C'mon - Not So Serious!

Dance is not serious.

Blasphemy, you say? I guess I can understand that - every dance instructor from the best to the worse have those of us who take dance lessons convinced that the only measure of your ability to dance is the number of steps you know. By rights you should drill continuously and with the kind of seriousness and commitment that once was reserved for the Marines. There's a good bit of irony in the fact that Edwin Denby, a renowned dance critic, once said "There is a bit of insanity in dance that does everybody a great deal of good." The problem is that most dance instructors have become psychologists steadily trying to couch dance for one hour sessions where its idiosyncrasies can be documented, diagnosed, and suppressed with the right combination of drugs.

It's even funnier when you consider something like swing dancing. In the 30's big dance studios were busily dismissing the Lindy Hop and swing in general as an 'unfortunate collision of economic circumstance and declining morals…' Now, a little over seventy years later, all those studios (that still exist) are teaching several sorts of swing dance. The problem is they had to categorize them, name steps, map out everything, and apply their stuffy metering before they could offer lessons.

So, in honor of the sheer silliness of swing, here's a cartoon with the message - don't be so uptight about your swing!

Curmudgeon-ing with the Stars

How many of you are into that Dancing with the Stars thing? Its okay, admitting you have a problem is the first step toward being ostracized, ridiculed, and eventually learning to keep things like this to yourself. It'll toughen you up to put your foibles out on the table where we all can get a good laugh at them. Personally, I've never watched the show - you see, old DC isn't much for national trends...if the nation could elect George Bush twice, I think their record speaks for itself. In spite of that, I actually do have an issue with Dancing with the Stars - what, you're suprised?

You ever watch those nature programs about animal intelligence? You know, the ones where they teach a chimp to to push a certain button when it sees a certain picture? Or maybe you’ve been to Sea World and where they have the sea lions that play Yankee Doodle Dandy on horns? My point is this, yes it’s impressive that Bubbles can tell the difference between a house and a cat (trust me, in the time he spent with Michael Jackson he learned less savory tricks than button pressing) but is it really that much more amazing than your Irish Setter rolling over or playing dead for a Beggin’ Strip? I'd never claim that Rex is ready for a black tie and an hour of prime time 'cause he does a mean 'shake hands'.

Then tell me, why is it amazing when a handful of Hollywood’s second (or third) tier celebs get daily doses of intensive dance tutoring to do one dance - and then they’re actually able to do it? What, they haven’t been tap-dancing for the cameras their whole career? And they're learning a routine - folks, it's just like learning lines, only with their feet! If they had to go out on the dance floors you and I vist - the ones with the walleyed guy who dances at one-third the tempo of the music and couple who think they've just finished a command performance at the Bolshoi - well, maybe I'd be mildly impressed...or at least less disgusted. Or maybe I'd cut them some slack if they got their prescious private tutoring and then had to dance to a random tune played by some weekend-job band who can't quite decide if Fly Me to the Moon is a foxtrot or a cha-cha.

What would be more amazing would be to teach some of the fauna from the local tavern to dance – now I'd watch that show. Nothing like seeing some of the same schmos I have to deal with every weekend get a chance to make asses of themselves in front of the TV audience. Or, better yet, take a bunch of the Dancing with the Stars, B-list celebs to the local day-labor site and set them up as dry wall installers, painters, or lawnmower jockeys. Hell yes, I’d watch Kristi Yamaguchi do the weed-whacker tango any night of the week…except Mondays during football season; some things are sacred even to old DC.

Return to Fountain Square

It was with a sense of trepidation that I returned to the Fountain Square Theatre. Not due to some miscue or horrible dance incident and not due to the clientele or neighborhood. Instead my problem is a fundamental part of the venue itself.

On the surface it seems like FS would be right up my alley – built in 1928 the Theatre building was what it still is today: an entertainment and shopping venue. My admitted love of old venues would seemingly make this one a shoe in and I’ll admit a fondness for the place. The problem, though, is a matter of space and popularity.

See, FS admits the under-21 crowd…something I still haven’t figured out considering Indiana’s liquor laws. This is great – I’m glad that there’s a ‘next generation’ swinging and hopping. It makes it more likely the venues I love will still be dance halls 20 years from now instead of becoming strip malls or parking garages. The problem is – well – manners.

