Thursday was a dance day – Save The Last Dance with Pei Ee in the afternoon, and lindy-hopping at night.
Save The Last Dance: some good dancing, pity about the rest of it. Especially cringeworthy bits included the black-guy-teaches-white-girl-how-to-get-wit-de-ghetto sequence that seems obligatory in these kinds of films, and, unfortunately for the scriptwriters, the big Emotional Breakthrough Moment when she finally managed to talk about her dead mother and why she quit ballet. We were greatly amused by the “MY DREAMS KILLED HER!!!” line. (If you haven’t seen the film, you can probably work out most of what happens just from this, with very little imagination needed)
All the same, I am a sucker for these self-discovery and realization of dreams and oh yeah, love, through _________ (fill in relevant dance style eg. disco, ballroom, mambo etc., and if you can name the corresponding film for each of those, then maybe you’re a sucker too) movies. I like climactic triumphal dance extravaganza scenes.
And then there was lindy-hopping, which has once again got me in its irresistably addictive grip. As much as I like clubbing, no clubbing experience I’ve ever had (with the exception of the drum’n’bass room at Fabric) manages to match the couple of hours I lindy-hop each week for pure joy provision.
I know why. It’s in that buoyant moment where push and pull and my fingers hooked on his all work together to give ooomph, that elusive but wonderful connection with a good partner. It’s in the music, never monotonous like club music can often be, full of wonderful sounds; trumpet like the sun singing, Ella’s voice like warm silken honey on your skin. It’s in the quaintly romantic idea of his proferred hand, her smile of acceptance, the communion of eyes during the dance, even though most of us are there to romance the dance rather than each other.
That’s why it ain’t got a thing if it ain’t got that swing.