The Unexpected Lesson in a Jazz Tune

The rain, naturally, was doing that thing it does in cities – not falling straight down, but angling, reflecting the neon smear of late-night diners and the bruised purple of streetlights. It reminded me of a muted trumpet, all breath and shadow, and I found myself, as I often do when the city sighs like that, reaching for Benny Golson’s Meet Benny Golson. Specifically, “Along Came Sandy.”

It’s not a particularly difficult tune. Medium tempo, a deceptively simple melody, a harmonic structure that feels…comfortable. Like a well-worn pair of shoes. But that’s the trick, isn’t it? The best jazz, the stuff that clings to you like smoke, rarely shouts. It whispers. And “Along Came Sandy” doesn’t whisper to you, it whispers around you, creating a space, a feeling. A feeling that, for me, is inextricably linked to the weight of a hand in mine, the subtle pressure of a lead, the almost telepathic negotiation of a Balboa floor.

I’d been wrestling with a particularly frustrating sequence in a Balboa routine. A simple whip, really, but my lead felt…off. Too forceful, too hesitant, lacking that crucial element of give. My partner, Sarah, a dancer who moves with the grace of a heron and the patience of a saint, kept gently correcting, offering subtle adjustments. But it wasn’t clicking. I was thinking about the lead, dissecting it, analyzing it, instead of feeling it.

And that’s when Golson’s tune found me.

“Along Came Sandy” was written in 1958, a tribute to Golson’s then-girlfriend, Sandy. It’s a love song, yes, but not in the saccharine, hearts-and-flowers sense. It’s a song about recognition. About the quiet joy of seeing someone, truly seeing them, and acknowledging their presence in your world. The melody itself feels like a hesitant approach, a tentative reaching out. The chord changes, while familiar, have a certain melancholy to them, a sense of longing.

Listen to the way Golson’s tenor saxophone dances with the rhythm section. It’s not a flamboyant display. It’s a conversation. A call and response. He states the melody, then embellishes it, adds a little flourish, a little sigh. The piano, played by the masterful Tommy Flanagan, answers with a subtle harmonic shift, a gentle nudge. The bass walks, steady and grounding, like a heartbeat. And Art Blakey, on drums, doesn’t drive the tune, he supports it. He provides the space, the air, for the melody to breathe.

That’s what struck me. The space. The give.

Balboa, at its core, is about that space. It’s about two bodies moving as one, anticipating each other’s movements, responding to the slightest shift in weight. It’s not about controlling your partner, it’s about guiding them, offering a suggestion, and then allowing them to interpret it. A good lead isn’t a directive, it’s an invitation. And a good follow isn’t about passively accepting that lead, it’s about actively participating in the conversation.

I realized my problem with the whip wasn’t technical. It was emotional. I was trying to make Sarah do something, instead of asking her to join me. I was focusing on the mechanics of the step, instead of the feeling of connection. I was forgetting the “Sandy” in the room, the person I was dancing with, not just dancing to.

Golson’s tune, with its understated elegance, reminded me that the weight of a partner isn’t about physical force. It’s about trust. It’s about vulnerability. It’s about acknowledging the other person’s agency, their individuality, their own unique way of interpreting the music.

The saxophone solo, particularly, is a masterclass in this. Golson doesn’t try to overwhelm you with virtuosity. He builds his solo slowly, carefully, exploring the harmonic possibilities of the tune. He uses space and silence as effectively as he uses notes. He’s not showing off, he’s sharing. He’s inviting you into his world, into his conversation with Sandy.

And that’s what good dancing is, too. It’s a conversation. A silent dialogue conducted through movement and touch. It’s a way of connecting with another human being on a level that transcends words. It’s a way of expressing joy, sorrow, longing, and everything in between.

I put the record on again, and this time, I closed my eyes. I imagined Sarah’s hand in mine, the subtle pressure of her weight against my frame. I focused on the feeling of connection, the rhythm of our breathing, the shared energy of the music.

The rain continued to fall, but it didn’t sound so lonely anymore. It sounded like a saxophone, whispering a secret. A secret about the beauty of surrender, the power of connection, and the enduring magic of a simple tune called “Along Came Sandy.” And I knew, with a certainty that settled deep in my bones, that the next time I led that whip, it would feel different. It would feel…right. Because sometimes, the most important thing isn’t about what you do, but about who you’re doing it with. And the ghost in the groove, the echo of Sandy’s presence, reminds us of that with every breath.