The Ghosts in the Groove: Finding Connection Through Dance and Jazz

The chipped Formica of the diner booth felt cool under my forearms, the scent of stale coffee and something vaguely floral – a waitress’s perfume, perhaps, clinging to the vinyl – a familiar comfort. Rain lashed against the window, mirroring the restless energy thrumming beneath my skin. I wasn’t thinking about the rain, though. I was thinking about Benny Golson’s “Along Came Sandy,” and the way a good Balboa feels like remembering something you never knew you’d forgotten.

It’s a deceptively simple tune, isn’t it? From Golson’s 1958 album Benny Golson and the Jazz Giants, it’s a medium-tempo swinger, a waltz almost, but with a sly, insistent pulse. The melody, carried by Golson’s tenor saxophone, is a cascade of notes, bright and optimistic, yet laced with a melancholic undercurrent. It’s the kind of tune that makes you want to move, but not in a boisterous, shout-it-from-the-rooftops way. It’s a movement born of quiet contemplation, of a shared secret whispered between two bodies.

I’d been wrestling with a particularly stubborn passage in a new Balboa routine, a sequence that felt…off. Not technically wrong, mind you. The footwork was clean, the timing solid. But it lacked something. It felt like a beautifully constructed sentence devoid of a soul. My partner, Elias, a man who moves with the grace of a seasoned heron, kept offering adjustments, subtle shifts in weight, a softening of the lead. But nothing clicked.

We were practicing in a studio that smelled of rosin and regret – the ghosts of countless dancers, their aspirations and frustrations clinging to the sprung floor. The air hung thick with the unspoken pressure to get it right. And that, I realized, was precisely the problem. We were trying too hard. We were thinking about the dance instead of feeling it.

Then, during a water break, Elias put on “Along Came Sandy.”

The tune unfolded, and something shifted. It wasn’t a dramatic revelation, more like a slow thaw. The melody, with its gentle insistence, seemed to bypass the analytical part of my brain and settle directly into my limbs. I closed my eyes, and suddenly, I wasn’t thinking about steps or leads or follows. I was thinking about the weight of a hand in mine, the subtle pressure of a connection, the unspoken conversation that happens when two bodies surrender to the rhythm.

Golson’s composition, I realized, isn’t just about a woman named Sandy. It’s about the arrival of something. A feeling. A connection. A moment of grace. The way the saxophone weaves around the piano chords, the delicate interplay between the instruments, mirrors the delicate balance required in a good dance partnership. It’s a conversation, a call and response, a yielding and a leading.

And that’s where the ghost comes in.

Because a good dance, like a good piece of jazz, isn’t just about the present moment. It’s about all the dances that came before, all the hands that have held yours, all the rhythms that have pulsed through your veins. It’s about the lineage of the dance, the history embedded in the steps, the echoes of generations of swingers. You’re not just dancing with your partner; you’re dancing with the ghosts of those who danced before you, their energy swirling around you, guiding you.

The beauty of Balboa, particularly, lies in its intimacy. It’s a close embrace, a subtle conversation conducted through weight shifts and pressure. There’s very little room for pretense, for hiding behind flashy moves. It demands honesty, vulnerability, a willingness to surrender control. And that’s terrifying. It’s easier to perform a dance than to be in a dance.

We tried the routine again, this time with “Along Came Sandy” filling the room. I stopped trying to anticipate Elias’s lead, stopped focusing on the mechanics of the steps. I simply allowed myself to be moved, to respond to the subtle cues of his body, to feel the weight of his hand in mine.

And it clicked.

The sequence flowed, not because we had finally perfected the technique, but because we had finally allowed ourselves to feel the music. The steps weren’t just movements; they were expressions of a shared emotion, a quiet joy. It wasn’t about hitting the marks; it was about inhabiting the space between the notes, the space between two bodies.

The rain outside had slowed to a drizzle. The diner was emptying, the clatter of dishes fading into a low hum. I finished my coffee, the bitter taste lingering on my tongue. “Along Came Sandy” ended, leaving a quiet ache in its wake.

I thought about the ghosts in the studio, the ghosts in the groove, the ghosts of all the dancers who had come before us. And I realized that the weight of a partner’s hand isn’t just about physical connection. It’s about carrying the weight of that history, of that lineage, of that shared human experience. It’s about acknowledging the ghosts and allowing them to guide you, to remind you that the best dances, like the best moments in life, are the ones where you simply surrender to the rhythm and let the music take you where it will.

Because sometimes, the most profound movements aren’t about where you’re going, but about who you’re dancing with, and the echoes of all those who danced before. And sometimes, all it takes is a tune like “Along Came Sandy” to remind you of that.