The Silence Between the Steps: Finding Freedom in 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. Another weekend workshop done, another eight hours spent trying to feel the Balboa, not just do it. I was stuck. Technically proficient, sure. I could hit the syncopations, navigate the crowded floor, even pull off a decent throw-out. But it feltâŠempty. Like a beautifully constructed shell, devoid of the oceanâs roar.
I was nursing a lukewarm coffee, scrolling through Instagram â a graveyard of smiling Balboa faces, all effortless glide and joyful connection. It felt like everyone else had unlocked the secret, and I was still fumbling with the lock. Then, a friend posted a snippet of Lester Young playing âLester Leaps In.â And something shifted.
Now, Iâve always liked Lester Young. Cool, laconic, the President. But Iâd always approached him as a historical figure, a cornerstone of tenor sax. Iâd appreciated the melodic invention, the harmonic sophistication, the sheer beauty of his sound. But I hadnât really listened. Not the way you listen when youâre desperate for a clue, a lifeline.
This wasnât about analyzing chord changes or dissecting his phrasing. It was about the space. The breath. The way Young doesnât just play the notes, he inhabits the silence between them. He doesnât fill every beat; he suggests, he implies, he lets the music breathe. Itâs a deliberate, almost defiant spaciousness.
And suddenly, I understood. My Balboa was suffocating. I was trying to pack too much into every eight-count, chasing the beat instead of letting it carry me. I was focused on the steps, the mechanics, the ârightâ way to do things, instead of listening to the music and responding. I was trying to perform Balboa, instead of being in the music.
See, Balboa, at its heart, isnât about flashy footwork. Itâs about conversation. A subtle dialogue between two bodies, responding to the nuances of the music. Itâs about anticipating the shifts, the hesitations, the little pockets of silence. Itâs about finding the joy in the negative space, the moments where nothing is happening, but everything is being felt.
Youngâs playing, particularly in those early recordings with the Count Basie Orchestra, is a masterclass in this. Listen to âOne OâClock Jump.â Itâs a driving, energetic tune, but even within that momentum, Young carves out these moments of exquisite stillness. Heâll lay back, almost behind the beat, creating a sense of relaxed swing thatâs utterly captivating. Itâs not laziness; itâs intentionality. Heâs creating tension and release, drawing you in with his restraint.
Thatâs what was missing from my dance. I was all tension, no release. All forward motion, no yielding. I was trying to be on the beat, instead of with the beat.
I went back to the workshop floor the next day, armed with this new understanding. I put on a Basie record â âJumpinâ at the Woodsideâ â and closed my eyes. I didnât think about steps. I didnât think about technique. I just listened. I focused on the spaces between the notes, the subtle shifts in the rhythm, the way the music breathed.
And then I started to move.
It wasnât a dramatic transformation. There were still stumbles, still moments of awkwardness. But something had changed. I wasnât forcing the dance anymore. I was letting the music lead. I was responding to the subtle cues, the little hesitations, the unexpected accents. I was finding the joy in the give and take, the push and pull.
I started to feel the connection with my partner deepen. It wasnât about leading or following; it was about co-creation. We were both listening to the same music, responding to the same impulses, and allowing the dance to unfold organically.
It reminded me of something Zadie Smith wrote about the power of music to reveal hidden truths. She talked about how certain songs can unlock memories, emotions, and experiences that we didnât even know we possessed. For me, Lester Youngâs breath unlocked something in my dance. It reminded me that the most important thing isnât what you do with the music, but how you listen to it.
This isnât just about Balboa, either. It applies to Lindy Hop, Charleston, even solo jazz. It applies to any form of improvisational movement. The key is to surrender to the music, to let it wash over you, to allow it to guide your body.
Itâs about finding the ghost in the groove, the subtle energy that animates the music and brings it to life. Itâs about recognizing that the silence is just as important as the sound, the stillness just as important as the motion.
And sometimes, all it takes is a little bit of Lester Young to remind you of that. To remind you that the best dancing isnât about showing off, itâs about sharing a moment of connection, a moment of joy, a moment of pure, unadulterated swing. Itâs about letting the music breathe, and letting yourself breathe with it.