Maybe I’m being too hard on the under-21’ers. I’ve met plenty of dopes on the dance floor and a lot of them were well over 21. The thing is when you combine youthful enthusiasm, energy, and a lack of knowledge about dance etiquette you get – well – Fountain Square. Whenever I get on their (very small) floor I always have the feeling I might as well be dancing in the middle of the Interstate. I’m out there just waiting to get hit by a Mack Truck. If it isn’t the guy who’s flailing his elbows from side-to-side like he’s in a bad boxing match it’s the guy whose damn well going to do the triple-running-backward-somersault-handstand with a nose tweak even though he has two feet to dance in. At times it’s more than defensive dancing, its run-for-your-life dancing.

The one thing I will firmly put on the shoulders of the youth is standing on the floor doing nothing. I’m channeling DC here but I don’t get why you’d get on the dance floor and then decide to congregate with twelve of your friends to discuss the day’s events. What, there isn’t a street you can go play in? Wall flowers ought to grow on walls – not all around the edges of the floor like some kind of dance barnacles! Actually, I take it back – I don’t fully lay the standing about on the shoulders of the youth. Part of the blame goes to the dance organizers. If you’re running a dance you ought to run it and a part of that means policing the event – including encouraging people to move on and off the floor in an orderly and polite manner and closing the gates when the venue is full.

Still, nobody was home in the management of the Fountain Square Friday Night Swing. Every month it got worse – there were more people and less room to dance until it was almost impossible to get on the floor without getting stepped on. Eventually we stopped going and for the past three months or so we haven’t even attempted to go to FS. That is until tonight.

How did it go? At first pretty well – I’d forgot the energy that inhabits FS. The place is alive – filled with the energy of youth and exuberance. The Blue Sky band was playing – a new incarnation of Blue Thunder which we’ve seen multiple times – and they were in good form if not the most euphonious group to grace the stage. The first three tunes were danceable (I’d argue that they need to trim their intro music down to a few bars instead of half a song that suddenly gets interrupted when the band leader starts talking) and we had a good time…until FS’s nature asserted itself.

By 9 o’clock the floor had started to turn into a regular mosh pit with the varieties of floor-clods I’ve previously discussed taking the evening. We danced for about 2 hours and during that time I stepped on someone three times, elbowed someone once, and had to dodge countless fools. The topper was the two times we returned to our seats to find someone else sitting there, which would have been tolerable if our coats and belongings hadn’t been hanging on the seat backs – clearly indicating that the seats were taken. At the first break we packed our stuff, changed out of our shoes, and hit the sidewalks.

During the car ride home we discussed just what made a place like FS so unpleasant to dance. We’ve danced other venues with a younger crowd and we’ve danced small floors without the sort of shenanigans that go on at FS – so what’s the issue? In the end there’s only one answer – the hosts. Friday Night Swing is hosted by Indy Stomp and, as the hosts, that club has to bear responsibility for the atmosphere of their dance. This includes policing the event, making sure wall flowers migrate to the wall, making sure too many people aren’t let into the event, and teaching dance floor etiquette to their students. Far too many of the people who come out of Indy Stomp seem to think the whole and only point of the Lindy Hop (Indy Stomp’s specialty) is wild acrobatics and aerial maneuvers…but they don’t seem to know that they should be paying attention to how much space the floor and crowd allows and where their maneuvering takes them.

After a year of going to FS we’re bidding the place farewell – at least as a regular venue for dancing. The point of going dancing is to enjoy oneself and the company of your partner. When you can’t do those things you’ve got to ask yourself why you’re continuing. We’ll go to some of the charitable fundraisers that FS holds – the Julian Center Dance and Silent Auction for certain – but as a regular Friday night venue for swinging FS is out.

All I Need is a Hunk of Wood

This weekend will be the first one in about a month when we haven’t had some kind of dancing ‘thing’ going on. It seems odd – with Memorial Day being observed you’d think that someone would have a local Memorial Day Dance-a-Ganza. Then again, maybe it’s not so surprising since Memorial Day is a day meant to memorialize those who gave their lives in armed combat. Flags on tombstones just don’t inspire one to Charleston, I guess.

So, without a dance to write about I’ll take the opportunity to say that I’m just looking for a good floor where we can practice our traveling dances without the interference of pets or furniture. Our place is comfortably small and though it has parquet floors which are great for practicing the Lindy or ECS, the close quarters play merry hell with a Fox Trot. If I’m not obsessing over stepping on the cat I’m worrying about backing Kelly into the credenza. Not things I want to be thinking about while trying to master a parallel walk and while I’ve convinced myself that somehow these obstacles help me cope with Johnny Schlep-a-lot out on the dance floor they’re still obstructions I’d rather just avoid.

