Moby Dick Weighs in on Alternative Tango

This is how Melville described the fiery debate of his day*:

On a good day, the sailors kill two kinds of whales: After slaughtering, the sperm-whale’s head hangs off the right side of the boat, and the right-whale’s head hangs off the left. With both heads in place, the boat is balanced. But the sailors are stumped as to how to cut each one loose without capsizing the ship.

Brian says: Tango is big enough to accommodate more than one style of music.

Tom says: Appreciate each style of music for what it is, and use each accordingly.

I say: Be careful of the ship, too. The Colorado tango scene is a unique and beautiful thing. Other communities are partitioned and sorely divided. Schisms have a way of turning into feuds. Have a care.


*(Locke and Kant, empiricist and idealist, duking it out.)

Alternative Tango

The first time I heard the words “alternative tango,” I nearly jumped out of my chair. I never imagined to hear those two words together. What with the whole Latin thing and all that.

I am not well connected in the alternative community, but my church is a focal point for Denver’s GLBTQ Christians (two words you may be surprised to hear together), and some of my best friends … as they say.

I was new to tango and like all of the newly hooked, eager to share. Have you ever been punched so hard it lifted you off your feet? Joy sucker punched me then. I was already planning: spreading the word … a carpool to Boulder. Then my ears kicked in.

It’s about the music.

Oh. Right.

Thud.

Who would have thought that, four months later, the Tango Colorado and tango-l listservs would be burning up with a debate as fiery and caustic as the debate over my friends’ alternative lives?

Imagine: conservatives stridently defending tradition, alternatives stridently advocating change, a heckler pouring gas on the flames.

Through this discussion, I am learning about tradition and trends, the current state of tango, the spread and variations around the world, the bastardization and rejuvenation, the art and the hobby, the meaning of polyphonic. This is one of the functions of fiery debate: education. But that is only one part of the story.

From the most recent exchanges, I gather inferences about the actors. Brian is American; he doesn’t believe you need to rely on experts to tell you what’s as obvious as the nose on your face. Grisha is an expert, with a well-trained ear and subtle understanding of form. Nina is passionately devoted to the substance of tradition, a tradition that she is largely responsible for creating in Denver.

I admire them. I admire Brian’s evenhandedness and his respect for his former teacher even as he holds his own against her. I admire Grisha’s measured, informed reply. I admire Nina’s unmodulated passion, overlain with decency toward her opponents. One must speak out, and vociferously, when one sees a wrong. Nina is vociferous, she comes awfully close to crossing the line of fair play, but she is never unkind.

***

Last month I tangoed in four states in four days. Every community brought itself to the dance. Anchorage was casual, all about connecting with friends. Seattle was sophisticated, hierarchical, very New England. Portland was egalitarian, cosmopolitan in the true sense of the word. Denver had a down-home earnestness about it. Every one had taken the tango and made it it's own.

What is the relationship between rejuvenation and bastardization? Between dissemination and adaptation? One country adopts the dance of Argentina. But that country is France … or Japan … or the US … The Netherlands. These places have none of the Latin history or social mores. Each has history and norms of its own. Fusion happens.

I am grateful to my tango teachers for bringing this topic up, again and again, for keeping our eyes on the tide as it comes in. Tides come in slowly, and often we miss them until we’re immersed.

The Queen Speaks

To the Men of Tango Colorado … and points West

Inside every woman there is a queen. Speak to the queen, and the queen will answer.

(Norwegian proverb)

5 things I don’t need to hear again:

“So. You’re a beginner,” in a half-accusatory tone.
Hey, I didn’t trick you into this dance. You asked me. Next time, check out the goods first.

“Relax.”
I'm trying! I really, really am!

“Nooo. We’re going to do the cross until you get it right.”
“Thank you” (i.e., go to hell)

“Lean on me. More.”
I prefer an upright style. A little distance is a beautiful thing in any relationship.

“Come over here. Don’t you back away from me.”
I have knees and I know how to use them. You sure you want a close embrace?


8 Things You Can Continue to Say as Often as You Like

You dance beautifully. Where have you been all my life?

Grrrrowwwrrrl. (the tango attitude)

You’re very graceful.

You follow better than anyone. I’m Ed. Will you marry me?

Hmm-mmm (the singing deep in the chest)

I’m going to play a little bit now.

Yes, my queen.

Lovely.

Get Piggy with It!

Sunday, February 11, 2007

Hope floats.

I have not eaten in nearly two days. Stomach won't let me, the usual dance. Today, I try again. For breakfast, a latte with sugar on top. (Use the rough brown sugar. Sprinkle it on top of the foam. Slurp, and you’ll get those rough grains with your coffee. Something to chew!)

Stomach approves. Happy day!

Four p.m. No work today; giving the stomach a break. With friends we drop by the Handlebar for a late lunch. I show my stomach the menu; we confer. The stomach is feeling like an All-American: cheeseburger, fries and a beer. “Really?” I say, double-checking. “Hurry up!” it commands.

