Chasing the Ghost of Lester Young in the Balboa
The chipped Formica of the diner booth felt cool under my forearm, the scent of stale coffee and frying bacon clinging to the air like a persistent blue note. Outside, rain lashed against the windows, mirroring the insistent pulse of a Count Basie record spinning low on the jukebox. But I wasnât hearing Basie, not precisely. I was chasing a ghost. A ghost named Lester Young.
See, Iâd been wrestling with Balboa lately. Not the steps, mind you. The steps areâŠlogical. A compact, elegant conversation between two bodies, a subtle yielding and leading, a constant negotiation of weight and momentum. No, the trouble wasnât the mechanics. It was the feel. It feltâŠtoo clean. Too precise. Like a perfectly engineered machine, lacking the necessary grit, the necessary soul.
And then, late one night, sifting through a pile of Prez recordings â the ones where the smoke practically curls off the shellac â it hit me. It wasnât about adding more effort to the dance. It was about subtracting. About finding the space within the music, the silence between the notes. And that space, that silence, was all Lester Young.
Young, of course, wasnât a Balboa dancer. He wouldnât have known from a swing-out or a push break. He was a tenor saxophonist, a master of phrasing, a man who redefined cool. But his approach to time, to breath, to the very architecture of a solo, is, I believe, the key to unlocking a deeper understanding of Balboaâs essence.
Most jazz, even the most rhythmically complex, operates on a fairly straightforward pulse. A one-two, a one-two-three, a one-two-three-four. But YoungâŠYoung played around the beat. He didnât ignore it, never that. He respected it, acknowledged it, but then heâd subtly lag behind, or anticipate it just a hair, creating a sense of delicious tension, a feeling of being perpetually on the verge of falling off the cliff, only to be gently pulled back.
Listen to âLester Leaps In.â Not just the melody, but the spaces between the phrases. The way he inhales before a run, the way he lets a note hang, suspended in the air, before resolving it. Itâs not about playing fewer notes; itâs about making each note matter. Itâs about creating a conversation with the silence.
And that, my friends, is precisely what Balboa is.
Too often, I see Balboa danced with a relentless drive, a constant flurry of activity. The dancers are technically proficient, they hit all the right marks, but it feelsâŠempty. It lacks the nuance, the subtlety, the breath that makes the dance truly captivating. Theyâre so focused on the steps, they forget to listen to the music. They forget to leave room for the ghost in the groove.
What happens when you try to emulate Youngâs phrasing in your Balboa? Itâs unsettling at first. You feel like youâre falling behind, like youâre losing the beat. Your partner might even give you a look. But if you lean into it, if you allow yourself to be slightly off-kilter, something magical happens.
The dance becomes less about doing and more about being. It becomes a conversation, a subtle exchange of energy, a shared exploration of the musicâs contours. The lead isnât about dictating where the follow goes; itâs about suggesting possibilities, creating a space for her to respond. The follow isnât about anticipating the lead; itâs about listening, reacting, and adding her own voice to the conversation.
Itâs about understanding that the beauty of Balboa isnât in the complexity of the patterns, but in the simplicity of the connection. Itâs about finding the sweet spot where two bodies move as one, guided by the music and the unspoken language of touch.
I started experimenting with this in a workshop last week. The band was playing a medium-tempo tune, something with a nice, driving swing. I deliberately slowed down my tempo, just a fraction. I focused on my breath, on creating space between my movements. I let the music wash over me, and I tried to respond to it, not as a dancer, but as a listener.
The initial reaction wasâŠconfusion. My partner stumbled a bit. But then, slowly, she began to adapt. She started to anticipate my subtle shifts in weight, my delayed responses. She started to listen too. And suddenly, the dance transformed. It became fluid, effortless, and deeply satisfying.
We werenât just executing steps; we were telling a story. A story of longing, of connection, of shared joy. A story that was whispered in the spaces between the notes, in the subtle shifts of weight, in the gentle pressure of a hand.
Itâs a constant process, this chasing of the ghost. It requires humility, patience, and a willingness to let go of control. But the rewards are immeasurable. Because when you finally find that sweet spot, when you finally learn to breathe with the music, when you finally allow the ghost of Lester Young to inhabit your dance, you discover a level of connection and expression that you never thought possible.
And that, my friends, is what jazz â and Balboa â are all about. Itâs not about perfection. Itâs about truth. Itâs about vulnerability. Itâs about finding the beauty in the imperfection, the soul in the silence, the ghost in the groove. Now, if youâll excuse me, I think I need another cup of coffee and another spin with Prez. The rainâs still falling, and the ghost is still calling.