The Ghost in the Groove: Finding Freedom in Early Ellington

The rain was coming down in sheets, the kind that makes neon bleed into the asphalt. I was nursing a lukewarm coffee, staring at the chipped Formica of the diner counter, and listening – really listening – to Duke Ellington’s 1927 recordings. Not the polished, orchestral Ellington of the ‘30s and ‘40s, the one everyone knows. No, this was the raw, almost frantic Ellington of the Cotton Club, the one that smells of gin, desperation, and a thousand restless feet.

And it hit me, like a shot of something strong and unexpected. This isn’t music to dance to. It is dance. Embedded in the very DNA of the sound.

We Lindy Hoppers, Balboa believers, Charleston chasers… we often talk about “musicality.” About hitting the accents, about phrasing, about responding to the call and response. We take workshops, dissect arrangements, and try to translate the abstract language of music into concrete steps. But sometimes, I think we overthink it. We intellectualize the gut feeling. And with early Ellington, that gut feeling is primal.

See, a lot of jazz, even early jazz, feels…constructed. Beautifully constructed, mind you. A clever puzzle box of melody and harmony. But Ellington’s early work, particularly those sides from 1926-1929, feels grown. Like a living organism, constantly shifting and breathing. It’s less about solving a puzzle and more about being swallowed whole.

Take “Black and Tan Fantasy.” Everyone knows it. A standard. But listen to it again. Really listen. Not as a listener, but as a body. Forget the history, forget the analysis. Just let it wash over you.

What you’ll find isn’t just a catchy tune. It’s a series of micro-rhythms, a constant push and pull. Bubber Miley’s trumpet isn’t just playing notes; it’s leaning into the beat, almost falling off, then snapping back with a vicious grace. The piano, often played by Ellington himself, isn’t comping, it’s arguing with the trumpet, a playful, slightly dangerous conversation. And the rhythm section? It’s not keeping time, it’s creating a shifting landscape of syncopation.

This isn’t music designed for a smooth, predictable eight-count. It’s music that demands you react. It demands improvisation, not just from the musicians, but from you.

I started thinking about this because I’d been struggling with a particular Balboa sequence. A simple, six-count variation. I could do it, technically. But it felt…flat. Mechanical. Like I was checking boxes instead of expressing something. I was trying to force the movement onto the music, instead of letting the music dictate the movement.

Then I put on “Creole Love Call.” And everything changed.

That recording, with its haunting trombone glissandos and its almost hypnotic rhythm, isn’t about precision. It’s about surrender. It’s about letting the music take you where it wants to go. And suddenly, that six-count variation wasn’t a problem anymore. It wasn’t about hitting the right steps at the right time. It was about responding to the subtle shifts in the music, about finding the pockets of space between the notes, about letting the rhythm flow through me.

The ghost in the groove, I realized, isn’t a specific beat or a particular phrase. It’s the imperfection. It’s the slight hesitation, the unexpected accent, the almost-but-not-quite-on-the-beat feel. It’s the human element, the vulnerability, the sheer, unadulterated life that Ellington captured in those early recordings.

And that’s what makes it so damn compelling to dance to.

It’s not about showing off your technique. It’s about letting go of control. It’s about trusting your instincts. It’s about finding your own voice within the music. It’s about acknowledging that the music isn’t perfect, and neither are you.

This isn’t a call to abandon technique. God knows, we all need to drill those fundamentals. But it’s a reminder that technique is a tool, not an end in itself. The goal isn’t to execute steps perfectly. The goal is to connect with the music on a deeper level, to let it move you, to let it transform you.

I’ve been experimenting with this in my own dancing lately. Less planning, more reacting. Less thinking, more feeling. And it’s been… liberating. It’s messy, sometimes. I stumble, I miss steps, I occasionally look like a complete fool. But it’s also more alive, more authentic, more fun.

So, the next time you’re looking for a challenge, put on some early Ellington. “East St. Louis Toodle-Oo,” “Hotsy Totsy,” “Mood Indigo” (even that one, despite its later polish, still carries a trace of that early fire). Don’t try to figure it out. Don’t try to control it. Just let it wash over you.

And then… move. Let the ghost in the groove possess you. Let it remind you that jazz isn’t just music. It’s a conversation. A struggle. A celebration. And a damn good reason to lose yourself on the dance floor.

The rain outside has stopped. The diner is emptying out. I finish my coffee, the taste bitter and lingering. And I know, with a certainty that settles deep in my bones, that I’ll be back. Back to listen. Back to move. Back to chase that ghost.