My Start in Argentine Tango
- by Michael Vincitorio
The ballroom was long and narrow with a small reception area in the front and several neatly arranged tables with chairs in the rear. A pressed casual table cloth and a small arrangement of pastel silk flowers covered each table. In the very back, a small bar stood with soft drinks, pretzels and chips spread-out for the guests. Floor to ceiling mirrors lined both walls along the length of the hall. Only the very edges of the parquet floor maintained a urethane shine; elsewhere, naked wood spoke of countless dancers who had passed.
On the floor, couples moved forward and back and in tricky pivots and spins to the sounds of a music totally foreign to me. This was not going to be a typical Saturday night, and, standing near the entrance, I quickly considered the merits of slipping back out the door and making tracks to the nearest blues bar for a beer or two.
“Can I help you?” a petite, cheerful woman of certain years asked.
Too late…
“I’m here for the class,” I said.
“Good, please come in,” she said in a welcoming tone. “We’ll start the class soon. Have you danced before?”
“Not really anything that I would call dancing – a couple of classes in swing and country two-step, but nothing much, never tango – I’m pretty much a complete beginner.”
“Not a problem. It’s good to have you here, we always need more men. Jean-Claude is our teacher, and he will show you how to get started.”
Jean-Claude was an average height, muscular French man with dark hair sprinkled with a bit of grey. “Tonight you will learn the basic pattern in Argentine tango, the basic 8,” he told me.
I listened and watched carefully while Jean-Claude demonstrated a sequence of 8 steps – backward, to the side, a few forward, to the side again -- that make-up the core pattern of Argentine tango. He instructed me to memorize this pattern as, so he said, all tango figures will have a root somewhere in this basic. Well, this didn’t seem too hard, I thought.
So, my two left feet and I attempted to walk and count each step… 1 – 2 – 3… 6 – 7 – 8. After a few cycles of this and some pointers from Jean-Claude, I felt like I was getting a feel for things.
“Now, you will hold your partner like this, keep your arms in dance position, like so. Lead your partner through each step” Jean-Claude instructed. And so I watched, trying to take it all in, and I counted steps.
Eventually it was time to try out these hot new dance moves on another living, breathing human partner. Denise, the woman who greeted me at the door earlier, would be the hapless victim.
1 – 2 – 3… I counted and struggled to remember what my feet were supposed to do while the rest of me was trying to keep the arms in correct position, remain straight, remember to breathe and generally not faint.
“Try to dance the steps to the music. Listen to the music.” – “Music, you mean I need to listen to that music at the same time? You’re killing me here.”
“Lead your partner. Good. Keep your arms up…” It all added-up to quite a bit more than my brain could process.
Awkwardly stumbling through this, my first tango, flushed with embarrassment, I couldn’t wait to slip out the back entrance, certain never to return. “How did I end-up here anyway?” I wondered to myself.
I ended-up here because a few days earlier I was flipping through the local paper to check out some of the events coming up that week-end. At the time, I was fairly new to South Florida and was looking for something to do, perhaps something a bit different, maybe with a chance to meet some new people: maybe a concert, or a cool new bar to hang at… And there, in the Happenings section, I saw a small ad inviting me to come learn to dance Argentine tango – different.
My head quickly filled with romantic visions of sweeping across the dance floor with a beautiful woman in my arms, kind of like Al Pacino in “Scent of a Woman.” That’s it! I’m going to learn to dance. And I’m going to learn to dance tango… just like Al.
And why not? I played some sports back home in Chicago and thought myself reasonably coordinated; dancing couldn’t be that tough. So on that Saturday night in October, I began my life with Argentine tango.
I barely survived my first lesson intact, but with nothing more pressing on my social calendar, the next Saturday I returned. My second lesson was much like my first, mostly because I had forgotten just about everything I thought learned the week before. But Jean-Claude encouraged me and told me that I needed to practice what I learned from the prior week, and that it would come.
Practice!? Practice; what’s up with that? Wasn’t it supposed to be that after a few quicky lessons I’d be gliding across the dance floor? I mean, shouldn’t this be like scuba diving or something, you pay your money, they teach you how to keep from drowning and in two weekends, you’re certified (assuming you didn’t drown)? I was looking for fun, escape and hot tango goddesses, not practice. The word brought up images of long sweaty nights in the batting cage – not what I had in mind for tango. And at that moment, reality arrived. Me and Al Pacino? No one would confuse us any time soon.
