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.

Phantom Family Syndrome

The Problems
i. I’m terrible at living alone.
ii. I don’t think the status quo is healthy.
iii. I don’t fit into the status quo.



i.

I’ve never lived alone before.

(Well, okay: literally, I’m not alone.

In fact, I’m very lucky – I have a room and a lovely housemate in a safe area (Crystal City, Arlington, VA). I have a job – bartending at an Italian restaurant. I have some excellent friends in my region, and many more outside of the state. My family is caring, and understands me. I have a lot of interests, and there’s tons to do. I’m improving as a dancer. I’m not broke.)

But there’s still something painful in my otherwise acceptable life: I don’t have a community.

I don’t live with a partner, or with my family. I don’t have a neighborhood. I don’t wake up next to a warm, sweet person, who tells me about their dreams. I don’t walk down the street and see friends, or acquaintances. When I want to see someone, I need to seek them out. There are random meetings, but they are brief. I don’t know enough people to create a critical mass of random-friend-encounters.

I got used to being happy.

I’m used to buying two tickets for every show. I’m used to cooking eggs for two, used to brushing my teeth while someone else takes out their contacts, used to walking to a shared rhythm. I’m used to having a reason to read aloud. I’m used to hugging more than 20 people a day. I’m used to grinning and tackle-embraces, and the ease of total trust.

I've lived in Oberlin for 5 years. I've been in relationships, with only a few months of single-ness, since I was 14. Nearly a decade.

I miss my karass, and my many little duprasses. I miss the way every member of my friend-family laughs. I am missing many limbs: I have phantom-family syndrome.

Phantom Family Syndrome is draining, even for little ol' extroverted, optimistic me. Vacant little me. I need to push myself to do things. I need to build up my own momentum– I can’t count on my friends to push me onwards and upwards. A life without positive feedback loops is hard. There’s just me.

A lone girl in a new city.

Between Johnny and my friends, this summer was nearly perfect. I started to love friends I’d never had the time to properly appreciate, both in Oberlin and DC. I was never unhappy. Every day was a wash of joy. Each day, I woke up smiling, and fell asleep contented. I had the spikes of happiness, and the long calm of joy. If you sampled my blood, it would be as happy-sweet as maple syrup.

Then, the fall winds started up, and the flock dispersed for different climates. After so much ecstasy, I'm left with no serotonin.

Losing John hit hard, especially coupled with losing my immediate friends. It was a nuclear winter after the terrible first blast. The heart is vaporized, and the body grows lifeless.

I got used to feeling so warm all the time. The cold creeps in so easily now.

Definition: The Ones You Really Love

What do you call the people you love?

How do you define a relationship? Does that definition change when they’re not around?

What do you write on your love letters, or casual notes? Does it change based on their gender, or on yours? What happens if you’re not monogamous? How do you indicate that a person is a very close friend? How do you make distinctions between friends and lovers?

In short: what are your terms of endearment?


i. How do you define your relationship?

On my last run, I thought about all the names I call my special friends, both lovers and platonic. Words to indicate commitment and care, loyalty and intimacy, support and adoration. Words that I say to prove to someone that they are special, to let them know that I love them, and cherish them, no matter what.

THE ISSUE
I hate a lot of the standard terminology. I don’t like terms that are very possessive or gendered. I like words that imply intimacy and commitment.

Attempts:

- “Significant other” is too sterile.

- “Beloved” is cheesy and archaic.

- “Boyfriend” and “Girlfriend.” Gut reaction: I don’t like being called a “girlfriend,” or calling anyone my “boyfriend” or “girlfriend.” Bad associations. Veto'd.

- “Friend” isn’t strong linguistically enough. Too broad. “Good / Close / Dear friend” and other modifiers get it better. “Best friend” is very close to what I need for about five people.

- “Lover.” I should like the term lover, but it doesn’t imply (to me) that a person is special, or that there’s any aspect of commitment or prioritizing. To me, a lover offers a only sexual relationship, and I’m sappy enough to want more.

- “Limerent object” is too obscure and hopeless. Mutuality is not implied.

- “Apple of my eye” is too unreal, too idealizing.

- "Hook-up" or "fuck buddy" isn't classy.


THE BEST:
“Partner” is non-gendered, non-exclusive, personal, egalitarian, and loving. I like the ambiguity and the implied companionship. I like being a dance partner or a partner in crime or a business partner.

-




ii. What do you call your lover to their face (or their inbox)?

Well, besides their name. I like to give people nicknames, pet names, things that fit them better than their given titles. I want someone to know -- from just their name, and how I say it -- that they are impossibly special.


