The ’70s was an era of discotheques, mirror bedecked balls hanging from ceilings, and black light ambiance. With the pulsating bass drum thumping of the music of Stevie Wonder, Donna Summer, Gloria Gaynor, Kool & the Gang, and, of course, The Bee Gees, it seemed that everyone was getting their boogie and groove on in order to feel the far out, diggin’ it, right on, times of disco dancing.
In early 1978, I met some friends one Friday at a local hot spot that was holding a dance contest ala the recently released and extremely popular movie, Saturday Night Fever, starring John Travolta as the Brooklyn youth trying to find the meaning of life on the dance floor. I wasn’t a dancer myself, and always felt a bit awkward trying to imitate those around me in some attempt to look cool. But I loved watching people who really knew what they were doing. The contest got underway, and I clapped and whistled my appreciation for the talented participants. After the winners had been announced, a finalist walked over to me and asked me if I’d like to dance. I was shocked, and embarrassed, as I responded, “I am so sorry, but I have no idea how to dance.” He smiled, held out an inviting hand, and said, “I’ll teach you.” So I hesitatingly and blushingly agreed even though I was in fear of making a fool of myself. Before I could give more thought to how foolish I might look, he deftly led me out onto the floor as the first several notes of “You Should Be Dancing,” by The Bee Gees, began. He told me to relax and not think about my feet. He then proceeded to execute a number of dance moves: handwraps, spins, throw-outs, catches, poses, and drops as the beat of the music continued. With a push of his hand on my hip or a pull on my arm to bring me close, it was amazing how easily he made it look like I, too, was a dancer. It was both terrifying and exhilarating. By the end of the song I was completely out of breath as this kind of dancing required some athleticism, but I was grinning with excitement. I thanked him many times over as he gave me a hug before heading off to find another partner.
Since then I have clung to the memory and the thought of someday learning how to really dance. I get completely tickled over dance scenes from movies like Funny Face with Fred Astaire and Audrey Hepburn or Brigadoon with Gene Kelly and Cyd Charisse. I get a big laugh every time I see the scenes of Tom Cruise’s lip-synching underwear dance to Bob Seger’s “Old Time Rock and Roll” in Risky Business, Hugh Grant’s 10 Downing Street shuffle to The Pointer Sister’s “Jump” in Love, Actually, or Kevin Kline’s memorable response to Diana Ross singing “I Will Survive” from In & Out. And when Lee Ann Womack’s “Dance” comes on the radio, I sing aloud with the kind of enthusiasm that makes fellow drivers wonder about the crazy woman in the red Mini Cooper.
At the wedding reception of a dear friend several years ago, another friend, Charlotte, and I sat at a table, chins resting in the palms of our hands, husbands staring glumly at the dance floor, both of us longing to be asked to dance. We both knew we wouldn’t be. Charlotte let out a big sigh and said, “My next husband will dance.” And now that I have what a co-worker calls a wasband, this notion of dancing being a qualification for a partner is finding some traction. Consequently, while recently visiting the new man in my life, I was delighted when he pushed play on a CD of music he thought I might like, and started dancing. He moved in close, took my hand, and twirled me slowly around. We danced like this through several songs, and then laughed at ourselves for both being just a little bit silly. But, man, it was fun.
You should be dancing. Aah, yeah.
Copyright DJ Anderson, 2014
