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The Empty Building
I do not remember why the notion of ballroom dancing seized my childish fancy. What I do remember is that ballroom dancing was mentioned in the municipal activities catalogue. This was, of course, still printed on soft paper, and listed all the lessons that were available to the taxpaying public for a nominal fee. These included instruction in skating, swimming and skiing.
For whatever reason, when I saw ballroom dancing listed, I applied to my mother for permission and money to go. She was enthusiastic. In fact, she even offered to pay my brother to accompany me, on the grounds that her father had been paid to escort his sisters to dancing lessons in the 1920s. That settled to everyone’s satisfaction, my brother and I travelled at the appointed time to the community centre.
I cannot remember if we went by bus or if we were dropped off. I also cannot remember if there werea payphone, or if a parent waited in the car to be sure. I certainly either option was the case, for when we entered the community centre, we found it deserted.
The building was empty and silent. There was no music. There were no people. Someone had blundered. Disappointment fell on me like a heavy coat.
Eventually my brother and I went home, and my mother made enquiries. In short, the ballroom dance classes had been cancelled for lack of interest. And in hindsight I’m amazed that dancing merchants like Arthur Murray Dance Studios survived the 1980s. Structured partner dancing was completely out of fashion, and the swing revival would not begin until the 1990s.
Outside of the ethnic enclaves and the Legion Hall, pop music ruled the dance floor, and the only place I saw ballroom was in old movies and the nursing home where my grandmother and her friends volunteered. Freddie played his accordion, his wife Margaret sang, and my grandmother invited the residents to dance. She “led” the women and “followed” the men. Being able to switch roles easily is really something, I now know.
It is amusing to think that the cutting edge music of the 1980s will one day feature in the party rooms of nursing homes just as the dolphin tattoo in the small of the back will identify the vintage of my cohort of elderly ladies. Young volunteers will gape at the residents’ stories of weekly, if not nightly, excursions to dark warehouses where they boogied under flashing purple lights to the recorded music of oddly-named bands like Skinny Puppy and The Bangles.
Unless my crystal ball misleads me, the youngsters’ surprise will be linked to the decline in popularity of dance clubs in the 21st century, especially post-COVID. Video killed the radio star, we children sang, and clubs are being killed by Netflix, dating apps, other social media, and shrinking budgets. A recent Guardian article cited a report by the Night Time Industries Association finding that “[n]ationwide… the number of nightclubs has fallen by 396 since March 2020, almost a third of its pre-pandemic total of 1,283.”
The UK’s population is over 67 million.
The Guardian music critic advises his readers not to sit at home despairing for the shuttering clubs, but to go out and support their local nightclubs. I am not at all tempted to do that, for remembering nights squandered in dark dirty rooms wriggling beside strangers to loud music while drinking red wine or alcopop is much more pleasant than the reality was. In hindsight what was most fun was simply being out after dark with my friends and feeling the slightly electric atmosphere of crowds seeking fun.
In the 1980s and 1990s, young people went to the same clubs with the same regularity as devout Christians went to church, and thus they formed and participated in their own communities of believers. For a time I went religiously to a basement on Toronto’s Queen Street West, met many interesting characters, and was suddenly bitten–actually bitten–by a former child TV star. Thirty-six hours later I would be, of course, at actual church. That particular scene crossed over the 1990s Spoken Word scene, so I still have friends from that time. One has converted to Catholicism but still invites me along to dodgy-named dance events when I’m in Toronto.
My current opinion, heavily influenced by the famous Dr. K, is that dance clubs are not (or were not) wholesome spaces for people longing for a closer relationship with God and their communities. In a way they are (or were) better than sitting at home plugged into the internet, for they did provide a chance to meet and chat with real people in a natural way. However, I can think of a cafรฉ I frequented in my late 20s that did that much better than any night club. And, of course, clubs are (or were) the hunting grounds for libertines wanting an easy lay. And once grinding became mainstream, women were at risk of …
It’s too depressing even to think of.
While reading about the 20th century parish halls, dance halls and marquees of Ireland, I found myself becoming wistful. There were various laws (and bishops) trying to protect the physical safety and morals of a population that apparently had nothing else to do at night but dance, but dance they did. From 1900 to 1960, they weren’t flailing about but mastering real dances they had had to learn. It must have been a wonderful time to be a musician, let alone a dancer. The Irish have a reputation for gregariousness, and this constant evening dancing might a reason why.
Video killed the radio star. Video also, it would seem, killed the parish dance. And this is very sad, for the greatest predictor of overall happiness is good relationships, that is, community. Obviously good relationships within the family are most important, but good relationships wherever you find yourself foster your general well-being. And very good relationships are most likely to formed by people who share common values, as do traditional Catholics. The more opportunities for Catholics to spend time together, the better, I believe. And thus I am becomingly increasingly noisy about reviving such moribund institutions as the parish dance.
How wonderful if, instead of haunting cellars on Queen Street West on Friday nights, I had had the warm and friendly alternative of dancing reels or Lindy with my fellow Catholics. How much better it would have been if the grimy dance clubs, not the parish halls, had been the empty buildings.
Thank you to those who came to the Michaelmas Dance 2024! For information on upcoming events, please contact me at info@tradcathsocialdancing.co.uk.