The Breath of Balboa: Finding Freedom in the Spaces Between the Notes

The air in the Savoy Ballroom, even just imagined through a crackly 78, smells like sweat, pomade, and possibility. It’s a scent I chase, a phantom limb ache for a time I never knew, but feel in my bones every time I step onto a wooden floor. And lately, that chase has led me straight back to Lester Young. Not just to his music, see, but inside it. Specifically, inside his breath.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. “Breath? What the hell does a horn player’s breathing have to do with a dance like Balboa?” Stick with me. This ain’t about theory, it’s about feeling. It’s about the way a sound, a space between sounds, can unlock something primal in your movement.

I’ve been wrestling with Balboa for a while now. Not the steps, mind you. The steps are…manageable. The frame, the connection, the subtle weight shifts – those you can drill, you can practice until they’re muscle memory. But feeling the music in Balboa, truly inhabiting that pocket, that’s a different beast. It’s about more than just hitting the accents. It’s about anticipating them, responding to the implied rhythm, the spaces where the music isn’t necessarily playing, but is still…breathing.

I was stuck. My Balboa felt…tight. Precise, maybe, but lacking that looseness, that joyful surrender that makes the dance sing. I was overthinking, trying to construct the feeling instead of letting it rise up. Then, a few weeks back, I stumbled onto a recording of Lester Young with the Jazz at the Philharmonic, 1946. “Lester Leaps In.”

Everyone knows “Lester Leaps In.” It’s a bop standard, a showcase for Prez’s lyrical genius. But I wasn’t listening for the notes, not this time. I was listening for the silence. The way Young phrases, the way he doesn’t just play on the beat, but around it. He’s a master of delayed entrances, of holding a note just a fraction of a second longer than you expect, then letting it dissolve into the air.

And that’s when it hit me: his breath.

Listen closely. You can hear it. Not literally, of course, but in the spaces between his phrases. It’s a long, slow exhale that shapes the music, that gives it its languid, almost conversational quality. It’s a breath that’s both relaxed and intensely focused, a breath that’s carrying the weight of the world, but refusing to be crushed by it.

Suddenly, I wasn’t just hearing the music, I was feeling its respiration. And I realized that’s what was missing in my Balboa. I was trying to fill every beat, to be constantly “on,” when what the dance – what this music – demands is the opposite. It demands a willingness to yield, to breathe with the rhythm, to find the joy in the spaces.

I started practicing with that in mind. Not trying to mimic Young’s phrasing with my feet, but to internalize the feeling of his breath. To let my own breath become a guide, a counterpoint to the music. I focused on softening my knees, on releasing tension in my shoulders, on allowing my weight to flow more freely.

I started listening for the “ghost notes” in the music – the implied rhythms, the subtle accents that aren’t explicitly stated. And I started responding to those ghosts, letting them dictate my movement. It wasn’t about leading or following, it was about listening and responding. It was about a conversation, a shared breath between two bodies.

The change wasn’t immediate, of course. There were still moments of stiffness, of overthinking. But gradually, something started to shift. My Balboa began to feel…lighter. More fluid. More playful. I started to anticipate the music, to feel the rhythm building and releasing, to find that sweet spot where my movement and the music became one.

It’s a strange thing, to find a lesson in dance from a saxophone player. But that’s the beauty of jazz, isn’t it? It’s a conversation across disciplines, a constant exchange of ideas and emotions. It’s a reminder that everything is connected, that the breath of a musician can inform the movement of a dancer, that the ghost in the groove can unlock something profound within us.

Now, when I hear Lester Young, I don’t just hear a saxophone. I hear a breath. A long, slow exhale that invites me to surrender, to let go, to find the joy in the spaces. And when I step onto the dance floor, I try to carry that breath with me, to let it guide my movement, to let it remind me that the most beautiful moments in Balboa – and in life – often happen in the spaces between the notes.

Go listen to “Lester Leaps In.” Really listen. Close your eyes. Feel the air move. And then, go dance. Breathe with the music. Let the ghost in the groove possess you. You might just surprise yourself.