The Ghost in the Groove: Finding the Feeling in Balboa

The chipped Formica of the diner booth felt cool under my forearms, a familiar ache mirroring the one in my left shoulder from a particularly enthusiastic Balboa session the night before. Rain lashed against the window, blurring the neon glow of the all-night laundry across the street. It wasn’t the rain that had me thinking about Fats Waller, though. It was the weight of it. The way the water seemed to fall not in drops, but in slow-motion chords, each one a minor seventh, a suspended fourth.

See, I’d been wrestling with a particular passage in Waller’s “Honeysuckle Rose” all week. Not the melody, not the lyrics – those are ingrained, a childhood echo from my grandfather’s record player. It was the feel. The way he lays back, almost languidly, on the beat, yet somehow manages to propel the whole thing forward with a sly, internal rhythm. It’s a paradox, a gravitational pull that’s both relaxing and exhilarating. And it hit me, sitting here with lukewarm coffee and the city weeping outside, that this is precisely what good Balboa strives for.

Balboa. That little dance born in the crowded ballrooms of Southern California during the Prohibition era, a response to the limitations of space, a whispered conversation between bodies. It’s a dance of subtle weight shifts, of intricate footwork, of a connection so intimate it feels like reading each other’s minds. And for a long time, I’d been approaching it…wrong.

I’d been trying. Trying to hit the steps, trying to maintain frame, trying to look “good.” The kind of striving that sucks the soul out of anything, turning joy into obligation. I was building a house of technique, forgetting the foundation was supposed to be the music. I was, in essence, trying to think Balboa instead of feeling it.

Then, I started really listening to Fats. Not just as background music for practice, but as a conversation. “Honeysuckle Rose” became a laboratory. I’d put it on repeat, close my eyes, and focus on that deliberate lag, that playful teasing of the beat. He’s not rushing, he’s not dragging, he’s…existing in the space around the beat. He’s letting the music breathe.

And that’s when it clicked. Balboa isn’t about precision, it’s about responding. It’s about anticipating the subtle shifts in the music, the little hesitations, the unexpected flourishes. It’s about mirroring that internal rhythm, that playful lag, in your own movement. It’s about surrendering to the groove, letting it carry you.

The lead isn’t dictating, he’s proposing. He’s offering a suggestion, a gentle nudge, and the follow is responding, not with a pre-programmed sequence, but with an intuitive understanding of the musical phrasing. It’s a call and response, a conversation without words, a shared experience of time and space.

I remembered a workshop I took with Norma Miller, a legend of the Savoy Ballroom. She didn’t talk much about steps. She talked about listening. She’d say, “The music tells you what to do. You just gotta be quiet enough to hear it.” At the time, it sounded almost mystical. Now, it feels profoundly practical.

Waller’s piano isn’t just playing notes; it’s telling a story. It’s a story of longing, of joy, of a little bit of mischief. And Balboa, at its best, is a way of telling that story with your body. It’s about translating the emotional weight of the music into physical expression.

I started experimenting in practice. Instead of focusing on the next step, I’d focus on the next phrase. I’d let the music dictate my weight changes, my direction, my timing. I’d try to embody that Waller-esque lag, that playful teasing of the beat. And slowly, something shifted.

The dance became less about “doing” and more about “being.” The tension in my shoulders eased. My movements became more fluid, more responsive. I started to feel a connection with my partner that was deeper, more intuitive. It wasn’t about perfect technique; it was about shared musicality.

It’s a humbling process, this constant re-evaluation. Jazz, both the music and the dance, demands a willingness to be vulnerable, to be imperfect, to be constantly learning. It’s a reminder that the journey is more important than the destination. And that sometimes, the most profound discoveries are made not by striving, but by simply listening.

The rain outside has slowed to a drizzle. The neon sign across the street flickers, casting a pale blue light on the diner booth. I finish my coffee, the taste bitter and strangely comforting. I think of Fats Waller, his fingers dancing across the keys, his voice a warm, gravelly embrace. And I know, with a certainty that settles deep in my bones, that the ghost in the groove is always there, waiting to be rediscovered. You just have to be quiet enough to hear it.