The Spaces Between the Steps: Finding Flow in Balboa Dance

The chipped Formica of the bar felt cool under my forearm. Smoke, not the aggressively flavored vape stuff, but the real deal, clung to the velvet curtains of The Blue Note. A trio was winding down a set – not the headliners, but the late-night crew, the guys who play for the room, not at it. Piano, bass, drums. And the piano player… he was doing something with a line from Warne Marsh. Not playing Marsh, mind you. More like… excavating the space around Marsh.

It hit me then, a sudden, almost painful clarity. That’s what good Balboa feels like.

See, I’ve been wrestling with Balboa for six months now. Not the steps, not the basic. I can do the basic. I can even fake a few variations. But I can’t lead it. Not really. I can move a follower, sure, but I can’t have a conversation. It’s all…transactional. “Step here. Turn there.” Like a poorly written contract.

And it wasn’t until I was listening to this pianist, subtly deconstructing Marsh’s angular, almost brittle lines, that I understood why. I was trying to tell people what to do, instead of suggesting possibilities.

Lee Konitz, another student of the Tristano school, once said something about improvisation being about “finding the notes that haven’t been played yet.” That’s the key. Tristano, a man who practically invented cool jazz’s cerebral side, wasn’t about flashy virtuosity. He was about exploring harmonic landscapes, about the spaces between the notes. His students – Marsh, Konitz, Sal Mosca – they weren’t interested in showing off. They were interested in revealing.

And that’s what’s missing from my Balboa. I’m too busy thinking about the next step, the next turn, the next “look good” moment. I’m not listening. I’m not feeling the weight shift, the subtle resistance, the tiny adjustments my partner is making. I’m not leaving room for her to contribute to the improvisation.

Balboa, at its heart, is a conversation. A fast, intricate, beautifully understated conversation. It’s not about dictating the terms. It’s about proposing a thought, and then reacting to the response. It’s about a shared momentum, a mutual trust.

I’ve been taking lessons from a woman named Elena. She’s a quiet force. Doesn’t say much, but when she does speak, it’s like a perfectly placed chord change. She noticed my problem immediately. “You’re too busy,” she said, her voice barely above the music at a recent social dance. “You’re thinking too much. Relax your frame. Close the hold a little. And listen.”

Close the hold. That’s the thing. I’d been taught to keep a relatively open hold, to allow for freedom of movement. But Elena’s suggestion wasn’t about restriction. It was about focus. A closer hold, done correctly, isn’t about control. It’s about heightened sensitivity. It’s about feeling the smallest nuances in your partner’s weight and intention. It’s about creating a more direct line of communication.

Think about a Tristano recording. The interplay between the instruments is incredibly subtle. There’s a constant give and take, a delicate balance between melody and harmony. Each musician is responding to the others, anticipating their moves, creating a cohesive whole. It’s not about individual brilliance; it’s about collective intelligence.

And that’s what a good Balboa connection feels like. It’s not about me leading. It’s about us dancing. It’s about creating something beautiful and spontaneous together.

I started practicing with Elena, focusing on that closed hold. She’d play a simple rhythm on the piano – just a steady pulse – and I’d try to lead a basic step. But I wasn’t allowed to think about the step. I was only allowed to feel her weight, to respond to her movements, to anticipate her intentions.

It was frustrating at first. I felt clumsy and awkward. I kept trying to “fix” things, to impose my will on the dance. But Elena would gently correct me, reminding me to relax, to listen, to trust.

Slowly, something started to shift. I began to feel a connection, a sense of shared momentum. I started to anticipate her movements, to respond to her subtle cues. I started to feel like I was actually leading, not just moving her around the floor.

It’s still a work in progress, of course. I still have moments where I get lost in my head, where I start to overthink things. But now, when that happens, I can usually catch myself. I can remember Elena’s words. I can remember the ghost of Warne Marsh, excavating the spaces between the notes. I can remember that the best Balboa, like the best jazz, isn’t about what you do; it’s about what you allow to happen.

The trio finished their set. The pianist packed up his gear, a quiet man with tired eyes. I ordered another drink, the ice clinking softly in the glass. I thought about Tristano, about Konitz, about Marsh. And I thought about Elena, and the weight of a closed hold.

The music started up again. A different band, a different style. But the feeling remained. The feeling of possibility. The feeling of a conversation waiting to begin. And the quiet, insistent hope that maybe, just maybe, I was finally starting to learn how to listen.