Thank goodness for Brylcreem and penciled on stocking seams.
Chances are, a few generations ago, your grand-pappy or great grand-pappy met your grand-mammy or great grand-mammy at a dance, his hair slick enough to lubricate flathead Ford and her with fake “nylons” painted on due to war-time rationing. Imagine a dance hall with a small swing band thumping away on a stage, the haze of Lucky Strike cigarette smoke lingering in the air. On the floor is a crowd of couples twisting, spinning, turning, dipping. A few girls are sitting by the far wall, not dancing. A guy with shiny hair eyes one of them through the gaps in the dancers and the cloud of smoke. He makes up his mind. He’s going over there to ask her. His heart starts pounding. What if she says “no”?
Back in January, I went to a dance at the Williamson County Performing arts center. The small theater where the dance took place had several tiers of upholstered seats, a stage for the 16-piece live band, and about five square feet of hardwood for a posse of dancers big enough to make the fire marshall start lobbing obscenities. After a short lesson with just enough information to make you look like an “idiot” instead of a “complete idiot”, we were set loose.
The band was marvelous. As a recovering jazz nerd, I was almost tempted just to take a seat in one of the comfy theater chairs and listen to them instead. That wouldn’t require any courage. I could sit there and not worry about rejection. But no, I was on a mission, doggedly determined to be like James Bond that night.
I think I danced with ten different girls. I’d never met a single one of them before. It’s a marvel that a woman would let herself hold hands with—and avoid getting stepped on by—a strange skinny guy who’s barely got any moves, but they did. The thing is, so many girls were in the same boat. They weren’t that great at dancing, either. One girl was stiff as a board and looked completely terrified. Another girl danced with me like I was a terrible bore with moves so simplistic that I probably got them from the back of a cereal box. One girl was tense, but laughed at every mistake she made with the kindest smile, trying to make conversation.
Having gone to the dance by myself, there wasn’t much to do but treat everyone to an Irish goodbye when it was all over with. There was nowhere to just hangout and talk if you weren’t dancing, so getting to know people was tough between songs. That, and I was tired from the long weekend and all the asking-girls-to-dance, so I took the cowards way out.
Still, I have to admit I was proud of myself. I felt like I’d witnessed an ancient ritual I’d never seen before. An ancient ritual that our grand-pappies and grand-mammies participated in. But it’s not a dying ritual. More niche perhaps, but not dying. I was shocked to see how many people my age and younger were there, and in retro garb, too. No, swing dancing is alive and well.
And I love swing dancing. I plan on going back, in case you were wondering. There’s something mysterious and wonderful about stepping in time to an infectious, syncopated beat with someone else. As the Lovin’ Spoonful said, “it makes you feel happy like an old-time movie.” Who knows, maybe none of us would even be here if our ancestors hadn’t met out there on the dance floor.
So I say, thank goodness for Brylcreem and penciled-on stocking seams.