Dance, Dance: How I Got My Groove Back

I have always thought that Sebastian was a good-looking guy. He always dressed and carried himself in a way that implied that he knew how to take care of himself. He was a student in my fifth year class, which had invited me and my roommate (a fellow gringa) to an Argentine asado, or barbeque. After stuffing ourselves with inordinate amounts of grilled meat, most of us were listening to music as we recuperated from a food coma. I remember leaning back in my chair and watching Sebastian dance with a female student. In one of his hands, he was simultaneously cradling a lit cigarette and a plastic cup of Fernet and Coke. With his other hand, he was skillfully spinning his partner. All the while, his feet were marking time to the rhythm of the music. For lack of a better word, he looked damn cool.

Even a couple months after the fact, this particular image is burned into my memory because it was at that exact moment that I thought, “This isn’t fair.” At this point, I had spent enough time with my students to determine that this confluence of desirable traits was not unique to Sebastian. In all of our social gatherings, after a couple hours of food and/or alcohol, the festivities would inexorably devolve into an extended karaoke dance party like this one.

Our first party in the Office

During this time, students would flaunt their skills and knowledge in a variety of musical styles, such as cumbia, salsa, quartetto, and reggaeton. These “lessons” regularly last into the early hours of the morning. It seemed that every Argentinean was born with a genetic predisposition for singing on pitch, dancing with coordination, and being ridiculously attractive. This holy trifecta defies both probability and fairness, considering how hard we had to rack our brains to share a reciprocal “traditional American dance.” Against our better judgment, we halfheartedly demonstrated the old wedding standby, the Electric Slide.

Once the shame of linedancing to “Achy Breaky Heart” wore off, I started pondering the roots of the prevalent “gringo with no rhythm” stereotype, and I set out on a mission to surpass it. I made some headway after attending a lecture on Argentine music with professor Dr. Juan Raffo, who utilized a variety of techniques to demonstrate the complicated rhythms in folklore music. We learned that many of these musical styles borrowed heavily from tribal African drumbeats. The cadence of these beats was in direct opposition to our classical sensibilities of Western music, which tend to place emphasis on the downbeat, or the “one” of each phrase. We had become so accustomed to this regimented style, that any deviation felt unnatural or awkward, explaining our inability to synchronize with certain rhythms.

With this newfound musical revelation in tow, I tackled the next matter of acquiring actual dancing skills by enrolling in a bi-weekly salsa class at a nearby dance academy. Each class was structured the same way. At approximately 10:33 PM, our instructor, another well-dressed, good-looking man who knew how to dance, would lead us in a vigorous warm-up that included a laughable quantity of hip rolls and pelvic thrusts. Next, he would break down the target moves for the night, and we would drill them together. At the midway point, we would switch to practicing the new steps with partners. Since salsa is a couple’s dance, you would think that we would look forward to the opportunity to work in pairs. The only hitch: the number of female students outnumbered the males in a whopping 4:1 ratio. As such, the women were asked to line-up in a pattern reminiscent of an amusement park line in order to await their “turn.” Those lucky enough to end up with a partner would typically find themselves facing a self-conscious, sweaty-palmed young man unequipped for the pressure of physically engaging a conveyor belt of women. Out of principle, my inner feminist couldn’t handle it. After a month of classes, I decided to move on.

Being in Argentina, the only natural choice was tango. To get the full experience, I plunged into the heart of the beast: Buenos Aires. In this cosmopolitan metropolis, there are guidebooks and brochures dealing exclusively with milongas, dedicated tango halls. I signed-up for a class in the ritzy Palermo district, receiving the full “tourist” package: a tango demonstration, a formal class, and finally free dance. After a few minutes of audience banter involving a soccer ball and some attractive, well-dressed Argentine women who were likely very good dancers, the emcee finally introduced the 4 couples who would also be our teachers that evening. The lights around the dance floor dimmed, and the speakers were filled with the plaintive strains of bandoneon and violin. The couples marched effortlessly across the floor, their bodies aligned and in sync. In watching their movements, the rigid postures and complicated footwork seemed to follow very strict conventions of steps and form. Once we started actually practicing, however, we discovered that there was much less emphasis on actual choreography as much as spontaneous reaction to the music and your partner. A memorable “teachable moment” involved a partner with whom I initially had difficulties following. After several clumsy missteps, he told me to close my eyes. I obliged. In the absence of sight, I became acutely aware of the floor at my feet, my physical proximity to other couples, the stringed instruments in the music, even the scent of my partner’s cologne. Without any visual cues, my only choice was to move instinctively, and it was surprising how naturally I followed him. This incredibly visceral experience helped me appreciate the reactive, intuitive, and literal sensuality of the dance.

Obviously, a 45-minute tango lesson is not sufficient to overturn the “Americans can’t dance” stereotype. A month of salsa classes was also inadequate, as we painfully discovered the first time we wandered into a salsa bar. As we tried to maneuver our way through the sea of gyrating couples, we were repeatedly buffeted by an array of people spinning and turning in seemingly unpredictable directions. I was beginning to think my undertaking was a hopeless cause, but I decided to throw one last desperate Hail Mary. With nothing left to lose, I decided to show off my moves at a boliche, an Argentine disco. Although my experience with these dance halls is woefully limited, I have noticed a few universal commonalities: an over reliance on Matrix style lasers and fog machines; a large projector screen showing music videos; and a surly DJ who runs the playlist with dour stoicism. Each boliche has its own special gimmicks (a ceiling of disco balls, glow-in-the-dark ice cubes, etc), but it all reduces to the same thing: a big sweaty dance party. And if there is one dance move that Americans can claim as their own, it would be the club grind. There are no genre-specific steps nor does it require any formal training. Essentially, it involves bopping your head, swinging your hips, and moving your extremities in some semblance of rhythm. Depending on the song, it may also be acceptable to jump up and down in a steady bounce.

Can this even be correctly categorized as "dancing"?

In accordance with our gringo sensibilities of club dancing, my roommate and I started flailing and thrashing our limbs in reckless abandon. If an opportune hole opened up amid the mass of humanity, we would creep into it like auspicious Walmart shareholders, shaking our heads and waving our arms the whole way. Admittedly, there were occasions when we would lose control of our hopping and accidentally bump into our neighbors. Nevertheless, these incidents usually occurred during Lady Gaga songs, which provides full amnesty for your behavior within the duration of the song. After a particularly raucous rendition of “Bad Romance,” I made eye contact with yet another well-dressed, good-looking Argentine man who seemed to know how to dance. He leaned his face towards mine, and yelled something into my ear, but it was unintelligible over the thundering bass. After a few more tries, I was finally able to piece together “Bailas muy bien” (You dance very well). I grinned in understanding, and he raised his glass to me before returning to his respective party. At that moment, I was breathing heavily, sweating profusely, and feeling immensely satisfied with myself. Mission accomplished.

Just dance, gonna be okay, d-d-d-dance