Shots and steps
Hibarger gives us a pre-lesson lesson, beaming while he snaps his fingers and trots through what he says is a pattern of steps, but, to me, is similar to the tactic my mother uses to avoid stepping on bees when she's barbecuing barefoot in the summertime. He counts aloud as he moves: "One, two, three, and four, five, six. One, two, three, and Lin-dy-Hop."
By the timeI, Chris, and the other aspiring Lindy Hoppers form a circle on the dance floor for our group lesson, I've already forgotten everything Hibarger showed us.
At least I have an excuse for forgetting: before descending into the St. Mary's cellar, I tossed back one shot of Cuervo, three pints, and a small bathtub full of Southern Comfort. It was an ill-conceived game plan: booze might facilitate club and wedding dance scenarios, but the Lindy Hop requires some learned movements, and the sauce hardly assists my memory retention. I should have heeded Hibarger's understatement of the century: "Swing dancing and alcohol don't really mix. It's a great social lubricant, but once you get dancing, you don't need it." True, and for the record, when you're face-to-face with strangers, it's also embarrassing to reek like booze and breath mints.
It doesn't help that we change partners every three minutes, even if I do enjoy the Wilt Chamberlain carousel. With every counterclockwise switch, I essentially forget everything. Put my hand where? Three, four, what? One second, I'm romancing a co-ed whose boyfriend bites his lip across the room; the next I'm ogling mountainous middle-aged cleavage. (This is a phenomenal place to meet women, by the way, particularly for anyone who can't commit to even eight-minute dating.)
Meanwhile, my periodic switcharoos have landed me the pleasured company of what must be every dude in Cambridge who isn't tall enough to ride an adult rollercoaster. Oh, plus a gentleman who is so old, he was probably kissing his first grandchild on the forehead around the same time Lindberg was getting famous enough to have a dance named after him.
East coast/West coast
In the 1940s, famed dance instructor Arthur Murray was molding the Lindy Hop into "East Coast Swing." Yes, believe it or not, like gangsta rap, the Lindy Hop boasts an East Coast/West Coast divide that, while yet to prompt any turf wars or shootouts, incorporates vastly different variations on the same foundation. "Because of the coastal separation, and communication not being as rapid as it is today," says Hibarger, "the dance evolved much like the American accent evolved over time. It evolved with music as it changed."
While East Coasters dance to music from the original Lindy Hop era — hot jazz and big band — West Coast dancers triple-step to more modern beats, such as Top-40, country, even disco.
"Both are national dances, just as the cha-cha and rumba are," says Hibarger. "But it's as different as British English is to American English."
Yo, I'm saying fuck that whole West Coast bullshit! Nah — just playing! But on the real, I dig Boston Swing Central's throwback vibe. Hibarger and his crew adjust the flavor somewhat every week, but you can always count on robust horns and upright bass lines (all courtesy of the DJ's laptop, of course). Tonight is technically "Neo-Swing" night, though alleging that Sara and I are doing anything that can be identified as such is like someone saying they did kung fu after one karate lesson.
