Let’s Dance

by Jay Kerner
We used to move. We used to groove. We used to shake our booties and that’s the way we liked it (uh huh, uh huh). So did all of our friends. We didn’t invent it. Dancing is the earliest mating ritual of our species. Each generation moves to the music of their time and shuns most of what comes before and after.

Those in my age group first danced to 45 rpm records. The majority were inherited from older siblings and added to as allowances would allow. Starting around Sixth Grade, there was a party in somebody’s basement practically every weekend. The soundtrack arrived in little cases like music lunchboxes. You put your name on your discs with a Magic Marker (or a label maker for the OCD kids). You’d add one of yours to the stack on the changer and one by one, they’d drop onto the turntable.

And we’d dance. Just a little side-to-side to start with. Maybe some subtle hand movement. Pretty soon, Chubby Checker implored us to “Do the Twist,” and we did. Somewhere in there, slow dancing happened. Touching. Moving together. It was heady stuff.

Starting in high school, we danced to bands. Actual live bands. With guitars. And drums. And amplifiers. It was loud, and it was good! So many excellent bands! USA. Crossroads. Yellow Hair. Liquid Fire. Those names might not register with younger folks anymore, but I can still see and hear them all in my mind.

The rise of “disco” was a radical shift in a different direction. The clubs figured out that a big sound system, pulsing lights, and a DJ with personality were way cheaper than a constantly revolving cycle of live bands. And the people danced. We did the Hustle. We did the Bus Stop. We loved the nightlife and liked to boogie. We got off our ass and jammed.

But eventually, dancing sort of faded away. At least for me and most of my crowd. Country music held on with square dancing and line dancing (more or less the “Country Hustle”). But for the rest of us, the opportunities to dance dwindled as our dance partners turned into life partners.

Before you knew it, dancing in public has become a command performance. Wedding DJs work hard to get us involved. Popular standards dictate every move and insist on compliance. “To the left. To the left.” Not to mention “The Chicken Dance.” I miss dancing. I don’t know how it happened, but we rarely dance anymore. We enjoy a fair amount of live music but seldom hit the dance floor. I remember nights at the old Frog Hop Ballroom when the dancers outnumbered the “wallflowers” 10-1. Now, in most places, those numbers are flipped. There are still a few dedicated dancers, but a lot more of us just tap a toe or bob our heads to the beat.
Maybe we’ve become self-conscious. I know we’re supposed to dance like nobody’s watching, but it still feels like they are.

I don’t know about yours, but this old ticker of mine could use the stimulation. I need to dance more. I really do. I need to nudge my dance partner more often and get her out there with me. I need to throw my hands up, tip my head back, and howl at the moon more. I need to “Listen to the Music,” because “I’ve got the Music In Me.” I’ve got the “Rockin’ Pneumonia” and the “Boogie Woogie Flu.” “I’ve got Ants in my Pants, and I Need to Dance!”

So, let’s dance!

Let’s!