The Language of Dance: Lessons from Jazz and a Diner Booth

The chipped Formica of the diner booth felt cool under my forearms. Rain, the kind that smells like regret and old pennies, was sheeting down outside. I wasn’t hungry, not exactly. More… calibrating. Trying to find the frequency where the static of the day dissolved into something resembling coherence. And, as always, Benny Golson had the dial.

Specifically, “Along Came Sandy,” from his 1958 album Benny Golson and the Jazz Giants. It’s not a frantic burner, not a lament steeped in bourbon and smoke. It’s… a conversation. A slow, deliberate unfolding. And lately, it’s been whispering things about weight, about trust, about the almost unbearable intimacy of partnered dance.

See, I’ve been wrestling with Balboa. Not the steps themselves – the basic is deceptively simple, a contained, elegant sway. It’s the feeling of it. The way a good lead isn’t about dictating, but about offering a suggestion, a gentle architecture for the follow to inhabit. And the follow, God, the follow… it’s a surrender, a delicate balancing act between responsiveness and independent expression.

It’s a terrifying vulnerability.

I used to think of leading as control. A misguided notion, born of ego and a fundamental misunderstanding of the music. I’d try to make things happen, to force a turn, to telegraph a pattern. It felt… brittle. Like trying to sculpt with ice. The music would politely tolerate it, but it wouldn’t sing. The connection with my partner would be strained, a polite fiction.

Then I started listening to Golson.

“Along Came Sandy” isn’t about bravado. It’s about nuance. Golson’s tenor sax doesn’t shout; it leans in. It offers a phrase, then pauses, listening for the response. The interplay with Al Cohn’s alto is breathtaking, not because of technical fireworks, but because of the space between the notes. They’re not competing; they’re completing each other’s thoughts.

And that’s it, isn’t it? That’s the key.

The piano, played by Duke Jordan, is a masterclass in understated support. It doesn’t demand attention, but it provides the harmonic foundation, the subtle shifts in color that allow the horns to breathe. It’s the equivalent of a good follow, anticipating the lead’s intention, providing a solid, grounded presence.

I remember a particularly frustrating lesson a few weeks ago. I was trying to lead a complex sequence, a series of whip turns and underarm passes. I was tense, overthinking, practically willing my partner to follow my every whim. She was a good dancer, technically proficient, but she looked… lost. Her movements were hesitant, lacking the joyful abandon that makes Balboa so intoxicating.

The instructor, a woman named Elena who moves with the effortless grace of a heron, stopped us. “You’re trying too hard,” she said, her voice gentle but firm. “You’re not listening. You’re not feeling her weight. You’re not offering a clear invitation.”

Her words echoed in my head as I sat in the diner, the rain drumming against the window. Feeling her weight. It wasn’t about physical strength, but about sensitivity. About being attuned to the subtle shifts in balance, the micro-adjustments that signal intention.

Golson understands this. Listen to how he phrases his solos. He doesn’t just play notes; he plays around them. He creates a sense of anticipation, of possibility. He leaves room for the other musicians to respond, to contribute their own voices to the conversation.

And that’s what a good lead does. He doesn’t dictate the dance; he creates the space for it to happen. He offers a hand, not as a tool of control, but as an invitation to explore, to improvise, to connect.

The weight of a partner’s hand isn’t a burden; it’s a revelation. It’s a reminder that we’re not alone, that we’re capable of creating something beautiful and ephemeral together. It’s a surrender to the moment, a willingness to trust, to let go.

I finished my coffee, the lukewarm liquid doing little to dispel the chill that had settled in my bones. The rain had slowed to a drizzle. I thought about Elena’s words, about Golson’s music, about the ghost in the groove – the unspoken connection that makes jazz, and partnered dance, so profoundly moving.

I needed to get back to the studio. Not to practice steps, but to listen. To feel. To remember that the best dances aren’t the ones we plan, but the ones that unfold organically, guided by the music and the weight of a partner’s hand. To remember that sometimes, the most powerful thing you can do is simply… offer an invitation.

And maybe, just maybe, along came Sandy. Or someone like her. Someone who understands the language of silence, the poetry of weight, the exquisite vulnerability of letting go.