Dance with me...
Dean Martin's, "Sway"
When marimba rhythms start to play
Dance with me, make me sway
Like a lazy ocean hugs the shore
Hold me close, sway me more
Like a flower bending in the breeze
Bend with me, sway with ease
When we dance you have a way with me
Stay with me, sway with me
Other dancers may be on the floor
Dear, but my eyes will see only you
Only you have the magic technique
When we sway I go weak
I can hear the sounds of violins
Long before it begins...
Make me thrill as only you know how
Sway me smooth, sway me now
When marimba rhythms start to play
Dance with me, make me sway
Like a lazy ocean hugs the shore
Hold me close, sway me more
Like a flower bending in the breeze
Bend with me, sway with ease
When we dance you have a way with me
Stay with me, sway with me
Other dancers may be on the floor
Dear, but my eyes will see only you
Only you have the magic technique
When we sway I go weak
I can hear the sounds of violins
Long before it begins...
Make me thrill as only you know how
Sway me smooth, sway me now
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When I was about 4 or 5 years old I remember my mother dancing around the living room in our tiny San Francisco house, vacuuming, humming and swaying her hips to the sweet mambo rhythms on the hi-fi stereo turntable, with her imaginary partner, Mr. Hoover. As she dusted with one hand, she grabbed my small hand with the other and we twirled and cha-cha'd to the smooth melodies until we were dizzy and exhausted. Years later I would play my violin to the same songs with a dance band (Al Borelli and His Latin Lovers) at San Francisco's, "Bimbo's" nightclub". As I watched the expert dancers glide effortlessly across the freshly waxed ballroom floors, beneath twinkling chandeliers hanging high above, they helped to create an elegant ambiance. By day they were secretaries and businessmen, housewives and plumbers-now suddenly transformed into Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers.
ballroom dancingThe glamorous organza and taffeta evening gowns, adorned with sparkling rhinestone jewelry and hair piled high and pinned to perfection, along with kid-skin gloves that reached just below their elbows gave these women a magical and regal air. The men wore tuxedo's which, upon closer inspection, were perhaps a bit frayed and emanated a concentrated aroma of sweat and cigars. However, it mattered not one fig, because they looked dashing from afar. The couples would gaze into each other’s eyes; the men holding their partners gently at the waist, guiding their lovely partner across the floor, dipping and spinning as if dancing atop a jet stream of puffy marshmallows.
Back in my living room, I watched as my mother would take out her treasured, seven-inch 45 rpm vinyl "Tango" records and slip them out of the cardboard sleeve and begin stackin
g them onto the record player. Together we would wait for each record to drop down onto the turntable. As she scurried back into position she held a bold stance, awaiting her cue, much like a bullfighter anticipating the entrance of the glorious beast. The excitement would mount and as the needle dropped and the downbeat of the first note was played, her movements began with a sudden passion and fury. Whoever she became, it was at th
e same time frightening and terrific. Those serious glares and a single raised eyebrow, along with exagerated body configurations were forever imprinted in my musical post-mortem. The Tango evoked a vision of a rose stem gritted firmly between the teeth, a man-eating, try-me-if-you-dare persona that was a total mystery to me, yet I mimicked every nuance and swooned in synchronized harmony.
My generation opted for a less formal dance style, casual dress and discernibly raucous musical preferences. When we danced, it was either a fast dance, such as, "Louie, Louie!", whereby we never made eye contact-much less physical contact, or the ‘slow dance’, the Animal's "House of the Rising Sun", where the only physical contact was made by a mutual draping, bear-hug-lik
e maneuver. This required that the boy and girl hang onto each other until the end of the song. Sometimes it was an excruciating rocking back-and-forth exercise in a clockwise motion with someone you did not like for 6 full minutes! The scent of "Hai Karate" cologne for men, could birth a headache that would make you want to hurl. Although the closeness was evident, no one seemed to grind into each other and take advantage of the moment. Of course that was my perspective-- a naive and nerdy one. Clueless, I didn't even know that transformations of boys anatomies were a possibility. The boys stood on one side of the room as we girls stood opposite, trying to act uninterested, meanwhile desperately hoping that someone would ask us to dance! The term 'wallflower' was not an exageration, as I was pasted between the roll-down cafeteria tables and the metal chairs.