The waitress sets down the food. As the stomach considers, I wait.

Green light! I send down

big bison burger—1/2 pound!
hot pepper cheese
the whole bun
the lettuce leaf
the slice of tomato
the pickle
the fries, every last one
a teenager’s supply of ketchup and mustard
Keith’s mashed potatoes and gravy
my glass of beer and a little of Keith’s

“Admit it, old pal, that’s loads of fun,” I say to my gut.

Back home, I lie down on the couch. Stomach circles ‘round once, twice, curls up with a purr. Time for a nap. Thanksgiving!

Dancing with Grisha

Grisha has no one to teach with since Nina and he no longer teach together. He borrows women from the class to demonstrate techniques.

Sue looks lovely in his embrace. She tucks her cheek against the hollow of his shoulder, and her hair curtains her face. They demonstrate a step once, twice, again. He leads her out of the step into a turn, and suddenly we see her. She is radiant! She looks like a child who has just torn the wrapping off the most perfect gift.

Grisha opens his mouth to explain the technique. He's stopped by the fact that all eyes are on Sue. A woman in the class asks What's with you?

I LOVE dancing with Grisha! she says.

There's a pause. Grisha ducks his head. He is inconsequential. This moment is all about the bliss of a follower in the thrall of a great lead. Oh, let's be honest. He's sexy as hell, and it's more than his competence that has Sue in his thrall.

If this were anyone less genuine, this moment would be extremely tacky. Sue's artlessness brings us all into the moment with her. Like a scent that evokes a sweet memory, her reaction stirs in us the reactions we've had, her honesty invokes our own.

We all laugh, except Grisha, who turns a self-effacing smile upon his shoes. You get the sense he might like it if his hair were long enough to curtain his face. Sue would like to stop smiling, but the radiance won't let her. Self-conscious about this, she giggles.

The pause is brief. The demonstration resumes, Grisha leading expertly, Sue dancing beautifully, her smile incandescent.

Eleven Perfect Steps, Part 4

I will never be able to do this.

I can’t do this. I can’t keep trying and trying and trying. I can’t walk a single step without faltering. Everything I try fails and fails again.

I start at the feet, tightening everything up, tuck in my butt, clench those muscles, suck in my stomach, contract my ribs, lift my chest, pull my shoulders down and back. I am in ballet repose, poised for flight, my energy a fine, taut line that shoots in two directions from a place just under my ribs: to the stars, to the center of the earth. This is a lovely place to be, poised for flight.

Q is at my back; I am facing The Man on the Wall. I turn out from the hip and present my foot. It is the most beautiful movement in dance. It is degage, tendu, the beginning of rond de jambe. It’s a very small and particular move, and it feels as lovely as it looks. I could do just this and no more. My foot is a precious jewel I offer tenderly to the floor. Just so.

The Man on the Wall Smiles appreciatively. Apparently, he is an ankle man.

My feet are turned out, not severely as in ballet, but 30 degrees, my natural stance. My rear leg is bent and I push off from the ball of my foot. I land sharply and square on the front foot; my leg is tall, solid and flexible as a tree. This has the feel of the chaine turn or a pirouette: stick it, stick it stick it. You must land precisely, square and straight on your foot, strong and perfectly centered, or you'll land on your axis, as they say.

Except that I don’t. Nine years of ballet and I never found my axis.

I am told to collect from the groin. I press my thighs hard together. My center is in there somewhere. I compress all of my energy into where it might be. As I squeeze my thighs together, the balls of my feet dig into the ground until I think they will break.

Mid-step, one foot in front and one foot behind, weight on the front foot. Halfway there!

Now to collect. Slide the rear foot forward to be meet the front foot.

I dig my front foot into the floor. My rear foot digs a trench as I drag the leg forward. My thighs are so clenched that my feet are turned onto their inside edge. I am impressed; I see this quite often on the better dancers.

But it is no good for me. My center sloshes from side to side, taking me with it. I grab for a bookshelf, the back of the chair, a piece of the wall. I tell myself with every step, “Stick it. Stick it. Stick it.”

Eleven steps to the end of the room. I take one staggering step after another. I grab for a bookshelf, the back of a chair, a piece of the doorjamb. When I reach the end, I topple against The Man on the Wall’s hard chest.

Originally, the game was to retreat to the starting line every time I staggered, so that over time I would go from one perfect step to two to three to four.... I have a different goal now: to get from one end of the room to the other without grabbing onto supports.

I have been at it 90 minutes tonight. I am at it nearly every night, 60 minutes, 90 minutes and more. Pugliese, Canaro, Di Sarli. I walk forward and backward, with front hooks and back. This is Tom’s warm-up drill. Everyone in the class can do it but me. My feet hurt and hurt. I am growing bunions the size of my knees. And I still can’t go even one pass of the room.

My grandmother used to say, “If I thought it would help, I would cry.”

I know that it won’t, but I do.

Pics of Tango Tour to Come

Stay tuned