The Ghost in the Groove: Finding Freedom in Jazz and Balboa

The air in the Savoy Ballroom, even in memory, tasted like sweat, gin, and ambition. You could practically feel the wood flexing under the weight of a thousand feet, a living organism breathing with the band. But it wasn’t the feet that got me thinking this week. It was the breath. Specifically, the breath of Prez, Lester Young.

See, I’ve been wrestling with my Balboa. Not the steps, not the connection – those are… mostly there. It’s the feel. The way the music should flow through you, not just be a soundtrack to you. I was getting technically proficient, a smooth operator on the floor, but lacking that… that haunted quality. That feeling of being possessed by the rhythm. Like a medium channeling a particularly cool spirit.

I’d been listening to a lot of Count Basie, naturally. Trying to absorb the pulse, the relentless swing. But it felt… academic. Like studying a blueprint instead of inhabiting the building. Then, late one night, fueled by lukewarm coffee and a creeping sense of inadequacy, I stumbled back into “Lady Be Good” from the 1936 Basie session. And there he was.

Lester Young.

Not blasting, not showboating. Just… present. His tenor sax weaving in and out of Basie’s arrangements like smoke in a dimly lit room. But it wasn’t the notes themselves, not the melodic lines, though those are, of course, sublime. It was the space between the notes. The way he’d inhale, a long, deliberate draw, before unleashing a phrase. The way his exhale seemed to shape the sound, giving it a vulnerability, a fragility that belied the power underneath.

It hit me like a shot of rye. That breath wasn’t just about sustaining a note. It was about time. About manipulating the very fabric of the rhythm. He wasn’t just playing in the groove, he was defining it. He was stretching it, compressing it, playing with your expectations. He was a sculptor working with air.

Now, I’m no musician. I can barely coax a coherent sound out of a kazoo. But I am a dancer. And I realized I’d been treating the music like a rigid grid, trying to fit my movements into pre-defined boxes. Eight counts here, six counts there. A mechanical interpretation of swing.

I’d forgotten that jazz isn’t about precision. It’s about conversation. It’s about responding to the moment, about anticipating what’s coming next, about leaving space for the unexpected. And that space, that breath, is crucial.

So, I started listening to Prez differently. Not just for the melody, but for the silence. For the way he’d hold a note, letting it decay naturally, creating a tension that demanded resolution. I started paying attention to the subtle shifts in his phrasing, the way he’d lean into a beat, then pull back, creating a push-and-pull that was both exhilarating and deeply sensual.

Then I took it to the floor.

I stopped trying to plan my movements. I stopped focusing on the steps. I started listening for that breath. For the spaces between the notes. I started trying to mimic that feeling of inhalation and exhalation in my own body, letting the music dictate my weight changes, my direction, my connection with my partner.

It wasn’t immediate. There were stumbles, awkward pauses, moments where I felt like I was flailing in the dark. But slowly, something started to shift. The rigidity began to dissolve. The movements became more fluid, more responsive. I started to anticipate my partner’s lead, not by counting beats, but by feeling the music together.

And then, it happened.

Midway through a particularly lively rendition of “Jumpin’ at the Woodside,” I felt it. That connection. That feeling of being completely lost in the music, of being carried along by the rhythm. It wasn’t about showing off, it wasn’t about technique. It was about surrendering to the groove, about letting the music possess me.

It was the ghost in the groove, finally making itself known.

It’s a subtle thing, this shift. It’s not something you can teach in a class. It’s something you have to feel. It’s about listening not just with your ears, but with your entire body. It’s about understanding that jazz isn’t just music, it’s a conversation, a story, a shared experience.

And it all started with a breath. Lester Young’s breath. A reminder that sometimes, the most powerful thing you can do is simply… pause. To listen. To breathe. To let the music take you where it wants to go.

Because in the end, that’s what jazz – and Balboa – are all about. It’s about finding that space, that silence, that breath, and letting the spirit move through you. It’s about letting the ghost dance.