The Silence Between the Steps

The chipped Formica of the diner booth felt cool under my elbows, mirroring the chill that had settled in my chest. Rain lashed against the window, blurring the neon glow of “Rosie’s” into a smear of melancholy blue. Outside, the city breathed a damp, late-night sigh. Inside, the jukebox was stubbornly refusing to play anything but a scratchy, almost spectral rendition of Lennie Tristano’s “Intuition.” And I was failing. Utterly, beautifully, failing.

I wasn’t failing at life, not exactly. Though some nights, staring into a lukewarm cup of coffee, it felt close enough. I was failing at Balboa. Specifically, at leading.

See, I’ve been steeped in jazz since I was a kid, a sonic baptism courtesy of my grandfather’s record collection. Bird, Monk, Tristano – they weren’t just music, they were landscapes, moods, arguments with the universe. I could hear the architecture of a solo, the subtle shifts in harmonic tension, the desperate joy of improvisation. But translating that internal rhythm, that understanding of phrasing, into the physical language of Balboa? That was proving to be a different kind of heartbreak.

Balboa, for those uninitiated, is a close-embrace swing dance born in the Balboa Peninsula of California in the 1930s. It’s a dance of subtle weight shifts, intricate footwork, and a profound connection between partners. It’s a conversation without words, a negotiation of space and time set to the frantic, exhilarating pulse of West Coast jazz. And it demands, above all, a clear, confident lead.

And I… I was a whisper. A hesitant suggestion. A man afraid to truly say anything with his body.

The problem, I realized, wasn’t a lack of technical skill. I’d drilled the basic steps, the turns, the wraps. I could count the music, dissect it intellectually. But I wasn’t feeling it. I was trying to impose a structure onto the music, rather than letting the music dictate the movement. I was leading from the head, not the heart.

And that’s where Tristano came in.

“Intuition,” recorded in 1949, is a masterclass in restrained intensity. It’s a trio performance – Tristano on piano, Al Haig on piano, and Lee Konitz on alto saxophone – that feels less like a composition and more like a collective improvisation, a spontaneous unfolding of musical thought. There’s a deliberate sparseness to it, a refusal to overstate. The notes hang in the air, pregnant with possibility. It’s a music of silence as much as sound.

And suddenly, it clicked.

Good Balboa leading isn’t about telling your partner what to do. It’s about creating a space, a suggestion, an invitation. It’s about offering a clear intention, and then listening for the response. It’s about trusting your partner to interpret that intention, to add their own voice to the conversation. It’s about leading from a place of quiet confidence, not frantic control.

It’s about the silence between the notes.

I’d been so focused on executing the steps perfectly, on being “right,” that I’d forgotten the fundamental principle of jazz: improvisation. I’d forgotten that the beauty lies not in the predictability, but in the unexpected. I was trying to write a script for the dance, instead of allowing it to unfold organically.

The diner’s jukebox finally sputtered and changed tracks, mercifully switching to a more upbeat tune. But the lesson of Tristano lingered.

I went back to the dance floor the next night, determined to approach things differently. I stopped thinking about the steps and started listening to the music. I focused on my core, on maintaining a grounded, centered presence. I softened my grip, allowing my partner more freedom to express herself.

And I led with less. Much less.

I offered a subtle weight shift, a gentle pressure in my frame. I didn’t try to force a turn, I simply suggested it. And then I waited. I listened.

And she responded.

It wasn’t perfect, not by a long shot. There were still stumbles, miscommunications, moments of awkwardness. But there was also something new: a connection. A flow. A sense of shared joy.

The weight of a closed hold, I realized, isn’t about control. It’s about trust. It’s about vulnerability. It’s about surrendering to the moment, and allowing the music to guide you.

It’s about finding the silence within the sound, and the dance within the silence.

I still have a long way to go. I’ll likely spend countless more nights wrestling with the intricacies of Balboa, grappling with the challenge of leading with grace and confidence. But now, at least, I have a compass. A ghostly echo of Lennie Tristano, reminding me that sometimes, the most powerful thing you can do is simply… listen. And trust that the music, and your partner, will lead the way.