Radegast: Swing and Absinthe

I’d heard good things about Radegast, a swing and blues venue in Brooklyn. My impressions were slightly dimmed right before I stepped in.

At the corner, a dude yelled to me, “Hey, Miss!”

“Hey, yeah?” I yelled back.

“You’re a fucking whore!” he screamed.

“Goddamn Brooklyn,” I thought and walked into the place.

Radegast was a beer garden, the German theme thicker than Bavarian crème. The space was huge, the ceilings high, with a huge bar at the center and tables off to the side. Everything was dark wood, flagons, and lager —above the mantle was a painting of a Hessian military man with impressive muttonchops. The busy bartenders resembled underwear models, with more tattoos. Das Calvin Kleinen.

As I took off my coat, the Blue Vipers of Brooklyn, an amazing swing band, started their first song. But something was missing: the dancers.






Das Calvin Kleinen Bartenders.

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.

My first Bohemian

On Saturday, I went to the Bohemian in Cleveland, to get mah swing dance on with Ms. Brandi, Mr. Burrows and Mr. Spenser. Had a fantastic time -- I'd no idea what to expect. I pictured a nightclub in the sleazy part of Cleveland with large cocktails in frosted cups. In reality: Bohemian National Hall was a ballroom of Sokol's Czech Cultural Center in "Little Bohemia." Apparently, "the not-so-great side of Cleveland" has a lot of Czech culture.



It was a sweet venue. The downstairs was filled with Czech goods and the ballroom itself was enormous. The Demetrius Steinmetz Band was good, their featured vocalist, Eileen Burns, was great. They played the classics, and though their slow songs lacked the sauce, they did a solid "T'ain't What'cha Do" and a great cover of Nature Boy. Apparently, Nature Boy is a pop-jazz standard, not just a David Bowie song on the Moulin Rouge soundtrack. Regardless, the song made me feel 14 again, belting out my feelings in my living room. Singing along is something new. I like it.



Pro:
- The posse! Brandi, Stephen and Danny are all brilliant humans. We had 4 singalongs on the way back. It was fantastic. I don’t know Danny as well, and getting to dance with him a lot was swell. Having Brandi more prevalent in my life has made Winter Term better. And Stephen has been an excellent work-to-life companion.

- Wooster kids! They were super-cute. A lot of them did basic steps that were syncopated differently, or just moved differently. Lots of big arm motions. Very interesting style.

Cons:
Surprisingly-Touchy Guy. Tall dude in his 40's. Kinda stiff, and strange to dance to. Didn't make much eye contact. We danced twice, which was a poor move on my part. I'm a fan of closeness-- slipping into bluesy-forms is awesome. But I don't want your hand on my butt on a swing floor. Cupping my ass is not where your hand should be. Also, trying to kiss me twice in one song is not good. Yes, swing does bring out the preposterous love-monkey in me, but only in my age-demographic. If you're able to run for president, than I'm far less interested.


Fascinating late-night:
Especially after swing dancing for hours and feeling my endorphins percolate my body, I kinda want to cuddle. And keep dancing. Blues enables this.

Much like swing, I feel nervous with it, as I’m still not technically proficient, but I love it. Technical blues dancers are lovely, but frustrating: at the end of the night, I’m tired. Absurd moves not ingrained in my muscle memory are difficult. Following is hard when your leg has been twitching for the last hour. Given the close nature of it, I feel more wretched when I botch blues than swing.

But non-technical blues? Sexy-blues? When we’re one writhing mass on the floor? That, my friends, is IT. Feeling a stranger move my hips with theirs is the most sensual way to say hello.

The late-night started as tech-blues. It ended with sexy-blues. There were these four awesome leads with great chill attitudes, wry wit, and about 10 tons of eroticism. They were openly emotionally affectionate. They were comfortable with their bodies. It felt like being with circus people. Or like family.

Dancing in NYC

From Christmas until New Years, I went out nearly every night dancing. These are my notes.



Brazen Fox
A classy sports bar in White Plains. Good for fans of football, Jersey Shore or Armani Exchange. Also, having long talks about friendship and relationships with one's best friend (and an awesome friend of hers).


Calico Jack's Cantina
Club-bar. Patrons take myspace-pictures of themselves, sipping enormous neon-colored cocktails through giant staws. Pop music. Girls in tight jeans, boys coated in hair gel. I was glad I brought earplugs. Not too classy, but not too sketchy. Not really my place, but I liked the company.



