Dancing with Ghosts: How Lester Young Unlocked the Soul of Balboa

The smoke hangs thick, not from cigarettes anymore – though a phantom whiff always seems present – but from the memory of a thousand late nights, a thousand spins, a thousand stories told without words. It clings to the wood of the dance floor, to the worn leather of my shoes, and, most importantly, to the air I breathe when I’m trying to feel the music. And lately, that air has been thick with Lester Young.

See, I’ve been wrestling with Balboa. Not the steps, not the frame, not even the connection. Those are mechanics, muscle memory. I’m talking about the soul of it. Balboa, at its best, isn’t about showing off. It’s about a conversation, a subtle yielding and leading, a mirroring of the music’s internal rhythm. And I was finding myself… stiff. Calculating. Like a detective trying to solve a case instead of letting the clues wash over him.

I’d been listening to the usual Balboa fare – Count Basie, Chick Webb, the faster tempos that practically demand a quick, intricate footwork. Good stuff, don’t get me wrong. But it wasn’t unlocking something. It was just…exercise. Then, a friend, old man Silas who’s been swinging since before I was born, handed me a record. Coleman Hawkins’ Body and Soul, sure, everyone knows that. But flipped it over. Side B. Lester Young with the Oscar Peterson Quartet, live at the Monterey Jazz Festival, 1965.

Now, Lester. Prez. The man who played like he was whispering secrets into your ear. He wasn’t about brute force, about hitting you over the head with a melody. He was about space. About the notes he didn’t play being as important as the ones he did. And that, my friends, is where the ghost in the groove started to appear.

It wasn’t the tempo, though it’s perfectly danceable. It was the breath. Listen closely. Really listen. Young doesn’t just play notes; he exhales them. Each phrase is shaped by a long, deliberate inhale and a slow, controlled release. It’s like he’s drawing the music from the air, not imposing it onto it.

And that’s what I was missing in my Balboa. I was holding my breath. Trying to make the dance happen, instead of letting it happen through me. I was focusing on the footwork, the timing, the lead-follow mechanics, and forgetting to breathe with the music.

I started practicing with that record, not just listening, but actively trying to mimic Young’s phrasing with my own breath. Inhale on the rests, exhale with the melody. Feel the expansion and contraction of my ribcage mirroring the rise and fall of his saxophone. It sounds ridiculous, I know. Like some kind of New Age jazz dance voodoo. But it worked.

Suddenly, the steps felt less…forced. The connection with my partner became more fluid, more responsive. I wasn’t leading so much as suggesting, allowing her to interpret the music and respond in her own way. The dance became less about showing off technique and more about sharing a moment, a feeling, a shared understanding of the music’s subtle nuances.

It’s about the micro-movements, too. Young’s playing is full of them – little bends, subtle vibrato, almost imperceptible shifts in tone. These aren’t grand gestures; they’re whispers, intimations. And that’s what good Balboa is about. It’s not about the big, flashy turns. It’s about the tiny adjustments, the subtle weight shifts, the almost invisible communication between partners.

Think about it. Balboa is a close embrace dance. You’re practically breathing on each other. You’re feeling the subtle movements of your partner’s body, the rise and fall of their chest, the tension and release in their muscles. You’re sharing a physical space, a shared rhythm, a shared breath. And if you’re not breathing with the music, you’re missing half the conversation.

I started applying this to other music, too. Duke Ellington’s more languid pieces, Ben Webster’s smoky ballads, even some of the more angular lines of Charlie Parker. The principle remains the same: listen for the breath, the space between the notes, the subtle inflections that give the music its life. And then, try to embody that in your dance.

It’s not about imitation. It’s about understanding. Lester Young wasn’t trying to sound like anyone else. He was simply being himself, expressing his own unique voice through his instrument. And that’s what we should all be striving for, both as musicians and as dancers.

Don’t chase the steps. Don’t chase the technique. Chase the feeling. Chase the breath. Let the music fill you up, and then let it pour out through your body, through your movements, through your connection with your partner.

Because in the end, that’s what jazz is all about. It’s not about perfection. It’s about honesty. It’s about vulnerability. It’s about letting go and allowing the music to take you where it wants to go. And when you do that, when you truly surrender to the groove, you might just find yourself dancing with a ghost. A beautiful, soulful ghost named Lester. And trust me, that’s a dance worth having.