The Breath of Balboa: Finding Connection Through Jazz

The chipped Formica of the diner booth felt cool under my elbows, a small mercy against the Louisiana humidity clinging to everything like a regret. Rain lashed the windows, mirroring the tempest brewing inside me. I’d just blown an audition. Not a catastrophic blow, mind you, not a career-ender. Just…a failure to connect. A Balboa audition, and I’d felt like a lumbering bear trying to waltz with a hummingbird.

See, I understand the mechanics of Balboa. The close embrace, the subtle weight changes, the intricate footwork. I can do the steps. But I wasn’t in it. I was thinking, calculating, performing instead of…breathing. And Balboa, honey, Balboa demands you breathe with the music. It demands you become a conduit, a vessel for the story the band is telling.

The diner jukebox, bless its flickering heart, offered a reprieve. It wasn’t playing the slick, modern swing I’d been obsessing over, trying to “perfect” my technique to. No, it coughed up a crackly recording of Lester Young’s “Lady Be Good.”

And suddenly, the rain outside didn’t feel so accusatory. The chipped Formica didn’t feel so…lonely.

Lester Young. Prez. The man who played like he was whispering secrets into your ear, secrets about heartbreak and late nights and the bittersweet ache of being alive. His sound isn’t about bombast, it’s about space. It’s about what he doesn’t play, the pregnant pauses, the delicate phrasing. It’s about the way he bends a note, not to show off, but to reveal a vulnerability that feels…sacred.

I’d always liked Lester Young. Appreciated his cool tone, his melodic invention. But I hadn’t truly listened. Not the way you listen when your soul is bruised and you’re searching for a lifeline.

As “Lady Be Good” unfolded, I started to notice something. It wasn’t just the notes, it was the air around the notes. The way Prez’s breath shaped each phrase, the way he seemed to inhale the melody and exhale a story. It was a rhythmic breathing, a subtle push and pull that mirrored the ebb and flow of human emotion.

And then it hit me. That’s what was missing from my Balboa. I was holding my breath.

We, as dancers, get so caught up in the doing of the dance, the technicalities, the “look,” that we forget to simply be in the music. We forget to let the rhythm move through us, to dictate our weight changes, our direction, our connection with our partner. We try to impose our will on the dance, instead of surrendering to it.

Balboa, at its core, is a conversation. A whispered dialogue between two bodies, guided by the music. And you can’t have a conversation if you’re not breathing. You can’t truly connect if you’re locked inside your own head, analyzing every step.

I started to dissect the song, not as a musician, but as a dancer. The way the piano comping created a gentle rocking motion, perfect for a subtle weight shift. The way the bass walked, providing a grounding pulse for the footwork. The way Prez’s saxophone soared and dipped, suggesting a playful lead and follow.

It wasn’t about replicating the notes with my feet. It was about feeling the spaces between them. About responding to the nuances of the phrasing. About letting the music dictate the rhythm of my breath.

I remembered a workshop I’d taken with Norma Miller, a legend of the Savoy Ballroom. She didn’t talk much about steps. She talked about feeling. About listening to the drummer, about anticipating the changes, about letting the music “take you for a ride.” She said, “Don’t think about what’s coming next. Just react. Just feel.”

Easier said than done, of course. But listening to Lester Young, I began to understand what she meant. It wasn’t about intellectualizing the dance, it was about embodying it. About letting the music seep into your bones and move you from the inside out.

I finished my coffee, the rain finally easing to a drizzle. I didn’t feel magically “fixed.” I didn’t suddenly possess the effortless grace of a Savoy Ballroom veteran. But something had shifted. I had a new understanding of what it meant to listen, to breathe, to connect.

I went back to the studio, not to practice steps, but to listen. I put on “Lady Be Good” again, closed my eyes, and simply moved. I didn’t try to Balboa. I just let the music guide me. I focused on my breath, on the subtle shifts in my weight, on the feeling of the music resonating within my body.

It wasn’t perfect. It was messy, imperfect, and utterly liberating.

And in that moment, I realized that the ghost of Lester Young, with his breathy saxophone and his whispered secrets, had become my Balboa teacher. He’d reminded me that the most important step isn’t a step at all. It’s a breath. A surrender. A willingness to let the music take you where it wants to go.

Because jazz, and the dances it inspires, aren’t about perfection. They’re about vulnerability. They’re about connection. They’re about finding the beauty in the spaces between the notes, and letting that beauty move you. And sometimes, all it takes is a crackly recording and a chipped Formica booth to remind you of that.