The arrival of each Saturday brought an unspecified dread to my spirit as knots gathered in my stomach while I made my way closer to the studio. Another Saturday meant another chance to revisit the frustrations and embarrassments of the prior weeks and facing another night of stepping on my partners’ feet, forgetting steps, bumping into other dancers was all quite damaging to the fragile ego residing within my male psyche.
My mind moved to thoughts that dancing was simply something not intended for me, and I often came close to just giving it up. Stop showing-up, I figured. Who would miss me? Get back to something you’re good at, I told myself, like hanging at the blues bar and testing the beer. Sure, everyone at the studio was kind and encouraged me and told me that I was doing great. But, really, we all understood the unspoken truth – I sucked big time.
Still, week after week, I naively held to a foggy vision of one day being Al. And in my mind’s eye I could see myself dancing wonderfully, with style and grace. So I figured that there was only one way to get there – keep doing it. Show-up every Saturday, I told myself, and eventually things would have to get better, right? And if they didn’t? Well, perhaps I could give myself one year – a commitment to a full year of Saturday nights at the ballroom, taking the classes, dancing and practicing. If by then things still were as bad as they could be, I would move-on to something more suitable.
Don’t get the wrong idea, it was not all misery those first months; in fact it was great. I enjoyed making many new and good friends, and I was getting in some exercise as well. And slowly, my skills did show some improvement. A year passed and while I was no star on the dance floor, I progressed enough that I decided to stick with it. So I signed-up for another one year trial period.
Signing up for a one year extension meant that I could no longer be satisfied with my poor execution of basic steps. I wanted to dance. I needed to get better, so I committed myself to take private coaching and to practice.
I had picked-up Laura Brondo’s business card several months earlier at one of the Saturday night sessions. Of the several teachers I was exposed to by this time, her attention focus on sound technique impressed me. Solid technique, I reasoned, would make up for whatever I lacked in raw talent – so I better get a lot of technique.
It was the right choice. Laura was patient and able to identify exactly what I needed to improve on in order to execute a certain step or dance at a higher level. And technique was the answer. Improving it made everything else seem easier.
So we focused, and we moved backwards; back to the basics that is. We returned to the old 8-step figure that I had learned at my very first lessons more than a year earlier. Begin at the beginning was the message, and during several sessions, about the only thing we danced were the basic patterns. But now it was the basic pattern with all the details thrown in; how to step, where to place the weight, when to pause, how to pivot... Everything centered on creating the core of the dance. It was like the first day spring training – go back to the fundamentals.
Things did get better and along came a few opportunities to perform. Now, don’t be confused, we’re not referring to Broadway productions or anything, just some chances to show-off the new-found skills a little in front of an audience.
One such chance was a full-blown stage production complete with a little play acting, bright lights, full theater and several numbers to dance as an amateur member of Jorge Nel’s “Tango Fever” dance company. My first time on stage was both thrilling and nerve wracking. Despite hours of practice and rehearsals, I felt totally unprepared and certainly without a clue of what to expect. Would I forget my parts? Would I slip and fall? Would my weak knees buckle under me? Would I drop my partner? Yikes!
Several shots of red wine before the show did little to calm my shaking nerves, and hitting the stage that first time nearly overwhelmed me. I didn’t pass out, but my legs felt like overcooked fettuccini (just perfect for a dancer) and the tightness in my throat left me feeling a bit lightheaded. But, we made it on to the stage, bright lights and all (by the way, it’s true, you really can not see the audience with those lights). We performed, we did not fall or forget our parts, and at the end of it all, the audience applauded vigorously. I smiled widely, almost uncontrollably, thrilled with the success.
Today, I consider it a privilege for me to get to perform regularly – it’s something that I love and look forward to doing. To share my efforts with others and hopefully bring a little entertainment and fun to others is a great feeling. I still get a little nervous, but the good nervous, the kind that sharpens the senses and pumps just enough adrenalin to focus the mind and raise a bit of a sweat.
And now I practice several times a week for as much as 3 or 4 hours each time. No longer do I feel dread as I get closer to the dance hall, nor do I look for that chance to sneak out the rear exit. I try to make a point of visiting and dancing with the newer folks, to encourage them to continue. Maybe with a little time and practice, they can learn to dance and learn to love it as I do.
