The Jam Cellar: Kings of Swing

The dance scene in Washington, DC is intense- you can dance every night of the week. If you like salsa, swing, or blues, the district is your musicbox.

In DC, I was always told about new venues from Virginia to Maryland: Charm City Swing in Baltimore, the enthusiastic college crowd at GMU or UVA, Habana Village, Cherry Hill, bars in Ballston and Clarendon… everywhere. However, I mostly danced at Glen Echo Amusement Park, the Jam Cellar, and Chevy Chase Ballroom.

If I could dance every night, I would. To me, dancing feels like nothing else, combining my love of music, connection, movement, and touch. It satisfies my extroversion and my desire for one-to-one intimacy. When I dance, I grin like an imbecile, or I close my eyes and let my face relax. Dance is so instinctive now, and so pleasing.

Please, allow me to share?



THE JAM CELLAR

The tagline for the experience is: The Jam Cellar. YOU WILL LIKE IT.

They’re right.

When John described the Jam Cellar to me as a “swing club,” I pictured a basement of dive bar near Adams Morgan: low lights, strong drinks, hardwood floors, and mega-hot follows. Not so much. (Except for the follows. They are still hot.)

In reality, the Jam Cellar is more of a phenomena than a place. The event engulfs an entire house, a beautiful 19th-century mansion with ornate iron doors and hardwood floors. Originally, the building – the Josephine Butler House -- was proposed to be the home for the vice president. It’s easy to imagine one suite as the “Master’s Study,” or “Lady’s Library,” or “Butler’s Discretionary Area.” The house borders Meridian Park, a short (and convenient) walk from U Street, Columbia Heights, and Adams Morgan.

That said, the key part of the Jam Cellar is the crowd, rather than the locale.


CROWD
The Jam Cellar hosts dances with the crème de la crème, the rock stars of swing dance. Remember listening to Zoot Suit Riot, by Cherry Poppin Daddies, back in the 90’s? Some of these folk have been dancing since then, becoming the leading teachers and most exceptional dancers around. They built this city.

Their skills attract a big crowd. The Jam Cellar offers beginner and intermediate classes at fairly affordable rates in targeted areas: subtle movements, aerials, collegiate shag, balboa, vernacular jazz steps, and ridiculous shit. I took an entire class on “Texas Tommy” variations, a position-turn move that may have started as its own vernacular dance. As a follow, classes expose me to new moves, and often make me more aware of my limitations*.

When I do dance with one of the fantastic leads, it’s pretty surreal. When you’re a beginner/intermediate kiddo, dancing with Bobby, Paul, or David is like hooking-up with Beyoncé while riding a dolphin.

There’s a certain way that super-experienced leads move that is incredibly foreign to me, a delicacy and skill that I can register, but not respond in kind.

It’s like challenging a grandmaster to a spot of chess, when you are an excellent checkers player. Mercifully, most of the grandmasters apparently enjoy an occasional game of, erm, checkers. Very enthusiastic checkers. Yes.

Even without the Beyoncé-dolphin experience, I still have a fantastic time. I'm lucky enough to dance with leads who have far more experience than I, who push me to improve. And, most importantly, they're all fantastic humans. Like, super-freakin' nice and kind.

I was always excited for Tuesday nights.



MUSIC
One thing that defines the Jam Cellar is the music selection: exclusively classic lindy tracks. No modern remakes of older songs, no Motown, no new swing music. You hear old-skool big band jazz: Louis Armstrong, Benny Goodman, and Duke Ellington (who grew up a few blocks away).

To be honest, that took some getting used to. Vintage tracks rarely have the emotional resonance for me that more modern tracks do. I know all the lyrics to Katy Perry songs, but the lyrics to most swing songs escape me. Also, I like the invention of the subwoofer. The subwoofer was made for a reason. The subwoofer makes the beat really damn obvious. And while it’s a great challenge to have to noodle out the bass from the treble, it’s nice to not have to worry about losing it.

On the other hand, it’s taught me a lot, about finding and recognizing rhythms, and learning more about the roots of swing. At Jam Cellar, I realized that I knew nothing about swing, from the origins to the revival. It made me want to learn more.



The Jam Cellar.





So go to the Jam Cellar. You will like it. Observe this video for more clarification. Hint: it is silly.

A Letter Home

The visits to Oberlin are hard to write about – they’re too intense, too wonderful, too concentrated. This one especially so.

First: the long distance relationship dream come true -- holding the one you love and realizing that they’re real. You didn’t dream them up. They aren’t an abstraction, a perfection, an invisible friend. They’re them, and all the silly little bits of them: homework, stuffed noses, messy rooms and math tests. No bread or skim milk in the house. Terrible vodka in the cupboard.

But those unpretty parts are the best. Hell, they’re more beautiful than you remembered. You kiss the salt on their skin, you touch their shoulders and recall sculptures of Adonis or Aphrodite. You watch them move, watch them dance, and the world just feels more right.

you kiss.

you hold.

you make love.

and everything is better. everything will be alright.

everything is just perfect. you love them.

(and i do love you.)







... But it was more this time – there were other salient details. You know when the sun hits a leaf, and the glow warms the edges and you can see the veins of the leaf? And it’s no longer simply beautiful, but very, very IMPORTANT. It’s staring at the sky in early fall, and knowing that this is THE horizon. This is the earth you live in. You want to tell the world about the way that a snake hurries away from you, then looks back, invitingly, inquiringly, before darting into the brush.