The Players Club for New Years Eve's Eve
The Player’s Club was ridiculous: a historic building on Gramercy Park. Old world classy, portraits on the walls. One large dance hall with sticky floors, always filled with dancers. Intimidating. Matching their surroundings, the crowd was very glamorous. The men wore suspenders, and sharp hats.

But the ladies were a class above. Tiny flowers woven into their hair, their dresses showed just enough flesh to entice. Their make-up was flawless: eyelashes extravagant, brows shaped, lips lined and glossed. In their fancy shoes, they all hung within the acceptable rage of 5’4” to 5’9.” And worst of all, they exuded class, grace, and femininity.

While I have good points, refinement is not one of them.

I wore my black tennis dress from the previous night. My bangs were poking upwards. In my yellow converse sneakers, I stood over six feet. I only applied a bit of make-up. Even before dancing a step, I felt a bit warm, the sweat collecting.

I saw Shawn. As gorgeous as ever, if not more so. Suddenly, I realized how much I missed her. We hugged and spoke. She introduced me to her friends, whom I enjoyed and danced with. One of them was a total tease, the kinda guy I become bros with.

After dancing with me, he said, “God, I’m sweatier than a Ukrainian!”
“So true!” I said, “I’m Ukrainian!”
“Ah, I’m so sorry,” he panicked. “I’ve never actually met one before.”
“It’s cool— we really are that sweaty.”


The dance floor was packed, bodies flying everywhere to George Gee's tunes. Though there were more of the younger set, the older folks were the large majority. I danced with some good folks and saw some terrible burlesque.

Well, not terrible. But I’m spoiled. A tap dancing girl in a skimpy outfit is charming, but Catherine had more skill and fantastic showmanship. This girl just didn’t sell it. I miss you, Catherine. And not just when you’re Shirley Temple and I’m the zombie after your heart.

The other one sold it, but I didn’t want what she had to buy. She was on the older side, doing feather fans, with a rather unfortunate outfit.

I was very, very happy when George Gee started playing again.


Connolly's
Stupidly, I didn’t write down the cross-streets, just the address, leaving me wandering around midtown on one of the coldest days of the year. Fortunately, with the assistance of two boys working at a bodega and three of their customers, I found my way. When I finally saw the venue, it was obvious. Connolly's was huge, with a bar on the main floor and the dance floor on the third floor. It was strategically placed near a number of Broadway theaters, so if one needed some liquid encouragement before, after or during a show, it was close.

The dance floor at Connolly’s was big, but packed. While it wasn’t as stuffed with bodies as Banjo Jim’s, dancers absorbed every space. I’ve never really danced in crowded quarters before, so I started to be more aware of where my body was in space. The band was fantastic, dressed in colorful vintage wears. There were three leads around my age; everyone else was much older. One of them was pretty good: when I closed my eyes during a swing out, I could pretend it was John. Almost.


Amanda and I share a deep love for older gents, mostly due to contra. Though younger dudes treat me with polite disinterest, but older gents think I’m the queen of France. Complimentary as this is, I do miss the speed of younger dudes. Older folks jacked style from other types of dance: tango spins, salsa holds, ballroom attitude. Only the younger ones felt like swing dancers, really feeling the music for what it was.



Swing 46
Not really what I expected, both in showing and style. Boilermaker Jazz Band is one of the few swing bands I’ve hear of, so I was expected a big showing of younger folks. Not so much. Like Sophia’s, there were lots of tables, making it hard to see who was really there to dance, and who was to listen. Over the past few months, I’ve gotten over any fears of rejection. While I struck out a few times, I managed to keep dancing for most of it.

Only one sketchball. Vastly outweighed by dancing with the Boilermaker’s drummer during set breaks.

And again, I saw Shawn, which made everything lovely. Seeing her was the highlight of the night.



Club 412
Club 412 convinced me to go dancing from now until forever. There were three dance studios, two live bands, lots of great dancers. Many were older and liked dancing with younger ladies. Slidey floors.

An equal number of follows and leads, and as most ladies were not aggressive, and dudes were shy, I could dance with whomever I wanted. Everyone there was very friendly.

An ancient, tiny Venezuelan guy, Andres, looked at me, and said, “Do you salsa?” I gave my head a wiggle. Kinda. He replied, “Well, then I’ll teach you.” We went to one of the other studios, and he lead me around.

Later on, Carlos, a younger guy, taught me how to cha-cha. Though the basic was different than the cha-cha Nora taught me, it wasn’t too difficult, until he started adding turns. “Thanks for being so nice!” I said, catching my breath when the dance was over. “Well, I like dancing with you,” he said, “and I wanted to cha-cha. Figured this was the easiest way.”

