A beginner dips a toe into the dance scene to find a footloose world where strangers become friends — in just a few simple steps
Last summer, a friend of mine married into a Bavarian family. Following custom, the first dance was a full-on, magic-of-Disney, Fred-and-Ginger-eat-your-heart-out waltz — none of that gentle swaying stuff people get away with these days. She and her new hubby did all right. Only a few fumbles — and I never saw their tensed lips actually mouth the one-two-three count. But then the groom’s 83-year-old father whispered “Schubert” to the DJ, and he and his wife took the floor. Alma and Reinhardt taught us kids a lesson in grace and style. Poised and unassuming, they sailed about the floor, clearing a path through fleeing pretenders. They were unaffected by our humble scurrying. They were unaffected by our thunderous applause. They Viennese-waltzed our pants off. I dream of a world in which I can dance like that. My boyfriend, let’s call him “Joe,” dreams of a world in which he never has to dance. However, with Alma and Reinhardt as a model, he decided a little dancing might not be such a bad thing. Seizing the moment, I decided to promenade us through studios and across dance floors all over the city, seeking the perfect class.
The wrong foot It’s hard to know where to start. Ballroom dance is experiencing a revival, thanks to shows like “Dancing with the Stars.” As a result, one young instructor tells us, Vegas studios are “blowing up like popcorn.” One of the newest studios is Tracey Cutler’s The Stage in Anthem. The studio offers everything from ballet to Zumba, and it’s a good place to be if you’re looking for a seamless intersection between sophistication and fitness. Most students opt for $175 unlimited monthly passes over the $10-per-session fee. Fifteen students of all ages and dance levels gather on a floor — hardwood, low lights — and divide into two lines: men and women. The instructors are enthusiastic, but Joe and I literally get off on the wrong foot. We miss the down beat. He has no idea how to lead. I struggle with the word “follow.” |
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And the shoes. In striving for “comfortable,” we learn the hard way to leave the slip-ons at home. In constant battle to keep our feet in our shoes, we stumble, trip and do not glide. Also, Joe does not love salsa (“The hips,” he says) and during a tango I get too involved in my mysterious-lady-with-piercing-gaze persona and nearly take out his kneecap on a rock-step. But it’s only our first lesson.
“We had fun, right?” I ask. Joe says nothing.
Parks and recreation
For our second lesson, we opt for a low-key, low-cost class ($36 for six weeks) and head to the Henderson Multi-Generational Center. The studio has plate-glass windows, but the only gawkers are kids and moms headed to swim lessons. Thankfully, they do not judge.
Instructor Kimie Radke still has quite a few moves left after years as a professional dancer in Japan. “I love teaching here at the community center,” she says, sweeping her arm to encompass the entire building. “Multigenerational. Daughters bring their mothers and that affects the heart of the class. Grandparents bring kids.”
Radke’s pedagogy is firm and funny as she takes us through basic steps (salsa again, poor Joe), pulling new students out to the center of the room and making sure everyone succeeds. This is definitely a “community” class. The student body cuts a wide demographic swath, the stakes are low, everyone is friendly and, if dancing is not enough of a workout, you can head up the concrete hall to the racquetball courts or ellipticals after class.
Boys are at a premium tonight, a phenomenon we see often. But, as one woman tells me, “My fiancé couldn’t come. But it was lots of fun, and not a problem that there are not many guys.” I hear these sentiments everywhere, that going to class alone is fine, that no one feels awkward. In fact, at each venue students say that meeting new people — the social element — is at least as important as learning steps. No date? No problem.
The ladies I meet talk about an added bonus to flying solo: “I get to dance with the instructor. It’s much better.”
The gentlemen seem to heed what Josie Lopez, the owner of another studio, Step by Step, tells us several days later: “If you are a man who learns how to dance, you will have a harem. I mean, if you build it, they will come.”
No matter the gender breakdown, in Henderson, as in all group classes, Joe and I dance with each other very little. Every few minutes we switch partners. All the instructors say it’s good to get used to dancing with other people.
Joe says, “It makes you keep your game face on. You can’t be petulant with strangers.”
He’s still not having fun.
Hip-sters
For round three, I head out of the studios and meet a friend at the expansive Las Palmas Mariachi Restaurant in Commercial Center for Latin dance night. Joe asks to be spared the all-night salsa (the hips).
