The Soul of Balboa: Finding Freedom in a Small Space

The chipped Formica of the diner booth felt cool under my forearm, the scent of stale coffee and something vaguely floral – maybe the waitress’s perfume, maybe just the lingering ghosts of a thousand breakfasts – clinging to the air. Outside, rain lashed New Orleans, a grey curtain drawn across the French Quarter. But inside, on the jukebox, Benny Golson’s “Along Came Sandy” was unfolding, and suddenly, the rain wasn’t about sadness, it was about texture. It was about the way a good Balboa feels.

See, I’ve been wrestling with Balboa lately. Not the steps, not the technique – though Lord knows, the technique is a demanding mistress. No, I’ve been wrestling with its soul. Lindy Hop, bless its boisterous heart, shouts its joy. It’s a declaration, a full-bodied conversation with the music, a sprawling narrative told in kicks and flicks and air steps. But Balboa… Balboa whispers. It’s a secret shared between two bodies, a subtle negotiation of weight and intention, a dance born of restriction, of necessity, and therefore, of a peculiar kind of freedom.

And “Along Came Sandy,” from Golson’s 1958 album Benny Golson and the Jazz Giants, is the soundtrack to understanding that freedom.

The tune itself is deceptively simple. A lilting melody, a walking bassline that feels like a slow, deliberate stroll down a rain-slicked street, and Golson’s tenor sax weaving through it all with a melancholic grace. It’s not a frantic, driving beat. It’s not begging you to move. It’s…inviting you to listen.

That’s the key. Balboa, at its core, isn’t about showing off. It’s about listening so intently to the music that your body becomes a direct translation of its nuances. It’s about finding the pockets, the subtle shifts in rhythm, the spaces between the beats. And “Along Came Sandy” is riddled with those spaces.

The song originated, as many good things do, from a practical problem. Golson wrote it for his wife, Sandy, while they were on tour with Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers. They were playing venues with ridiculously small dance floors – cramped clubs where Lindy Hop was simply impossible. So, dancers adapted. They stripped the dance down to its essentials, focusing on close embrace, subtle footwork, and a constant, fluid connection. Balboa was born from limitation, a defiant act of joy in the face of constraint.

And that’s what the song does too. It doesn’t demand a grand gesture. It doesn’t offer a wide-open space for flamboyant expression. It offers a contained, intimate world, a space for subtle interplay. The way Golson phrases his lines, the way he hangs back on the beat, the way he lets the melody breathe… it’s all about suggestion, about implication. It’s about saying a lot with very little.

Think about the basic Balboa step – the subtle weight shifts, the tiny pushes and pulls, the almost imperceptible rocking motion. It’s not visually dramatic. It doesn’t fill a room. But in the hands of skilled dancers, it can be profoundly expressive. It’s a conversation conducted in millimeters, a dialogue of touch and timing.

I remember a workshop I took with Norma Miller, a legend of Lindy Hop and a key figure in the development of Balboa. She wasn’t interested in teaching us fancy variations. She wanted us to feel the music. She kept saying, “Don’t think about the steps. Think about the story. What is the music telling you? What are you telling your partner?”

And that’s what “Along Came Sandy” is telling me. It’s telling me a story of quiet devotion, of finding beauty in simplicity, of making the most of what you have. It’s a story of resilience, of adaptation, of finding a way to dance even when the space is small.

The piano chords in the song, played by Duke Jordan, are particularly evocative. They’re not flashy, but they’re full of harmonic richness, adding layers of complexity to the melody. It’s like the subtle variations in a Balboa lead – the tiny adjustments in pressure, the almost imperceptible shifts in weight that communicate intention.

And then there’s the bassline, played by Jymie Merritt. It’s a steady, grounding force, providing a solid foundation for the rest of the music. It’s like the connection in Balboa – the constant, unwavering embrace that allows for freedom of movement. Without that connection, the dance falls apart.

I’ve been trying to incorporate this understanding into my own dancing. To stop thinking about what I should be doing and start listening to what the music is asking me to do. To let go of the need to impress and focus on the joy of connection. To embrace the subtlety, the nuance, the quiet rebellion of Balboa.

The rain outside has slowed to a drizzle. The diner is emptying out. The waitress is wiping down the counter, humming along to the music. “Along Came Sandy” is ending, the final notes fading into the background.

But the ghost of the groove remains, a subtle vibration in the air, a reminder that sometimes, the most powerful expressions are the quietest ones. And that sometimes, the most beautiful dances are born from the most unexpected limitations. It’s a lesson the music teaches, and a lesson Balboa embodies. A lesson worth remembering, even when the lights come up and the music stops.