One of the passions of my youth is the Argentine Tango. I become an aficionado, particularly of the strict, precisely rhythmic stylings of Edmundo Ros and his "compadres" from that mythical "Cafetin de Buenos Aires" where Tango is a religion rather than a dance.
I never do get to learn the dance itself. Life has a way of interposing so much of inconsequence, interrupting some of the really valuable things in our brief journey. Now, in the autumnal days of my life there is a resurgence of the rhythm and the dance. Night clubs of flourishing that provide "Tango Nights". Several movies have the Tango as a theme and more are in process. For me, the interest is still there, but in retrospect, in old memories.
I hear that a senior center is offering classes of instruction--though here let me protest as an aside. There is an anomaly about ancient bodies with creaking joints attempting what might be termed a viable alternative to sex, metaphorically speaking.
Tango is a required dance in annual competitions. It is part of the Latin phase of trials. Sadly, the dancers today have none of the flavor of the originals. The couples have adopted soe jerky staccato head movements, which to me seem like robotic gyrations, overly stylized and inanimate as opposed to pulsing humanity.
In my teen years I frequent a night club in the New York area that is heavily Germanic in population. It is called the "Corso". It has a Continental ambience, with two orchestras, one given exclusively to the Latin, the Rhumba, Conga and most importantly, the Tango, with one exception, the Viennese Waltz, which could not be trusted to an American orchestra. One thing about the Germans. They have precise rhythm.
In those pre-war days, both sides of the street, on Eighty-Sixth Street between Second and First Avenues, are occupied by Teutonic bistros similar to the "Corso". One, in particular, hosts the weekly meetings of uniformed Nazi Bundists. We are not angry at this time at Hitler, and war is still far away from New York City. The clubs are where boy meets girl. They are universally successful. The ladies come in pairs or groups and occupy the tables. The guys cluster at the bar hovering over their beer Steins until the music starts at which point they able in full masculine plumage, towards a target of opportunity to solicit a dance. The boys and girls become very friendly indeed, through this very popular rite of Spring.
But I digress. I started this discourse on the subject of the Tango.
I do not learn to do the dace well enough to meet the epicurean standards of the elites who frequent the "Corso", so I decide to get some instruction on the subject. I am usually slow to follow my resolutions. In this case, a war interposes itself, I marry, making the acquisition of this skill of less urgency. It is some ten years later that I catch a television interview with Arthur Murray and his wife, Catherine, in which they extol the virtues of their national dance studios. I decide to take a few lessons. My wife looks at me quizzically but I assure her that I will share my newly acquired expertise with her alone.
I find an Arthur Murray studio on 43rd Street, on the East side of Manhattan. The hostess interviews me in a large, mirrored room.
"Do you dance?" she queries me. I answer with modesty.
"Some," I reply.
She arises, places a record on a phonograph, and invites me to the dance. The record is of special construct, taking us through a variety of rhythms--waltz, rumba, fox trot, even a paso doble, then a popular Latin dance.
We return to our interview locale. She reaches into the desk and withdraws a form. In size, it appears to be 8 and 1/2 by 11 in size, but it unfolds downward until it is almost as tall as I am. I only see such a form when I am still in the Military and have to fill out the traditional Army application for security clearance.
She begins to check boxes, mouthing, as if to herself phrases like, "Needs instruction in leadership, balance, has sense of rhythm. . . "
I wait patiently as she makes other check marks without comment. Finally, she addresses me.
"We have just the course for you," she says. "It is a lifetime course, which allows you twelve social events in our ballroom. On sale now, just eight thousand. . . ."
I interrupt.
"I would like just five lessons in the Tango."
She ignores me.
"Well, perhaps that's a little steep," she agrees. She then makes a precipitous descent from eight to four, to three, all in the thousands.
I stop the free fall.
"I would like just five lessons in the Argentine Tango."
She does manage a few more offers, the last one in the area of eight hundred, and then retreats to a mo re defensible position.
"Ok," she says. "If you change your mind you can apply the payments for your lessons to the new contract."
I am led to a private room, also mirrored, and introduced to a very short sturdy looking girl. I was sure that if one too her waist as to the point of demarcation, she was divided into two equidistant parts by the Maker of all things.
The first lesson is a disaster. My instructor is an addict of the new dance craze, the Mambo. I end up holding he hand as she gyrates around the room to the drums of the currently ubiquitous Mambo Number Five by Perez Prado.
I receive five lessons, some of which deal with the Tango. I learn several patterns. During each session the hostess appears and they hold whispering conferences. The hostess is checking on the progress in selling me a more advanced course.
The last remark reaches my ears. "Ya wanna sell him? You try. Good luck." She stomps one of her sturdy short legs for emphasis.
I use the three patterns I learn to good advantage. No one really knows what a real Tango looks like, so I fake it on the occasions where the need arises.
About Arthur Murray and his studios?
A New York Post reporter enrolls in a "Lifetime Course" with Arthur. She discovers that you can use up a lifetime very quickly. She talks to many elderly ladies some of whom are on their second and third "Lifetime Courses." You see, the young and charming dance instructors also lend their skills at the social get togethers. They become as necessary to the clients as psychotherapists are to modern needs. Extras received diminish the longevity of the "Lifetime" courses. The reporter writes about this higher education of the dance.
I wonder if Arthur returns the money laid out for her "Lifetime Course", when she goes undercover.
It is my guess she does not get her money back. The newspaper gets its expose but I meet a charming senior lady who reads all the articles and signs up for her third "Lifetime Course."
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