The Unexpected Lesson Balboa Dancing Taught Me About Jazz

The chipped Formica of the diner booth felt cool under my forearm, mirroring the chill that settles in when you really listen to Lee Konitz. Rain lashed against the window, a muted percussion section to the internal monologue Konitz’s alto sax always stirs. I was nursing lukewarm coffee, trying to untangle a frustration. Not with the music – never with the music – but with a feeling I’d been chasing on the dance floor. A feeling of… rightness.

See, I’d been wrestling with Balboa. Not the steps, mind you. The steps are deceptively simple. It’s the feeling of them, the conversation within the frame, the subtle negotiation of weight and intention that feels, at its best, like a shared thought. And lately, it felt…stilted. Mechanical. Like we were ticking boxes instead of breathing together.

Then, Konitz’s “Subconscious-Lee” drifted through my headphones, and the connection clicked. It wasn’t about the steps. It was about counterpoint.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. Counterpoint? In Balboa? Bear with me.

Lee Konitz, a disciple of the enigmatic Lennie Tristano, wasn’t about flashy virtuosity. He was about lines. Interweaving melodic ideas, often simultaneously, creating a texture that felt both spacious and intensely focused. Tristano, a blind pianist and composer, pushed the boundaries of bebop, exploring harmonic complexity and improvisation in ways that were, frankly, unsettling to some. He wasn’t interested in simply playing the changes; he wanted to dismantle them, rebuild them, and reveal the hidden architecture beneath.

His music, and Konitz’s extension of it, isn’t about one voice dominating. It’s about two, three, even four lines existing together, each independent yet inextricably linked. It’s a conversation, a debate, a playful chase. And that, my friends, is precisely what’s missing when Balboa feels…wrong.

Too often, we approach Balboa – and frankly, many partnered dances – with a hierarchical mindset. The lead dictates, the follow interprets. It’s a perfectly valid starting point, a necessary scaffolding for learning. But it’s a scaffolding that needs to be dismantled. Because true Balboa, the kind that leaves you breathless and buzzing, isn’t about dictation. It’s about response.

Think about a Konitz solo. He’ll state a phrase, a delicate, questioning melody. Then, almost immediately, he’ll answer it with another, a variation, a counter-statement. He’s not just playing over the changes; he’s playing with them, engaging in a dialogue with himself.

The lead in Balboa shouldn’t be thinking, “I will now initiate a turn.” They should be thinking, “I feel a slight impulse to shift weight, to suggest a change in direction. What is my partner’s response?” And the follow isn’t waiting for a command. They’re listening – not just with their ears, but with their entire body – for that subtle shift, that invitation.

This is where the “closed hold” becomes crucial. It’s not about constriction, about locking your partner into place. It’s about creating a sensitive antenna, a conduit for the transmission of intention. The pressure in the frame, the subtle adjustments of weight, the micro-movements of the torso – these are the notes in our improvised duet.

And here’s the rebellion, the little flicker of defiance that makes Balboa so intoxicating. The follow isn’t simply reacting. They’re interpreting. They’re adding their own melodic line to the conversation. They’re taking the lead’s suggestion and running with it, embellishing it, challenging it, sometimes even subtly redirecting it.

I remember a workshop with Norma Miller, a legend of the Savoy Ballroom. She wasn’t interested in perfect technique. She wanted to see play. She’d say, “Don’t just follow the lead! Talk back! Give ‘em something to work with!” She understood that the magic of Balboa lies in that dynamic tension, that constant exchange of energy and ideas.

It’s a delicate balance, of course. Too much independence from the follow and the dance falls apart. Too much control from the lead and it becomes…well, boring. It’s like a Konitz/Tristano duet where one instrument drowns out the other. The beauty is lost.

So, the next time you’re on the dance floor, try to forget the steps for a moment. Close your eyes (briefly, for safety’s sake!). Listen to the music, not just with your ears, but with your body. And listen to your partner. Not for what they’re telling you to do, but for what they’re suggesting.

Embrace the counterpoint. Allow for the unexpected. And remember the ghost of Lennie Tristano, whispering in your ear: “Don’t just play the notes. Find the spaces between them. That’s where the real music lives.”

And maybe, just maybe, you’ll find that feeling of rightness. That shared breath. That fleeting moment of connection that makes all the practice, all the frustration, all the lukewarm diner coffee…worth it.