I try not to get distracted from my dancing goal, which is to make or secure safe spaces for traditional Catholics to dance. Reminding myself of this goal has saved me from many an impulse purchase or unwieldy plan (e.g. “Let’s all go to Vienna, take a waltzing class there, and then go to the Confectioners’ Ball!”). However, sometimes I cannot resist a wee class here or there, even if nobody else I know is interested.
Thus, this weekend I danced every day: on Friday Mr. McLean and I heard a jazz band at Heriot’s Rugby Club, on Saturday I took two workshops: Solo Charleston and advanced Lindy Hop moves, and on Sunday I went with friends to darkest Leith to learn the Slow Foxtrot. Interestingly, the latter three events were the ones super-safe for trads.
On Friday, Mr. McL and I were joined by one of our TLM friends, who enjoyed the band and asked me and lady strangers to dance. The youngest lady-stranger had come with two slender male friends, but was somewhat hampered in her dancing, for one slender male friend would cut in on her and dance away with the other one. One of the male friends asked our TLM friend to dance, and naturally he declined, albeit politely. (Flashback to another event: “Okay, boys, what will you do if another man asks you do dance?” “We will punch him!” “Nooo…”)
As usual, the quality of dancing was of a very high and varied order, with foxtrot, Lindy Hop, Balboa, and Collegiate Shag all making an appearance, often at the same time. There were also some very beautiful vintage-style dancing shoes on the ladies. (Loud sigh.) Meanwhile, I discovered that what I had read as “swing jazz” was actually “string jazz.” My companions enjoyed this highly (Mr McL saying knowledgeable stuff about Django Reinhardt), but I missed the juicy blare of brass.
On Saturday, I abandoned Mr. McL at home and travelled to a community centre in Oxgangs Brae for the two workshops. The first, which featured about a dozen women and only one man (besides the husband in the husband-and-wife teaching team), was in Solo Charleston, and we set about learning a lighthearted routine, clocking the names of the different moves, like “Spank the Baby” and “Bees’ Knees.” I was the only one of our merry little band who turned up for this, which (as it was Solo) was fine. It was also useful for improving partnered Lindy Hop, for there are times when one’s partner just drops one’s hand and cuts a little caper, and then it is useful to have handy some solo steps of one’s own.
The advanced Lindy class was, however, entirely dependent on partners, and so I was very glad to espy J. sitting out in the glorious sunshine, waiting to be summoned. The lesson attracted a number of people I recognized from other Lindy events, but all the so-called Leads were men, and all the so-called Follows were women, and there was no gender-bending larking about. There was also no switching of partners–except the section in which we learned to steal other people’s, in which one pair worked with another. It was great fun, and everyone seemed to enjoy themselves while at the same time being attentive and methodical.
Then on Sunday evening I went to Leith with a female friend and met there a young TLM man visiting from the US. There we were hit in the eye by the multicoloured dress shirt of the male half of the teaching team. This was nothing, however, compared to the stunning blow delivered by the multicoloured dance pants of the female half, which were fringed both inside and outside the legs in baby blue yarn. Yes, we had left the genteel orbit of 1930s swing dance for Strictly Come Dancing.
Our goal was to learn the Slow Foxtrot, but this was hampered in two respects: first, we had brought one man two few. There was no doubting this: pre-2015 heteronormativity prevailed, and although there was a solid number of middle-aged men determined to dance in the good old way of their grandparents, there were also spare women.
Second, the instructors, lifelong DanceSport competitors, taught the steps by performing long sequences, over and over, and directing their students just to follow them before partnering up. This method was in contrast to that of local swing (and, I’m told, salsa) teachers, who slowly break routines down, step by step, so at the end everyone can credibly perform the dance. But although our band of three was somewhat daunted, the other students swooped forward and backward with relative ease. From this we suspected that this so-called “Beginner Class” was in fact filled with non-beginner regulars.
The presence of these regulars, however, was evidence that the teachers have managed to command their loyalty. Presumably they, too, had been beginners once, stumbling confusedly, and yet here they were gracefully gliding around us. Therefore, I plan to go to the “repeat” class if I can find a willing lead to go with me. If I can’t, I will not get distracted but instead call up the ballroom teachers every couple of weeks or so to find out when they plan to teach the waltz.