That brings me back to a hunk of wood – or even tile. It’s amazing how hard it is to find a good sized space with a wood or tile surface where you can practice dance for an hour. We gave our local gym a shot thinking that their aerobics classes surely are held on some kind of smooth surface...but to our amazement they have this weird, knobbly rubber flooring that’s just…ick.

The options so far are:

1. Dancing at the mall – as if the mall walkers weren’t weird enough
2. Finding a new gym – the first time I will have ever quit a gym because I can’t dance to it
3. Sell our furniture – yeah, I can’t see myself watching football while laying on the floor either

So I guess until we find a nearby location we’ll just keep dancing around the obstacles while proclaiming the benefits to our floor-man-ship. Yeah…right…

Happy Armed Forces Day?

You may be aware that the third Saturday in May – that would be May 17th – was Armed Forces Day. When I heard that I did a little research, I’m embarrassed to admit that I’m a typical American in the sense that I had no idea exactly what Armed Forces Day was about except for that somehow it probably involved the armed forces. Here’s the Cliff Notes version:

“On August 31, 1949, Secretary of Defense Louis Johnson announced the creation of an Armed Forces Day to replace separate Army, Navy and Air Force Days. The single-day celebration stemmed from the unification of the Armed Forces under one department -- the Department of Defense. Each of the military leagues and orders was asked to drop sponsorship of its specific service day in order to celebrate the newly announced Armed Forces Day. The Army, Navy and Air Force leagues adopted the newly formed day. The Marine Corps League declined to drop support for Marine Corps Day but supports Armed Forces Day.”

Department of Defense

1949 was a time of change in the US. World War II had ended almost five years prior and it wouldn’t be until July of 1950 that the US would see any significant action in Korea. Five years isn’t a long time for peace to last – it’s really a brief respite between horrors when all of the ‘boys in uniform’ were home again and, if you check the birth statistics, making babies. Strange thing, though, was that even though the US fought to ‘preserve liberty and freedom throughout the world…’ on the home front it looks a lot like we were busily stamping out anything that deviated from the old established norms with vehemence.

Though the famous Savoy Ballroom, the birthplace of Lindy Hop, didn’t close its doors until 1958 one the things it’d become famous for had already started to erode by ‘49. The Savoy was the only place in the US where whites and blacks shared the same dance floor and one of the few places where a black band could play for a white audience – an island of integration in the segregated sea that was America. In ’49 there was a race riot in upstate New York, an angry mob assaulted working-class blacks over a concert performance by African-American performer Paul Robeson. The violence and bigotry would only continue to get worse.

A more insidious erosion of the meager measure of equity that had come about in the 20’s was the disappearance of the fem-fatal. The noir films and literature of the 30’s practically required the smart and markedly dangerous woman. She was tough and she knew how to maneuver through a world that was just as tough – and without a knight in armor, shining or otherwise. Mildred Pierce found her own way through the world and Nora Charles (the other half of the Hammett’s Thin Man duo) only required a man if he had a martini shaker. A real example of the bawdy, tough girl is Mae West – tough, dirty, smart, and nobody’s patsy.





Compare that to this clip from ’49 – Male Order Brides. Apparently, by ’49 women had become commodities – order them like you would a pair of shoes from the Sears and Roebucks Catalog, when you get home from your tough day doing important things at the office and one will be waiting on your doorstep (though, apparently the fellow in this video gave Sears his apartment key).





Yes, I know – there are exceptions. Monroe was cast to be the new West during the 50’s but in my opinion the US went to sleep and tried to pretend that nothing wild existed. After trenches and bombed out villages, America was ready for postage stamp lots and Levittown suburbs – identical sedans, identical suits, identical hats, and manila factory jobs where you could check your identity at the door when you punched the clock. Some utopia.

It Hurts to be Beautiful

I don't know who the originator of this quote is, but it certainly wasn't a man. Men know better. And, I’d be willing to bet said comment occurred after taking off a pair of shoes. And ladies, this ain't no pair of sneakers. We know what kind. High heeled, pointed toes, and spindly, or some combination thereof.

I remember when I was in my twenties I could jam my feet into anything and dance. Not the dances I do now, but the hop up and down slammy kind of the 80's. I'd be out all night dancing and imbibing and get up the next morning none the worse for wear. Now I always experience some sort of AM pain, and this without any, or very little alcohol. Oh how my twenties self would have scoffed.

Wimp.

