The blog has had an interesting phase, no thanks to any significant effort on my part. It is getting a lot of hits lately, over 4000 just this month. For a long time, one of my entries, on a late former co-worker (long gone since 1987) has gotten a lot of interest, because the subject of my memory has a certain fame in the form of conspiracy theories surrounding his death. I should tell you they aren't my theories nor the central theme of my entry at the time. But this doesn't account for the sudden upsurge by itself. I digress, as is my wont. I inherited this trait from my father, one of many I have come to see, although when he was alive I would have denied it. Point is, at least this entry to follow, a story of my father's which I think is mostly true, as I know he once told me about taking dance lessons at Arthur Murray, will not make the day a total waste. Maybe if you are having a lost day, maybe the read will give you a little smile. Remember that period like in the 90s, when Scent of a Woman was a big flash? It was a big flash way earlier than that.
Tango Anyone?
One of the passions of my youth is the Argentine Tango. I become an affectionado of the music, particularly of the strict, precise rhythmic stylings of Edmundo Ros and his "compadres" from that mythical "Cafetin de Buenos Ayres" 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 in the way of truly 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 are flourishing that provide Tango nights. Several movies have the Tango as the theme and more are in process. For me, the interest is still there, but only in old memories.
I hear there is a senior center near me offering classes of instruction. There seems to me an anomaly about ancient bodies of creaking joints attempting what was once thought a viable alternative to sex--metaphorically, of course.
Tango is a required dance in the annual competitions, the Latin phase of such events. Sadly, the dancers have none of the flavor of the Argentine originals. The couples have adopted jerky head movements which to me seem like robotic gyrations, overstylized 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 poppulation. It is called the "Corso". It has a continental ambience, with two orchestras, one given entirely to the Latin dances, the Rhumba, Conga, and most important, the Tango, with one exception--the Viennese Waltz, which could not be trusted to an American orchestra, which might have rhythm, but not a precise one.
In those pre-war days, both sides of the street, Eighty-Sixth, between Second and First Avenues are occupied by Teutonic bistros similar to the "Corso". One, in particular, hosts the weekly meetings of uniformed member of the Nazi Bundists. We are not angry at the time at Hitler, and war is still very far away from New York City. The clubs are simply 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 amble in full masculine plumage toward 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 the dance 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 so before I do, the war finally 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 at a small desk. "Do you dance?" she queries. I answer with modesty, "Some."
She rises, places a record on the phonograph and invites me to the dance. The record is of special construct, taking us through a variety of rhythms--waltz, rhumba, fox trot, even a paso doble, then a popular Latin dance.
We return to our interview locale. She withdraws a form from the desk. In size, it is 8 1/2 by 11, but unfolds downward until it is almost as tall as I. I only see such a form when I am still in the military.
She begins to check boxes, mouthing, as if to herself. "Needs instruction in leadership, balance, has sense of rhythm. . ."
I wait patiently as she makes other check marks with other comments. 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. It's on sale now, just eight thousand. . . ." I interrupt. "I would like five lessons in the Tango."
She ignores me.
"Well, perhaps that's a little steep." She then makes a precipitous descent from eight to four to three, all in the thousands.
I stop the free falls. "I would like just five lesons in the Argentine Tango."
She manages a few more offrs, the last in the area of eight hundred, and then retreats to a more defensible position.
"Ok," she says, "if you change your mind you can apply the payments for your lessons to a new contract."
"Ok," she says, "if you change your mind you can apply the payments for your lessons to a new contract."
I am led to a private room, also mirrored. I am introduced to a very short sturdy looking girl. I was sure that if one took her waist as a point of demarcation, she was divided into two equidistant parts. We were introduced and the hostess leaves us to our destiny.
The first lesson is a disaster. My intructress is an addict of the Mambo. I end up holding her hand as she gyrates around the room to the drums of the 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 her progress in selling me a more advanced course. The last remark, though whispered, reaches my ears.
"Ya wanna try and sell him? You try." 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 occasions when the need arises.
About Arthur Murray and his studios? A New York Post reporter enrolls in a "Lifetime" course, and discovers that you can use a lifetime up very quickly. She talks to many elderly ladies, some of whom are on their second and third crack at a lifetime. You see, the charming young dance instructors also lend their skills at the social get togethers and become as necessary to the dancers as a psychotherapist is to modern clients. Extras diminish the longevity of the "Lifetime Course". The reporter, I remember her first name, Gail, writes of the higher education of the "Dance".
I wonder if Arthur returns the money laid out for her "Lifetime Course", after she goes undercover.
It's my guess she does not get her money back. The newspaper gets its expose, but I know of a charming senior lady who reads all the articles and signs up for her third "Lifetime Course" with a smile.
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