It is the details.

I’ve never felt much attachment to the architecture of Oberlin – though I do like architecture, and Oberlin’s strange unplanned landscape. The trees in Tappan Square evoke a stronger awe than elegant Talcott, the sandstone Disney magnificence of Peters, or the neoclassical Memorial arch. I don’t feel flushed by Cass Gilbert, or Silsbee, or the religiosity of the Science Center. But the stillness of the Reservoir gets me, every time.

It is in my friends, who make me feel real. They give me form, structure, and a valid self. I’ve grown worse at engaging large groups, but more amazed by the comfort in sharing time with one. When I visit, I always want more time to hold hands and walk with my friend-family, from cousins to siblings. They are so beautiful and they give me so much. (My name feels safe in their mouths.)

It is Ma’ayan’s face softening, thinking about the poster, thinking about the future and the past.

Harris reading Annie Dillard aloud to me, and poems like “Aubade” written onto scrap paper on his wall.

It is Amanda straddling a log, becoming a “sex panther” with me. It is Amanda, her hand on the small of my back, moving with me to Nina Simone, her eyes insatiable.

It is Greg, self-possessed, grounded: living, teaching, and playing.

It is a Gimlet. It is a sip of Guinness. It is a glass of milk after a day of dancing.

It is muddling through the basic of West Coast Swing, trying to move on the third beat of a triplet (that probably isn’t a triplet.) It is the classically-trained instructors, and their care for each other, arm in arm at the airport.

It is Kate’s face, covered in freckles, exuding comfort and calm.

It is Mari’s knee causing her pain, but the smoothness of the workshop easing her mind. Monica’s grace. Fiona’s charm. My inability to lead them, but simply stare at their loveliness and be overwhelmed.

It is Lily’s infectious grin and incredible warmth. It is Scout’s vibrant honesty.

It is Mineh's understanding that I am an immature pervert, and the way he leads me around.

It is Ali’s goofiness, her maddeningly gorgeous eyes, and how she and Patrick joke with each other.

It is Brandi's focus behind the wheel, her integrity so clear.

Jeff Hagan’s messy desk, even with Brandi’s tidying, and his enthusiasm for my future.

A crowd dancing. The circus on a Friday afternoon. A large coffee from Slow Train. The golden tree in Tappan, and the tree that belongs to Kris.

My friends.

I love them.

Black Coffee

We ran out of regular espresso today. After much discussion with my manager, we decided to pretend that the decaf was not-so-decaf. Let the placebo effect work for us. But it still made me nervous, so after making some fancy cappuccinos, macchiatos or espressos, I’d linger and ask how they were.

An older couple responded extremely positively. “Delicious,” he said, with a hint of an English accent. “A very full taste,” she agreed, with another, harder-to-read accent, sipping her cappuccino delicately.

I jabbered about the new Lavazza machine, and may have clowned a little, my gestures big and silly. (I wanted to demonstrate my feud with the old machine, which had a tendency to spray milk wildly.) The couple laughed, the woman’s smile vast. She was very elegant, with a clear bright smile, and big brown eyes. He was older than her.

“Where are you from?” she asked.

“Originally California, but more recently Ohio.”

“Ah,” she said. “I am from Brazil. And he is from Pakistan.”

“Wow! That’s a ways away,” I said.

“Miss,” the man asked, “how long do you think I’ve been coming here?”

This is a question I hear a lot from regulars, their favorite game with young servers. They generally lean back and reply some variant on, “Before you were even dreamed of.”

I grin nervously, and try to beat him at the game, “Before I was even dreamed of?”

He nodded. “Nearly 50 years. It was my first day in DC. I’d gotten a job with the World Bank, but I hadn’t found a place to live yet, so they put me up in the Dupont Circle Hotel. I was walking to work, and as I passed by this place, the aroma from the kitchen just… captured me. I was in a rush, so I promised myself I’d come back for dinner. I came back for dinner. And of course, the food was superb. And bless you, it hasn’t changed.

“So I came back the night after, and the night after that. At least once a week, every week of the year. I took all my friends, my family, and every girlfriend.”

His companion giggled, “So many girlfriends!”

“All of the women I wanted to be girlfriends. Sometimes, it worked out, sometimes it didn’t.”

The woman said something under her breath in Portuguese, and they both laughed.

“I even took my father, and he had a fabulous time. He was the first president of Pakistan, and in those days, he was treated like a king. He didn’t have to do anything for himself, all of the details were handled by others. And in America, of course, it was not so. And still, he loved it. He wasn’t used to food cooked in this way, and he was delighted for the whole meal. A meal for a near-king.”

The man took another sip of the cappuccino, the foam lingering a bit on his upper lip.

“But at the end of the meal, he ordered some coffee, and paused a minute after tasting it. On the table, there were five little shakers: sugar, red pepper, black pepper, salt, and cheese. My father reached out and grabbed the cheese shaker, and started tapping parmesan into his meal. At first a little, then more and more. I just stared at him as he sipped his coffee.”

He said to me, “Son, this place may have the best pizza in the world, but their coffee is wretched.”



The man tipped his cup to me, and took a long sip.