Obviously, I danced a lot.
The Crew:
It was all because of Brandi Ferrebee. Her car contained: me, Brandi, Matt C, Rachel B, and John A.
The Band:
Big Bad Voodoo Daddy!
Big Bad played an awesome set: over an hour of tunes. I remember "Mr. Pinstripe Suit," "Minnie the Moocher", "You And Me And The Bottle Makes 3 Tonight" and "I Want to Be Like You," though there were certainly more. It was solid. Sadly, they didn't play "Maddest Kind of Love." But they nailed out a lot of fast songs with tight playing. Though after a while, I focused less on musicianship and more on the beat.
The venue was a grassy valley, a natural amphitheater. Grass and swing dance aren't great bedfellows, which I never knew before. Brandi suggested wearing sneakers, not flats, but my sneakers looked pretty smelly, so I went with my casual flats. Ugh. The ground had very little traction, and any footwork I had... went away. I danced badly, unsure of my footing.
The swing crowd was tight. Out of the general audience of 300 - 400, there were about 25 swing dancers. They knew their stuff. There was a Greg Schram doppleganger. I wanted to dance with him, but he was really good and had a girlfriend, who he danced with for the whole show. Damn you, monogamoid couple.
John and Brandi were some of the most talented dancers there. John gets totally immersed in the musicality of the song; he scat calls as he dances and is one of the most outwardly happy dancers I've met. Most swing dancers seem to take it very, very seriously. Brandi wields an incredible style: cute, sultry and exact. She prances and pouts when she dances, her hips always moving.
I was only disappointed with the audience. While the grass was full with lawn chairs and picnic blankets, no one stood up. Clapping was minimal. Cheering was slight. Singing call-backs were quiet. The audience was mostly older folks and families; folks who gave little energy back to the band save their presence. Watching amazing performers for free is an incredible privilege. Fail, people.
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It's something I've noted elsewhere -- normal people suck at being audience members. (The woman sitting next to me at the Tempest actually recoiled from me whenever I laughed.) If a performer does something impressive, you clap. If you don't clap, Tinkerbelle dies and the show is sad. A supportive audience makes a good show great.
I know people express joy differently. I know loud people don't feel more than quiet people. I know I can't pack each show with Liz Hibbard, Ardon Shorr, Grey Castro and Chris Gentes... but I'd like to.
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I feel guilty when I swing dance. I apologize to my partner before and afterwards. I bumble and shift. My footwork is awful; my timing is worse. It's so frustrating. I want to do it more; I want to learn more and dance more. I want to dance to fast song. I hate being a block to my partner.
But as fraught as I feel, it's still wonderful. Swing's peculiar intimacy has grown on me considerably and the sensation of a good dance is unbeatable.
I unleashed my litany of self-defeating woes on a follow, a really good one, asking for her advice. Her name was Miriam and she moved like a tricked-out ballerina.
"Well," Miriam said, "All of us were once where you are now. We all remember how much it sucks. So when you ask a guy to dance, don't apologize, just say, "I only know the basics." That always works."
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