g them onto the record player. Together we would wait for each record to drop down onto the turntable. As she scurried back into position she held a bold stance, awaiting her cue, much like a bullfighter anticipating the entrance of the glorious beast. The excitement would mount and as the needle dropped and the downbeat of the first note was played, her movements began with a sudden passion and fury. Whoever she became, it was at th
e same time frightening and terrific. Those serious glares and a single raised eyebrow, along with exagerated body configurations were forever imprinted in my musical post-mortem. The Tango evoked a vision of a rose stem gritted firmly between the teeth, a man-eating, try-me-if-you-dare persona that was a total mystery to me, yet I mimicked every nuance and swooned in synchronized harmony.My generation opted for a less formal dance style, casual dress and discernibly raucous musical preferences. When we danced, it was either a fast dance, such as, "Louie, Louie!", whereby we never made eye contact-much less physical contact, or the ‘slow dance’, the Animal's "House of the Rising Sun", where the only physical contact was made by a mutual draping, bear-hug-lik
e maneuver. This required that the boy and girl hang onto each other until the end of the song. Sometimes it was an excruciating rocking back-and-forth exercise in a clockwise motion with someone you did not like for 6 full minutes! The scent of "Hai Karate" cologne for men, could birth a headache that would make you want to hurl. Although the closeness was evident, no one seemed to grind into each other and take advantage of the moment. Of course that was my perspective-- a naive and nerdy one. Clueless, I didn't even know that transformations of boys anatomies were a possibility. The boys stood on one side of the room as we girls stood opposite, trying to act uninterested, meanwhile desperately hoping that someone would ask us to dance! The term 'wallflower' was not an exageration, as I was pasted between the roll-down cafeteria tables and the metal chairs.
And now, my 17-year-old daughter just rolls her eyes when I try to talk about what dancing meant to me and my mother's generation. Nowadays you have to only look at MTV for a nano-second to realize that music, dancing and lyrics have devolved 360 degrees! It's not even possible to have a flirtatious moment because the guys are talking about what the
y want to do to the girl, with how many other girls, on the floor, out the door, like a whore, upside down, on the ground and much worse. The lyrics are so raunchy and vulgar they'd make hooker's tattoos blush. So, when did a a lap-dance become a dance? How depressing! And it's not like all the girls are doing this, but what you see on TV definiteley gives you the impression that they're all multi-pierced, tramp-stamped (that's a tatoo on the lower back just this side of the ass-crack), and wearing lingerie and slippers to history class.
Sure, it was a little stiff and contrived in my mother's day. My generation started to chip away at the rules, garnering what we thought was a bit of freedom. And now we have...danc-archy! With the gradual loosening of standards and the demise of civility, we've lost that passionate feeling of standing close to someone you really, really liked and the element of heart-pounding mystery that yearns to bubble up in SWAY time.
y want to do to the girl, with how many other girls, on the floor, out the door, like a whore, upside down, on the ground and much worse. The lyrics are so raunchy and vulgar they'd make hooker's tattoos blush. So, when did a a lap-dance become a dance? How depressing! And it's not like all the girls are doing this, but what you see on TV definiteley gives you the impression that they're all multi-pierced, tramp-stamped (that's a tatoo on the lower back just this side of the ass-crack), and wearing lingerie and slippers to history class.Sure, it was a little stiff and contrived in my mother's day. My generation started to chip away at the rules, garnering what we thought was a bit of freedom. And now we have...danc-archy! With the gradual loosening of standards and the demise of civility, we've lost that passionate feeling of standing close to someone you really, really liked and the element of heart-pounding mystery that yearns to bubble up in SWAY time.
"Like a lazy ocean hugs the shore
Hold me close, sway me more..."
"Only you have the magic technique
When we sway I go weak...."
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