (Twelve Angry Men) to the ridiculous (Disorder in the Court). IMHO, very few movies made since 1970 are worth watching a second time.
Old clothes? Of course. Not that I own many, or could fit many if I did. But I treasure those items I do have, and I live in perpetual regret that as a culture, we just do not look as well-put-together as we used to. Look at almost any old black-and-white photograph of a crowd scene, and you will see nothing but neat and well-dressed people. Even the bums standing in breadlines look relatively stylish. A cross-section of mall shoppers on any given weekend will reveal lots of personal self-expression and very little actual good taste. Sigh.
Old manners, there’s a good one. Honestly? I think I married my husband mostly because he has never once let me open a car door unassisted. But I cannot tell you the number of times that I have been run off the sidewalk by a pack of highschoolers walking two abreast, talking on their phones. What’s wrong with people anymore? I swear, the next time the girl at the bank looks at my check and then calls me by my first name like I’m her BFF, I’m going to, well, scowl in disapproval anyway.
Old houses, definitely. I’ve always loved to poke around restored historic mansions, projecting myself into domestic scenes of long ago and wondering how the hell those ladies fit into those tiny shoes. My own house was built in 1904, and it’s full of old furniture, doilies, table lamps,books and knickknacks. The only television screen I own is hidden away back in the sunroom, where no visitors ever go; I deplore the current custom of placing a giant screen front and center in every room of the house.
Old books? Of course. Not necessarily 20th century old, either. I’m talking Victorian.
Old news. By that I mean I’m a history buff. Actually, one of my other blogs is on American history. Since I don’t watch television I really have no idea what’s going on in the world today, and I really don’t even care. I prefer to leave current events to those who actually have the power or inclination to do something about them.
What about old food? I don’t mean leftovers, silly. I just mean I don’t eat anything that would not have been recognized as food a century ago. I buy actual ingredients, and cook them. Crazy idea, I know.
Of course, not everything old is great. Massive, widespread, legally-sanctioned racial prejudice, for one. Outdoor plumbing. Devilled ham in a can. Wool swimsuits.
And of course, there are a few not-old things we swing dancers cannot live without. Mainly YouTube. And of course, where would we lindy bloggers be without our laptops and the Internet?
Still, I love old stuff, and swing dancing is a huge part of that. And I think a lot of us swing dancers are that way. What do you think? Do you love old stuff as much as I do?
So I’ve been going through this phase where I sorta hate dancing. Do you ever feel this way?
I’m not sure what it is.
Part of it is just me. I’ve been feeling old, fat and ugly, and not sure I care one way or another. It seems like a pointless task to try and make myself presentable enough to go out.
Another thing is my dancing. I feel like I take lessons after lessons, but I still dance just as bad as ever. It’s been a long time since I had a really spectacular dance with anyone, and I know it isn’t their fault, it’s mine. Dancing with me must be roughly equivalent to trying to move a grand piano with one broken wheel.
Then when I look around the room, all I see is these kids. Cute young guys dancing with cute young girls, all probably looking to get romantic with someone, and here’s me, this random old married lady. What’s wrong with this picture?
Plus, everybody dances bad. The leads either yank me around all over the place like I’m some kind of sports equipment, or they’re diffident and wimpy, and none of them has any imagination. Then when I try to lead the girls, they’re either as immobile as a tombstone, or they’re leaping around everywhere without waiting for me.
Of course, the DJs are awful. Why can’t they, just once, just for a lark, play a song that actually makes me feel like dancing? It’s always just the same old stuff, over and over.
In other words, I’m depressed.
Well, it happens once in a while. I’ve hated dancing before, and I’ll hate it again. But it never lasts long.
Anybody got any great advice for getting out of dance depression?