I just wanna dance.
The itch comes in the form of a restlessness you’d think I could scratch with a good run, but I’ve tried and it doesn’t quite work. The need to dance comes from the soul as much as from the body. It’s like a primordial drive to shake and sway to the beat, body to body with other like-minded movers.
But the body to body bit has limits and I have standards.
The dance space of my dreams is out there somewhere, with its sprawling dance floor full of joyous, space-respecting people enjoying air conditioning, bumping music, and low lighting.
But when it comes to dancing in the Valley, more often than not I find myself choosing between the spot with crappy music and the spot that packs people into a dark corner that reeks of armpit. Often my dance trips include at least one moment of fleeting rage, during which I’m forced to throw an elbow for my own goddamn protection. (Hey, tall drunk dude who just elbowed me in the face 10 times after crushing my foot. You get the elbow. Hey, creepy dude rubbing your protrusion on my backside despite my obvious efforts to escape it — elbow.)
At least there’s one day of the week that, for a couple hours of the late evening, doesn’t usually let me down. I hit the town on a Tuesday because, for some backwards reason, that’s when the best dancing seems to happen in Northampton. And yes, I know there’s great dancing on the weekends sometimes at various places, but these events are held sporadically — Tuesday is the only night I know that I can go out and shake it without having to dig up some kind of schedule on some venue’s not-dependable website.
First stop: Latin Night at the Iron Horse, which starts at 10 p.m. Dancers here don’t mess around. Many have at least dabbled professionally, and the rest look like they have. The ladies wear strappy heels and skirts. Their partners twirl them in dizzying numbers of circles.
Latin Night is by no means casual dancing. I often find myself looking terribly silly without a partner — the traditional music played here evokes a couples-based dancing style. Often, I’ll get lucky and someone will take pity on me, twirl me around a bit, and show me some moves. Tonight is not one of those nights.
Still, I have my main amiga, Jennifer. She grew up in Colombia, so dancing is in her blood. We sip gin and tonics and she shows me some simple salsa and merengue.
After about an hour of doing more watching (in awe) than dancing, Jennifer and I decide to get down and dirty at The Basement, where they play hip-hop on Tuesdays. At around 11 p.m., the night is just getting started. The DJ, George Myers — owner of The Quarters in Hadley — is just getting warmed up. “Big Rick” Gifford — the doyen of Northampton dancing — greets us with a big, sweaty hug and welcomes us into his dance crew, which is still only a dozen strong.
The music is great for shakin’ it, which is what we came to do. We waste no time.
Big Rick, who’s six-foot-seven, dances in the center of the dance floor, looking like a maypole as we all dance around him. More people trickle in by the minute, each receiving a warm greeting from our dance master.
There is just enough light in the room to see each other’s outlines, but colors and details are lost. But all the better for it. Big Rick sets the tone, his head just about touching the low-hanging ceiling as we limbo around his limbs. I drop and lock to the bass. Here there are no dance partners — everyone on the dance floor is a unified force. I lose myself in the beat, the heat, and the darkness, smiling contentedly all the while.
The small space is often too full to handle good dancing. At around midnight, the cozy dance floor takes a turn towards cramped and I start to remember my place in the 9 to 5 world. I leave very reluctantly, giving Big Rick another sweaty hug, but this time I have some sweat to match.
What sacrifices I would make to know I could have just as much fun on the weekend.•
Tell Amanda where she should dance at adrane@valleyadvocate.com
