The Ghost in the Groove: Finding Freedom in Balboa Through Lester Young

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 regretful memory. Outside, New Orleans simmered, a humid pressure cooker of sound and shadow. I wasn’t thinking about beignets, though. I was thinking about Lester Young. And, strangely, about my right ribcage.

See, I’d been wrestling with my Balboa. Not the steps, not the timing – those were there, hammered into muscle memory after years of sweat and near-collisions. No, it was the feel. It lacked…air. It felt tight, constricted, like a polite conversation at a funeral. Balboa, at its heart, is a conversation, a breathless exchange, a flirtation conducted inches from another human being. And mine was sounding like a telegram.

My teacher, the unflappable Madame Evangeline (a woman who could silence a room with a raised eyebrow and a perfectly executed sugar push), had said something that burrowed under my skin. “You’re holding it, child. You’re holding your breath, holding your weight, holding…everything. Let the music in.”

Easy for her to say. She moved like smoke, a willow in a hurricane, all fluidity and grace. I felt like a rusty gate.

Then, late one night, after a particularly frustrating practice, I put on a Lester Young recording. Not the well-trodden “Lady Be Good” or “Tea for Two.” No. I dug deep, pulled out a 1940 broadcast with the Jones-Smith Incorporated band. It wasn’t the notes that grabbed me, though they were, as always, exquisite. It was the space between them.

Young’s phrasing. That languid, almost conversational way he’d lay back on the beat, drawing out a note, then letting it dissolve into silence. It wasn’t laziness, not at all. It was…breathing. He wasn’t just playing the saxophone; he was inhaling and exhaling through it. Each note was a consequence of that breath, a sigh, a whispered confidence.

And suddenly, I understood.

I’d been approaching Balboa like a mathematical equation, a series of precise movements to be executed. I’d forgotten the fundamental truth: jazz, and therefore jazz dance, is about time. Not just keeping time, but playing with it. Stretching it, compressing it, bending it to your will. And you can’t do that if you’re holding your breath.

Young’s breath wasn’t just about the saxophone. It was about the story he was telling. He wasn’t just playing a melody; he was inhabiting a mood, a feeling, a whole damn life. That space, that silence, wasn’t emptiness. It was pregnant with possibility. It was the anticipation before the kiss, the unspoken longing in a smoky room, the weight of a thousand untold stories.

I started listening to Young differently. I stopped focusing on the individual notes and started listening to the air around them. The way he’d subtly delay a phrase, creating a delicious tension. The way he’d resolve it, releasing the tension with a gentle, almost apologetic grace. It was a masterclass in controlled release.

Then, I went back to the dance floor.

This time, I didn’t try to do anything. I just tried to listen. To the music, yes, but also to my own breath. I focused on inhaling deeply, filling my lungs, and then exhaling slowly, letting the air flow through my body. I imagined my ribcage expanding and contracting with the rhythm, becoming a bellows driving the movement.

And something shifted.

The tightness in my shoulders eased. My weight felt less…static. I started to anticipate the music, to feel the subtle shifts in the tempo. I stopped leading and started responding. I stopped thinking about the steps and started feeling the connection with my partner.

It wasn’t a sudden transformation. It was a gradual unfolding, a slow awakening. But with each breath, with each phrase, I felt myself sinking deeper into the groove. The Balboa started to breathe with me. It became less about precision and more about expression. Less about control and more about surrender.

It reminded me of something William Faulkner wrote about the South: “The past is never dead. It’s not even past.” The ghosts of those early jazz musicians, those pioneers who dared to break the rules and create something new, are still present in the music. They’re in the spaces between the notes, in the subtle inflections, in the very air we breathe when we dance.

Lester Young, a man who understood the power of silence, the beauty of restraint, the importance of a single, well-placed breath, taught me more about Balboa than any textbook ever could. He reminded me that jazz isn’t just about what you play, it’s about how you play it. And that, ultimately, is true of life itself.

So, the next time you’re struggling with a dance, or with anything, really, take a deep breath. Listen to Lester Young. And remember: the ghost in the groove is waiting for you to let it in.