THE LIST OF ADORABLE NICKNAMES

Honeybee
Mon petit / ma petite chou
Dearest
Nightcrawler
Cuddlefish
Sweetpea
Little un’
Honey-bunny
Thailand
Clyde / Bonnie
Babe
Foxhole buddy
Adonis
Love
Kupo
Buttons
Japan
Buckles
MOSAD (Most Special and Adored)
Flower (a la Bambi)
Penny
Panda
Duckie
Faun
Cuddles / Snuggles
Anchor
Sweet one
Bestie
Wonderland
Lotus
Beautiful
Germany
Mittens
Dance partner
Invisible friend




So what do you like? What do you like to be called, and what do you like to call others? I want to know.


Love,
Aries

Love, love, love

Facts:
1. I am very happy.
2. I am a good waitress.
3. I am in love.
4. I have amazing friends!
5. I am aligning my priorities.
6. Everything is changing all the time, especially my luck.


*

Elaboration:

I am in love. I am very happy. I have a priority, a person. Johnny.

We spend a lot of time together, and have become companions. I am being a really shitty friend to my DC accomplices, and am sad about that, but my besotted state will only persist for the next two weeks.

When I was a kid, I marked off my height against the kitchen door in pen, with the date next to the escalating number. To encourage me, my parents showed me their numbers of getting taller and taller (which they fabricated). And I got confused. I correlated height with age – I thought I would just get taller, and taller, until I died.

One day, I would grow so large that I would no longer be able to fit through the doorframe. I would lay helpless and enormous in the living room, slowly starving to death. My giant form would dwindle to enormous bones. Alice doesn’t make it to wonderland.

I see the shelf life on this relationship, the expiration date when my affections swell, spilling out of my organs and in my marrow. It will seep into my blood, like some gorgeous sepsis. My heartbeat will skip and falter. The writing is on the door.

In two weeks, the relationship will be (mostly) over.

And dammit, I love this boy. I’ve passed from a mega-gross squee-fest to a more sedate, stable, but constant pulse of affection and care. I say we reflexively. The idea of being separate for the last two weeks of summer was unimaginable. Every time I see him, other things fade to monotone and sepia. His skin is satin, his ideals are vivid. I want him, constantly and intensely. It’s hard to get out of bed, to leave the warmth of our bodies. It’s hard to stop holding him in the morning. It’s amazing to wake up and realize I can hold onto this crazy dreamboy, and not have him slip away into dream-dust-in-the-eyes and bleary disappointment. Wonderland.

I will be different in two weeks. I will drink too much, sleep too little. More career-focused, more individualistic, a better friend. I will cry. My enormous form will dwindle.

The background will grow fruitful again, and I’ll be able to pick out the beauty of the fall as the incredible warmth of summer recedes. And I’ll visit Ohio to find that warmth again. I'll get the warm-and-fuzzies for Oberlin all over again.

But for now? I’m in love, dammit. I’m going to enjoy it. It’s a priority.

The Newest Transplant to Washington, DC

I just moved to Washington, DC.

Though each item has a bit more detail, the basic TO DO list is this:

1. Get a job.
2. Get a place to live / sublet / rent.
3. Take chances.

If you would like to assist me in any way with these tasks, that'd be very much appreciated.




I fit the contents of my life in a suitcase, 2 shoulder bags, and a backpack. There are 4 small boxes in UPS storage, and 3 small items in Brandi Ferrebee's storage area. That's all I own. That feels good. There will be less and less of it, as time goes on.

The things that matter most are my laptop, cell phone, mp3 player, and a children's book called "Love is A Special Way of Feeling."

After hours of packing, with the great patience of Brandi, we left Oberlin at 10:30pm to arrive in Brandi's home just-outside-of-Winchester, VA at 4:30am. It's fascinating, to see a home, as opposed to a house. Brandi's family built the whole thing, and when they get old, they'll convert the downstairs office to a bedroom. There's something beautiful in that commitment.

Right now, I'm not so clear on life commitment. I'm excited to be free, to be living and working, and taking chances and having adventures.

I don't know where I'll be after the summer. If I get a year-long job, that will dictate this year, but if I don't, I'll be wild and mobile. There's a whole world, and I want to learn about it. I'll visit Oberlin -- it's where my friends are. I'll try to visit the rest of you, wherever you are, if you'll have me. If you'd like to reach me, the best bet is my email: aries.indenbaum@gmail.com.

And when I have a place, I love guests. I want to be a good host.

I was happy to see Lilly, Matt, Sandhya and Anna, and also what they represent: being able to be connected with my friends. The act of running into people at a subway stop. In the car with Ma'ayan and Brandi, I realized how much I trusted them. How I filtered nothing, and didn't think about our relationship as a game, or something where I had an objective, but natural. Comfortable.




This year at Oberlin has been good for me in many ways. Though it's not as learning-centric as student life was, it taught me good lesson. I learned values, not vocabulary. Mostly from my friends. I don't have a strong sense of external value-passing: I'm not affiliated with any church, I have a small family, and no strong roots to a given place. I've learned a lot from my parents' values, but I love learning from my friends: their generosity, their bravery, their loyalty, their honesty, their ambition.

I'll have done it right if my tombstone says, "She was a good friend."