I left coated with sweat, my hair spiked and slick, as if I’d just gotten out of the shower.


Cache at Sofia's
I heard that Vince Giordano, who made the soundtrack for Ghost World, was playing here. The venue was huge, but the term “club” seemed false. The space was covered in tables. The crowd was old, mostly seated. The music, while good, was very… period. Not very funky. I didn't want to pay the cover and left.



Banjo Jim's

Check it:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jD9nD8ltRNs&feature=related

This was the band I saw last night, Cangelosi Cards, at Banjo Jim's. The video does not do it justice -- their singer is sick, they all play three instruments. They did everything from old-school jazz, to gospel, and blues. Lucy's recommendation was very successful. Tara and Lucy met me there. There's something wonderful about friends who you can clown with.

It was crazy crowded in there. Though it was only 20º outside, it felt a 120º in there. I felt a wee tad claustrophobic and started talking to the dude next to me (Richard), who was really charming.

Aries: Is it generally this packed?
Richard: It varies. Last week? Empty. Week before that? Full.
Aries: Aw, man, there's no space to dance.
Richard: Wait, you dance?
Aries: Yeah! Do you?
Richard: Yeah! Lindy hop.
Aries: Sweet! That's so great!
Richard: How long have you been dancing for?
Aries: About three months. And you?
Richard: Um. Nine years. ...Don't worry, I'll go easy on you.
Aries: But how do we dance in here?
Richard: Here's the codeword: floorcraft. Unless you know bal.


And then, we danced.

Big Bad Voodoo Daddy!

I just saw Big Bad Voodoo Daddy. Live. Free. In Youngstown.

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.



--
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.


--


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."

Swing Dancing > "Real World"

I never bought any of that "greatest years of your life" crap in high school. Sadly, it seems that sentiment might be valid as far as college is concerned.

This terrifying thought struck me last weekend at a Mardi Gras party at French Language House. It wasn't a great party. The venue was too small and didn't have the best acoustics. Still, it was $2 to see an amazing New Orleans-style jazz band ... with beads, tasty king cake and masks. While dancing, I realized it wouldn't be this easy in the "real world." Music wouldn't be ubiquitous; conservatory players would be hot, expensive commodities. Friends would be harder to access, communities harder to join.

In fear of the real world, I resolved to do as many excited, ridiculous things as I can this semester. Especially new things. Like swing dancing.


This weekend I spent a majority of my time at OJDF - Oberlin Jazz Dance Festival. All in all, I took five classes and attended four dances. The classes were perfect: equal follow-lead ratio, strong teaching, good dancers. Very few folks were raw beginners, but we all needed a bit of help, so we could all teach each other. It takes me a long time to learn anything dance-related, so my ability to pick up lindy hop, charleston, Suzie Q's, turns and swivels was surprising.

The Saturday night formal dance was incredible. Obies don't get gussied up all that often, but when they do, it's a sight to be seen. I can still see the shimmer of Ploy's red silk dress ruffling in the hot air. We destroyed that gym floor - the floorboards rattled when the whole crowd danced. The festival hosted two competitions, one individual and one for couples. Competitors weren't only Obies - a few pros entered in, as well as some folks from Kalamazoo who visited for the weekend. It was incredibly well run and the collective skill level was amazing.


I'd always liked swing, both participating and watching. In my first year, I took the Swing Dance Exco but I didn't keep up afterwards after busting up my ankle. Freshman year was a long, long time ago, so I thought I'd lost it all. But this weekend, a lot came back, and I found it pretty easy to pick things up. I've still got a long way to go to feel proficient or be a tolerable follow, but this weekend was so energizing and inspiring. I want to do it. OSwing organizes a jazz dance every 2 weeks, and does a smaller jam each week, as well as blues dancing.



And sometimes, they just do ridiculous stuff... Example: Brett and Haley.


Normal dancing




Preparing for something?



Hot damn.




So much air!




Awwww.

(Photo credits: Ma'ayan "Freakin' Awesome" Plaut)

The attitude of Swing, like Contra, is super-social. I must insist on the superiority of contra for friend-making, due to its inherent silliness, but swing is a social dance. I feel as if I understand my friends I've danced with... in a different way. Sometimes, even watching them dance is enough to get a bigger view of them. When some people dance, they drop their guard. They laugh, they smile, they sweat, they mess up and keep going.