The Ghost in the Groove: How Lester Young Taught Me to Dance
The chipped Formica of the diner booth felt cool under my elbows, the scent of stale coffee and frying bacon clinging to the air like a persistent blue note. Outside, a November drizzle blurred the streetlights into halos. Inside, though, it wasnât the weather I was wrestling with, but a ghost. A ghost named Lester Young.
See, Iâd been stuck. Not in my life, precisely, though thatâs a story for another time, and likely one too tangled for a jazz blog. No, I was stuck in my Balboa. Specifically, the anchor step. It feltâŠforced. Mechanical. Like I was ticking boxes on a choreography checklist instead of responding to the music. My partner, bless her patient soul, kept saying, âRelax your shoulders! Itâs about the conversation, not the steps!â But the advice felt hollow, a platitude bouncing off the rigid architecture of my self-consciousness.
Then, a few nights ago, I put on a collection of Youngâs recordings from the late 30s and early 40s â the ones with the Count Basie Orchestra, mostly. Not to practice to, mind you. I wasnât thinking about dance at all. I was justâŠlistening. Really listening. And it wasnât the melodic lines, though those are, of course, breathtaking. It wasnât even the harmonic sophistication, though thatâs a rabbit hole a lifetime wouldnât be enough to explore. It was his breath.
Youngâs phrasing. That languid, almost conversational way heâd hang back, then drift forward, a sigh woven into every note. Itâs been described as âcool,â and thatâs not wrong, but âcoolâ feelsâŠinsufficient. Itâs more like a deliberate spaciousness, a refusal to rush, a profound understanding of the power of silence within the sound. He doesnât just play the notes; he inhabits the spaces between them.
And thatâs when it hit me. My Balboa anchor wasnât failing because of my feet, or my posture, or even my lack of musicality. It was failing because I wasnât breathing with the music. I was anticipating the beat, bracing for it, instead of letting it arrive. I was trying to do Balboa, instead of letting it happen.
Balboa, at its heart, is a dance of subtle weight shifts and delicate connection. Itâs a conversation conducted through pressure and release, a mirroring of the musicâs ebb and flow. The anchor step, that foundational movement, is supposed to be a gentle yielding, a momentary suspension before the next impulse. But I was turning it into a rigid assertion, a little shove against the music instead of a surrender to it.
I started to think about Youngâs breath as a model. That long, drawn-out exhale before a phrase, the way heâd almost whisper a note, then let it bloom. Itâs not about avoiding the beat, itâs about deferring to it. Itâs about creating a sense of anticipation, of allowing the music to pull you forward instead of forcing yourself upon it.
So, I went back to the practice floor. But this time, I didnât focus on the steps. I focused on my breath. I imagined Youngâs saxophone as my own lungs, expanding and contracting with the music. I tried to mimic his phrasing, to hang back just a fraction of a second, to let the beat wash over me before responding.
And something shifted.
The anchor step, suddenly, wasnât a chore. It wasnât a mechanical exercise. It was a release. A yielding. A gentle invitation. My shoulders relaxed, my weight softened, and the connection with my partner deepened. It wasnât about leading or following anymore; it was about listening and responding. It was about inhabiting the spaces between the beats, just like Lester Young.
Itâs a strange thing, isnât it? How a ghost from another era, a musician who never intended to teach anyone how to dance, can unlock something so fundamental. It reminds me of what Leonard Feather used to say about improvisation: itâs not about knowing all the rules, itâs about knowing when to break them. And sometimes, the best way to break the rules is to simply listen. To breathe. To let the music guide you.
I still have a long way to go, of course. Balboa, like jazz itself, is a lifelong pursuit. But now, when I feel myself tightening up, when I feel the mechanical impulse creeping back in, I close my eyes and listen for Lester Youngâs breath. And I remember that the ghost in the groove isnât something to be feared, but something to be embraced. Itâs a reminder that the best dancing, like the best music, comes from a place of surrender, of vulnerability, of profound and unwavering listening. And maybe, just maybe, a little bit of magic.