The Ghost in the Groove: How Lester Young Changed My Balboa
The chipped Formica of the diner booth felt cool under my elbows. Rain lashed against the window, mirroring the grey ache in my feet after a late-night Balboa session. Not a bad ache, mind you. The kind that hums with memory, with the echo of a good band and a willing partner. But it got me thinking, as these things always do after a night lost in the swing⊠it wasnât just the steps, the connection, the sheer joy of the dance. It wasâŠLester Young.
Yeah, Prez. The man who sounded like he was playing the saxophone through water, through a veil of smoke and regret. And how, impossibly, that sound, that breath, is woven into the very fabric of how I try to move on the dance floor.
See, a lot of folks talk about Balboa as being âsmall space Lindy Hop.â Technically true, I guess. But thatâs like saying a haiku is just a short poem. It misses the whole damn point. Balboa isnât about reducing Lindy Hop, itâs about distilling it. Stripping it down to its essential pulse, its intimate conversation. And that pulse, for me, always leads back to Lester Young.
I wasnât always this way. I came to jazz dance through the Lindy Hop explosion of the early 2000s. Big bands, high energy, aerials that defied gravity. Fun, exhilarating, but⊠sometimes a little loud. A little too eager to show you it was jazz. Then I stumbled onto a recording of Lester Youngâs âLady Be Goodâ with the Count Basie Orchestra.
And everything shifted.
It wasnât the flash. It wasnât the bombast. It was the space. The way Young didnât fill every beat, didnât shout for attention. He suggested. He hinted. He left room for the music to breathe, for the other musicians to respond. His solos werenât about conquering the tune, they were about having a conversation with it.
Thatâs the key, isnât it? Conversation. Balboa, at its best, is a conversation between two bodies, responding to the music, anticipating each otherâs weight shifts, leading and following with a delicate, almost telepathic understanding. And Youngâs playing taught me to listen for the silences within the music, the spaces between the notes, the subtle inflections that tell you where the groove is really hiding.
Think about it. Balboa is a close embrace. Youâre practically breathing on your partner. You feel every nuance of their movement. Youâre not flailing around, youâre listening with your body. And Youngâs saxophone⊠itâs like heâs breathing directly into your ear.
He wasnât a âhotâ player in the Coleman Hawkins sense. Hawkins was a force of nature, a volcanic eruption of sound. Young wasâŠcool. Detached. Almost melancholic. But that coolness wasnât indifference. It was a profound sensitivity. He understood that sometimes, saying less is saying more. That a single, perfectly placed note can be more powerful than a flurry of virtuosity.
And that translates directly to the dance floor. I used to try to force the movement, to inject energy into every step. Now, I try to let the music move through me. To respond to the subtle shifts in the rhythm, the delicate interplay between the instruments. To find the pocket, that sweet spot where everything clicks, and just⊠be.
Iâve been listening to a lot of Youngâs work with Basie lately, particularly the recordings from the late 30s and early 40s. âJumpinâ at the Woodside,â âOne OâClock Jump,â âLester Leaps In.â But itâs not just the famous tunes. Itâs the lesser-known recordings, the late-night jam sessions, the moments where you can hear him experimenting, searching for new ways to express himself.
And Iâve started to notice something else. The way he phrases his lines. The way he bends notes, stretches them, and then releases them. Itâs not just about the notes themselves, itâs about the timing. The way he plays slightly behind the beat, creating a sense of relaxed swing.
Thatâs what Iâm trying to capture in my Balboa. That feeling of being slightly off-balance, of being perpetually on the verge of falling, but somehow managing to stay upright. Itâs not about precision, itâs about fluidity. Itâs about surrendering to the rhythm and letting it carry you.
Itâs a constant process, of course. Iâm still learning, still making mistakes. But every time I step onto the dance floor, I hear Youngâs voice in my ear, reminding me to breathe, to listen, to let the music guide me.
Heâs a ghost in the groove, a subtle presence that shapes my movement, informs my connection, and reminds me that the most profound expressions of jazz arenât always the loudest, but the most intimate.
So next time youâre out dancing, or just listening to some jazz, take a moment to listen for the spaces between the notes. Listen for the breath. Listen for the ghost. You might be surprised by what you hear. And you might just find yourself moving in a whole new way.