Ok, so enough reminiscing and whining. How does one, in their middle dancing years, be cute and comfortable? I think this radiates mostly feet up. Yes, you want comfy, stretchy clothing, but the feet are where the mother or all pain begins, and where a solid foundation of a blissful night starts. I first acquired what I believed were "normal" dancing shoes, thin heeled, two inches high, and strappy. Hey, I thought I was doing good. Two inches isn't very high, right? And in fact the two inches was indeed about right. The strappy and spindly heels, sadly, were not. Now I'm not saying this is right for everyone, but I can't dance in those. I turn my ankles, and my feet felt like hell the next day. What I found works best for me are either swing shoes, which look like oxfords with a chunky heel, or ballroom "practice" shoes which have mesh sides and a thick "Cuban" heel. The mesh ones at least have some glitter on them for fancy dances. And after the first few times I got over myself and figure I'd rather be comfortable than glitzy.

Also in my quest for happy feet I've bought and discarded a number of shoe pads. I first tried Dr. Scholl's gel inserts. I figured the doctor knows best...I wore his sandals all through college, after all. And they did feel good when I first put them in. Sad to say, they caused my toes to hurt after dancing. I think they made my poor tootsies curl up and over the gel, I'm not sure. Then I found a pair on EBay that just cushioned the ball of your foot. They had a plastic toe ring thingy that slips over a middle toe and then the pads rests over the ball. I'm sure you are all thinking that sounds horrible, but I had faith. But it WAS horrible. And they looked like some kind of weird extra flap of skin. So that didn't work.

For now I'm wearing the shoes sans pads and hoping I can find some that works. The hunt continues.

Introducing the Dancing Curmudgeon

For some time now an acquaintance of mine has been asking for airtime. I’ve been reluctant – I’m a nice guy (in spite of how bland that sounds) and I like things to stay…nice. I’m not Polly Anna, though – it’s obvious things go wrong, sometimes very wrong, but in general I like to be…nice about it. Finally, though, I agreed to (under strict moderation) allow a guest writer to voice his opinions about dance, dancers, and dancing venues. So, may I introduce to you – the Dance Curmudgeon.

The proprietors of this blog asked me to start off by introducing myself. I am that voice in the back of everyone’s head – dancer and non-dancer – that notices every fool, folly, and frustration everywhere and all the time. I am a grouch and I’m okay with that. Hey, it’s the grouches of the world who draw attention to the truly incomprehensible and stupid things that we all have to endure. While you might stifle this part of your inner self – I don’t. If I were more enlightened I might claim that this was because I believe stuffing your true feelings is detrimental to my mental health…but that’s not the reason I say what I think. I say what I think because I think it and I’m not ashamed to say so.

So, with the proper shelter provided for the duo that run this blog I can get down to business – and I’m opening that business with a simple question: Why can’t people say what they mean?

This particular beef comes from two dances that I attended this weekend…and before my hosts start to get jittery, I’m not going to name names. Still I feel the need to say something – somebody ought to and I’m not the sort to left something I feel ought to be done remain undone.

I went to an event this past Friday that was billed as including every sort of swing – at least which was what the title implied. Though I’m not given to fits of wild enthusiasm, I did have a modicum of hope for this dance. I like to swing – I don’t tango, waltz, fox trot, polka, or hula…I do East Coast swing and that’s it. I figured I’d get 50% or even 33% of the dances and I was good with that since I am considerate of the fact that everyone in the world doesn’t conform to my tastes.

The problem is, when the music started it was all – I kid you not – all West Coast swing. What happened to my ‘any swing’? I paid my ten bucks to spend a night with the wallflowers watching other people dance? Here’s the deal – I like getting what I pay for. If I buy a hotdog I want a hotdog, if I go to a Schwarzenegger flick I expect to see at least one explosion, and if I go to an ‘all swings’ dance I want to get an opportunity to dance more than one type of swing. I’m sure all of you educated folks are the same way. If you ran a restaurant called Bill’s Taco Shack, you’d serve tacos. If you put on a production of Faust, you’d provide a few shrieking sopranos and an appearance by Old Scratch. So, why would a dance be different? An event that’s billed as all sorts of swing darn well ought to have East Coast, West Coast, Western Swing, and Lindy Hop and if it’s not going to have that - change the name!

Maybe you’re saying, ‘DC, you’re getting all bent out of shape about a single dance…surely there are more dances where the organizers do the right thing than the wrong thing.’ I’d agree - if it wasn’t for the fact that something very similar happened the very next day.

