Beats, not Notes

One night in February, Glenlivet and David Hodgson and I were listening to music.

“That’s fast,” Glenlivet said.

“No, that’s slow,” David answered with his sly grin.

Many things David says are inexplicable. But I suspect he was putting us on. That music was fast.

* * *

Lately I have been staring fixedly at a certain track on the CITA 2005 DVD.

I love Osvaldo and Coco. Their dancing is simple and sweet. Osvaldo slips in clever footwork; Coco indulges his flights of fancy. Look: In their dance you can see their relationship, a courtship grown mature.

Look again: See them young, their courtship brand new. Osvaldo the suitor offers fancy footwork, a gift to say, “I like you, I want to impress you, do you like me?, here’s my heart.” Coco, wise in the ways of dancing men, smiles inwardly. Fondly they embrace. When the dance ends, they kiss.

What I can’t figure out, now, is why Osvaldo is wasting this milonga. Here he is, up on the stage, in front of a big crowd, in front of a camera. The music runs merrily over the couple like water, but Osvaldo is not dancing on the waves. He is walking through them as you would through deep water. Walking beautifully, but look at all those notes he is missing.

The younger dancers do it much better. They revel, they dazzle, they leap and sparkle. Yes, that is more like it!

* * *

We need to work on milonga, Grisha says.

I do.

He puts on some music. It is intimidatingly fast.

Wow, that’s fast, I say.

No, it’s slow, Grisha answers.

What’s this? I am slow-mo by nature, but by any measure, this music is fast. Have David and Grisha formed a pact to mess with my head? Or am I in Warp-world, where nothing I know, not even the definitions of everyday words, holds true?

We dance. It is fast. Trust me on this.

Then it’s not. Grisha has put on the brakes. He is dancing like Osvaldo. Warp-world. I have learned not to fight it. Then it’s fast again. Then we are done.

I am not panting; I have an efficient cardiovascular system. But I am not fooled.

That was fast, I repeat.

Grisha repeats, No.

He shows me sheet music. It is fussy with notes.

Don’t look at the notes, he says, look at the beats. He replays the milonga, taps to the beat.

For several measures I rely on his hand to tell me where the beat falls. Then I hear a few beats here and there, and then I hear them all. Wow! I feel my face go alight.

Who knew? Every milonga is two rivers at once: the sparkling surface, the quiet deep.

Osvaldo, you clever fox, your feet whispering secrets in plain sight. Coco, your inward, knowing smile.

This fancy bit whispers, “Remember, my dear?” This one teases, “We still have what it takes.” Slow steps murmur, “All that and more, dear, is ours.” Fondly they dance. When the dance ends, they kiss.

Let the young dancers leap and sparkle. Let the deep current run true.

* * *

It’s Friday night at the Merc, the big night of the week for Tango Colorado. This is when we dress up, to the extent that Coloradoans do, and show off our stuff.

I am dancing with a new, favorite lead. He comes to tango from swing dancing. We have scampered through all kinds of quick-step dances at the Avalon, where Donna plays alternative music on Sunday nights.

But this is a traditional milonga. He is lost. He rocks, takes a few steps, rocks some more.

Wow, this is fast, he says.

Sure enough. The notes are coming at us like a river in flood.

I don’t really know what to do with this, he says.

This is not a practica, not the right place to offer an impromptu lesson. I am no master of milonga myself. I have one piece of information that I can share, and I don’t know if I can explain it in a way that he will understand. I have a music background, so I already knew the difference between beats and notes; I only needed Grisha’s help to apply what I knew to this style of music. I don’t know what kind of music background this guy has. And, I don’t know if he would appreciate a follower offering a suggestion—many leads don’t. I don’t know …

What the heck. My new friend is dying here. I give it my best shot.

There are beats under the notes, I say. Listen for the beats. It’s not fast.

His face goes screwy with concentration. For several measures we stand stock-still; we are not even rocking in place. I can’t help him, I have shared the full measure of my knowledge. (Still, I’m pretty impressed with myself. I said, “It’s not fast” just like an old pro!)

All of a sudden, his whole face lights up

and we’re off!