Every Thursday at 7 p.m., an instructor leads a free, hour-long lesson. We arrive to find about 70 people of various ages, ethnicities and states of inebriation in a circle around the brightly lit dance floor, as if prepped for a massive hokey-pokey. Together we practice merengue. We practice salsa. Then the floor opens and some really good dancers ask me to cut a rug. They are patient and give pointers. The kitchen serves and the bar pours till 11. If you’re looking for a party that’s open to packs of single people as well as families of four, this is the place for you. But if you’re not ready to get on the floor and try your best, you might want to stick with the studios for a bit.
It’s an all-ages crowd and lots of my dance partners are older. Our instructor, Louie Nevarro, 60 and suffering from chronic health issues, attests to the benefits of dance. “I know if I didn’t dance, I’d be in a wheelchair.”
Back home I report to Joe. “Remember in Henderson, that older man who said, ‘Dancing helps with the ladies’? I saw him. With a lady.”
Joe does a salsa basic step. What a guy.
Walk it off
I’m liking this speed. Rec center. Free salsa. But after Joe’s night on the couch it’s time we try one of the dance studios that is all ballroom all the time, one with unlisted prices and a website featuring lithe couples, sequins and dramatic poses. Somewhere that scares us. Delgado’s.
At Tropicana Avenue and 215, we find Tony Delgado’s studio. He is poised and slick, and seems to quote Patrick Swayze in “Dirty Dancing.” “Arthur Murray himself saw me on a salsa floor and picked me out (for special training) 26 years ago.”
Joe and I hear a lot about the competitive dance scene, and I have zero interest. Trophy? Why? But Delgado’s is heavy with the things and I see the allure: foot-and-a-half high, deco-fabulous renditions of what appear to be F. Scott and Zelda sweeping around the floor. That’s something for the mantel.
“Fifty percent of amateur champions (in Las Vegas) come out of my studio. Sixty-five percent of our students end up competing,” Tony says.
We schedule a private lesson/assessment session with Tony. I admit I’m nervous. He says, “If you were not nervous, you wouldn’t need us.” Waltz championship, here I come.
We start with walking.
Around us, the studio is a whirl of action: An adult tango class is in session, private lessons go on at the perimeters, a few women fit each other in samba gear and, through a door, we catch glimpses of five-year-olds box-stepping. After 20 minutes, Joe and I are able to hesitate our way through a foxtrot. Riding this ripple of success, we head out.
On the drive home, Joe says, “I liked that walking dance.” A glimmer of hope.
Just the two of us
When we started our Las Vegas dance tour, Joe nixed private lessons: “I don’t want to know I’m the worst dancer in the room.” Everywhere we’d gone, people pushed private lessons, private lessons, private lessons, and we suspected it was just a business ploy. It turns out private lessons are pricy (around $60 per hour) — and wonderful. Especially for beginners.
An hour with Step by Step instructor Jace Galvez gets us from the “walking dance” to a presentable box step, cha-cha, swing and, yes, salsa (“Don’t worry about the hips,” Jace says).
The studio has thrived for 22 years, since back when PBS aired the only ballroom dance on TV. It’s a friendly yet snazzy option for the common man, only $75 for an unlimited monthly pass.
Talking about dance becomes real metaphorical real quick, and a private lesson is a constant barrage of figurative truths. “Kathryn, for the dance to work, you have to wait for him.” “If you take small steps and maintain contact with the ground, dancing will be easier.” “You two must have a firm frame or your dancing will fall apart.”
Manager Jim Clark offhandedly remarks, “Remember, the only thing you both have is the beat. If you hear the beat differently, you have nothing.”
I wonder if it’s all right to put my head down and cry.
Jace finally gives us the key to our dance. “It’s not how many steps you know,” he says. “It is the story you tell together.” Joe and I, we are writers. We tell stories. Check. Got this one.
Owner Josie Lopez elaborates. “Each dance is a different story. You have a fight with a co-worker? Come in and dance a tango.” She snaps to a taut pose. “Or, sometimes” — her body becomes languid, her face serious — “a waltz. Flirtatious? Coquettish?” Her eyes widen at Joe and a smile flits across her face. “It’s a cha-cha!”
