Technically, only one of us is a dancer. My youngest sister was recently accepted at the Columbia School of Arts in Chicago due to her dancing skills. She chose to withdraw and pursue loftier heights, but we are all very aware of her talent. I am no where near her ability, but I think I fall second in line when it comes to loving it. Growing up in Utah, it was almost impossible to avoid learning the basics. As a child, I tried everything under the sun-including belly dancing. I was a klutzy child, and had little to no coordination. However, there was no stopping it when someone would throw on a beloved tape -ABBA, Michael Jackson, The Beach Boys, etc. - the six of us kids would erupt in a crazed dance party, not one of us caring if we looked stupid, but earning extra points if we made each other laugh. Some of my warmest childhood memories took place in the living room of our home.
It began in the home, but it continued on in school. When I was in Junior High, I enrolled in ballroom classes and found that I loved Swing best. When I started college, I met guys who loved dating girls who could dance. I didn't realize how much I'd missed dancing until I went out with a delightful young man who decided on a whim that we needed to perform a West Coast number on a ice skating rink. Later a good friend introduced me to Country Swing, and to my great surprise, I was pretty decent at it. I had had enough training with social dancing that I didn't need to learn the steps; it was a simply a matter of following the physical cues of my partner.
Before I left Utah, country dancing was something I was doing on a regular basis. I became good enough at it that I was asked to come in to the dance center and help teach lessons. I was in the process of learning the lifts and stunts when the time finally came to leave.
I have to admit, one of the things I miss the most about home is going dancing every weekend. That's why this weekend was such a delight for me. I took the Country scene by storm, and judging by the ache in my back, it was a weekend well danced.
Wild West:
On Friday I went with a group of girls from my ward to a popular country dance club just down the street from me. I was a little apprehensivethe first time I went to Wild West; I thought my bumpkin Utah skills would pale in comparison to the rootin' and tootin' I expected from a Texan dance club. I forgot I was in Houston. At first glance, it looks just as you'd expect a country dance club to look, from the huge neon Texas-Budweiser sign gleaming on the wall to the disco mirrored saddles hanging from the ceiling. It feels like you've walked into a saloon with flashing lights. Now imagine my surprise when I looked out on the dance floor only to see a bunch of old people shuffling a two-step in a circle. I was astonished to learn that this was how it was done in Texas. No death-defying flips, no break-neck swinging, just the very simple stepping in time. That does not mean it did not have its' dangers! At one point I found myself being dragged along the floor with a foreign gentleman who was operating my arm like a piece of heavy machinery while taking such long strides that I had to stick my fanny out so far that my bootie-pop was quite unnecessary.
This place is a good club for beginners. It plays more then one genre of music and serves ample amounts of alcohol to get the crowd relaxed. Having to jump over the inenbreated as they tumble to the ground in a drunken stupor without missing a beat is a exciting challenge, and who can help but get the warm fuzzies when swaying to such classy lyrics as " My Baby Likes Me When I'm Stoned" and "The air was so sweet, it made me belch as I walked down the street". That, truly, is music to scratch your back by.
Line dances are not one of my strong points, but I did manage to learn a few of them before I left my home. I imagine in the more Texan areas of Texas, the line dancing is more involved and complex, but here in Houston, they are ultra easy, and don't even require breaking a sweat.
I tried in vain to get a picture of myself on the dance floor, but it was too crowded and other people kept getting in front of the shot. I had to settle for some photos of a line dance:
All in all, I've decided that this place is the kind of place you go if you just want a nibble of the country flavor. It's like an eclair, full of the goodness of a rich pastry, but not overwhelming.
But I say " GIVE ME A THREE DAY BELLYACHE!"
...So when I got a text inviting me to travel up to Austin to a mid-YSA activity at a dance hall out there, you'd better believe I jumped on it. We traveled two and a half ours in the torrential rain, appeasing ourselves with the maddengly dulcet tones of Josh Turner until we finally arrived at this great States' capitol.
The Broken Spoke:
It was everything I dreamed of and more. We stepped into the club and heard the quaint plink-plinking of an old fashioned piano, and knew we were in the right place. We had a little trouble finding our fellow Texan saints, but our search gave us the chance to appreciate the rickety floor boards and the low particle-board ceiling. I felt like I was in a John Wayne Western. Once again, our peers were on the ancient side, but I'll tell you what, I have never seen so many spry old men in my life! The greatest thrill of all came when the manager of the establishment payed me the compliment of pulling me aside and telling me that I was a great swing dancer. We left that night satisfied with our experience and our cups filled. I'd gladly do it again, next time with a bigger group.
I get so few opportunities to glam myself up, that when I go out and do something social, I play it up. That night in Austin I dressed to kill. Although, with my past history, the odds were on myself.
Four dedicated Honky-Tonkers. I asked someone once what exactly Honky-Tonk was, and they said if it had to be explained to me, I'd never understand. That's true. Honky Tonk is like a testimony: you feel it inside, warm and gritty. Like Momma's home made co'mbread. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
And now, to add to our theme of South Western flavor, I give you...
Esperanza, the passionate flamenco- dancing llama. Not only is she equipped with the brightest, glitziest of costumes, but it seems as though her owner has applied liberal amounts of mascara, to bring out her luscious brown eyes.