This time it wasn’t the musical selection – that was fine. This time it involved a bit of impromptu patriotism. I’m fine with patriotism. I’m a patriot. I like my country. Hell, I even love it. So I had no problem when there was an announcement that there’d be an observation of Armed Forces Day – heck, the men and women who put their lives on the line whenever the dunderheads in Washington decide they ought. I even was okay with reciting the 'Pledge of Allegiance' - but I would like to point out that ‘God Bless America’ and ‘Proud to be an American’ by Lee Greenwood aren’t the same thing unlike what the DJ of this event indicated. Lee Greenwood might be a fine guy but whatever he is, he’s not Irving Berlin. In my mind ‘Proud to be an American’ is only linked to patriotism through the Bush administration’s social engineering attempts and, frankly, social engineering doesn’t sound patriotic or American to me.

In short I believe that everyone out there dancing ought to get the benefit of knowing what they’re paying for. Money’s tight these days and with the price of everything going up, nobody can afford to pay ten bucks to find out what they paid for isn’t as advertised. Also, I think that once you’re in an event – though you may be subject to the whims of its organizers – you ought to be treated like you didn’t just fall off the proverbial potato truck. Come on, give Irving some airtime and let Lee polish his boots for a few (dozen) years.

Is This Thing On?

It’s been awhile since I’ve written so I thought I’d take the time tonight to jot down (can you ‘jot’ at a computer?) a little note. In truth we've been involved in planning a family event - a party that's been, shall we say, time consuming. Even though we've kept dancing I haven't touched my keyboard for anything more taxing than a quick spin at The SIMs 2. Anyway, this isn't a blog about my excuses for not blogging - so to the dope.

We’ve got the Lindy Hop Inside Turn down! And that means we’ll actually be able to get out of the outside turn which is nice since we’ve been kind of waiting for that before we take our hop out for a public debut. Tomorrow night we’re returning to Riolo for that debut – they’re having an ‘Any Swing Goes’ night and since Riolo doesn’t play whole songs, it should be a great chance for a road test.

It’s a strange feeling to finally be airing our hop. We’ve been working on it for so long and actually we’ve been incorporating hunks of the hop into our triple swing…but somehow doing straight lindy hop is different. Maybe it’s one of those things – a goal we’ve been reaching for and now we’re about to achieve it – maybe on some level I never thought we’d be here. Still, twenty-four hours from now we’ll be donning our shoes and stepping onto the floor.

The Riolo

There’s something about swing music and a city skyline. Sure, there’s nothing wrong with country swing – that whole ho-down thing can be fun but still it isn’t for me. I like walking the pavement – for some reason it’s always just rained whenever I’m having this particular daydream – under a big marquee with the sound of a swing band leaking into the darkness. A few happy couples are making their way out of the hall, maybe pulling their collars up against the night air as they wend their way home.

Last night we visited Riolo Dance. It’s a relatively new (opened almost exactly a year ago) venue located on the second floor of an unassuming building at the corner of Capital and Michigan in downtown Indianapolis, just off the IUPUI campus. The atmosphere around the building certainly fits my nior fantasies, it’s firmly ensconced in an urban setting complete with a weathered brick alley between the studio and (what looks like) an abandoned warehouse. Even the weather cooperated – a blustery wind, low clouds, and occasional rain squalls to keep the gutters filled and the pavement damp.

Unlike my fantasy ballrooms, though, The Riolo’s entry way is unassuming – a nondescript door with a tacked up sign directly off somebody’s printer. Inside there were a series of similar signs and arrows directing us down a hallway, to an elevator, up one story, around a corner, down another hall, and finally to another utilitarian door with the Riolo sign affixed. But that’s where the plainness ended.

The Riolo is owned and operated by Marie Riolo Roach – a woman whose Italian heritage comes out in the warm colors and décor of her studio. I’ve never danced in a place that was painted rich red – the Indiana Roof may emulate a Spanish plaza through its use of elaborate facades and a simulated sky but The Riolo is something totally different. The floor is good sized and in great condition owing to its relative newness – but what makes the place really special is the view.

On two sides The Riolo’s windows look out over downtown Indy, offering a view of the AUL building’s iconic roofline to the southeast and the setting sun to the northwest. I’ve never danced in a venue that offered a view let alone had one worth offering until last night. I hear they’re having a 4th of July dance and with their location it’ll be worth the price of admission!

So, the venue’s great but what about the people, you ask? Well, we all know that a wonderful evening can be spoiled by a bunch of dancing dolts who don’t have dance floor manners. I’m happy to say that The Riolo seems to have a quality crowd, many of them familiar from our visits to the Starlight Ballroom, Indiana Roof, and other venues around the city. The DJ played a wide variety of music – everything from swing to tango – cha-cha to foxtrot. In fact my only complaint would be that they didn’t play a full song – just about half, instead…an interesting decision that allowed for more types of music but didn’t allow us to settle into any one dance very well. Still, I’d recommend The Riolo without hesitation.