Dance dance revolution
As we stand floor-side at Aruba Swings, the weekly Friday night shindig in the cavernous Thunderbird Lounge, we see what Jace means by storytelling. The event features swing kids done up in saddle shoes and vintage skirts. They throw around lots of triple-step-deluxe maneuvers, spins and flairs. The couples we want to watch, however, aren’t the flashy aerobic dancers using their partner as a prop, they’re the pairs clearly involved in a “complex physical conversation,” as organizer Mark Brunton puts it. Disjointed athletics annoy us. They distract from the dancers who know how to communally describe an emotional narrative — and the drama is high when it’s done right. In just three minutes, partners separate and get back together and test each other and make promises of trust and support. It gets intense.
The first Friday of the month offers a free beginners’ lesson (the rest of the month you pay around $12.) Here, as everywhere, the students divide up according to gender and instructors talk about “men” and “women” instead of “lead” and “follow.” Thus, as always, surplus ladies choose to dance alone rather than take the lead for an hour.
Such issues aside, Joe and I really shine at the Aruba. It may be the less formal instruction (navigating around tables to the beat of a sound check) or that we arrive an hour (and a few beers) before the class starts, but we are all over the lindy hop. Six-count swing out? Done.
If you’re a young old soul and enjoy vintage and historical fiction, the Aruba’s a good place for you. The lounge has about 60 people jitter-bugging through and the vast majority have made swinging a part of their lifestyle (I mean the dance). But we also see a sprinkling of novice dancers who have not started pillaging their grandparents’ closets and just want to try something new for a few hours.
When the lesson ends and the concrete floor opens, the music pops a bit too fast for our novice needs, but the advanced dancers prove good entertainment. Joe says, “We should come back here.” I have to sit down.
Also, I did botch the footwear again. Some of the lindy ladies had on low-heeled character shoes, but the majority of the hardcore hoppers? Keds.
The Aruba was good. However, for the culmination of our dance blitz, we want a ballroom. I look in on one of the weekly parties Step by Step runs. It is nice, a sort of singles club-meets-8th-grade dance. Everyone duds up and waltzes and snacks on chips, but it isn’t, you know, a ballroom. Zero vaulted ceilings. Zero suspicion that anyone holds count or duchess titles.
For that, go through the front doors of the Gold Coast, past the Buddha, up the escalators and find Manny Bonotan. Real estate agent three days a week, golfer for two and dance instructor on Sundays, Manny runs a classy operation, the best you can get in Vegas. High ceilings. Nice wall fixtures. A wood floor unfolded over the conference room carpet. His “Ballroom Dancing with Manny” runs from 1 p.m. till midnight, and $10 gets you a lesson and keeps you on the parquet for four hours.”
About 20 people come to the lesson, and 120 come to dance. Don’t come to this party if you don’t intend to get in the mix. It’s mostly an older crowd, and they are on the move, circling the floor, graceful, rhythmic and unstoppable.
A waltz comes over the speakers. Joe and I prepare to engage. We stumble toward the line of dance. The panic and terror on his face takes me back to the time I drove on the autobahn. I imagine he considers the tenet “the lead must protect the follow” while envisioning collisions of suits and gowns and stilettos.
“Maybe not this dance,” he says.
We are not yet Fred and Ginger, but it’s okay. Everyone tells us it takes three months to grasp the basics. Getting Joe to the edge of the floor is good enough for now. I turn away for a moment and some nice ladies find Joe all by himself and take him for a few turns of the rumba. Remember, gents: a harem.
The final step
Like most communities in Vegas, the ballroom world feels small. I’m not sure if it’s unique to this city, but the instructors and many students use the word family when discussing other dancers. Even during our brief tour, Joe and I start running into people we had met.
Dancers have lots of terms to define their dance, but the universal word I hear is social. And so it is. What a thing, in our times, to walk up to a stranger and ask if they would like to spend a moment taking a stroll in your arms. And what a thing for you to say yes. And, most amazing, what a thing for that stroll to be fun and safe and for that stranger to become a friend.
As for our own little community, Joe and I are not quite ready to take on Alma and Reinhardt. But out at Red Rock the other day, we paused on a hiking trail and Joe swept me into a waltz promenade.
What else could you want from a partner?