Gregory Hines, 1946-2003It was while bringing up the rear of an eight-person conga line in a strip mall on a Tuesday night that I realized my career as a professional dancer would once again be derailed.
When I was a kid, I had the difficult and fleeting dream of being a tap dancer. The late Gregory Hines was a big star at the time and I thought because we shared the same name we might share some talent connection as well. But growing up in rural Iowa, there were not a lot of opportunities or encouragement for male tap dancers.
I have a very clear memory of going to the mall one weekend and seeing kids from a local dance school performing. I was wowed by how many cute girls took dancing lessons, but then the school's one boy student came prancing on stage in a shimmery, male figure skater-like outfit, and although he was great, I knew I would forever choose hoops and hightops over sequins and spangles.
About 12 years later and much more comfortable in my hetero-ness, my dancing dream was reignited when I saw how many cute girls were taking tap classes in college. So, in the spring semester of my senior year, I registered for Beginning Tap. Fortunately for all those cute girls, I had to drop the class when I realized I needed to take Spanish, not the Tango, to graduate on time.
Even without professional training, I’ve always considered myself something of a maestro on the dance floor. At clubs, weddings and parties, I earned a reputation for having moves uncommonly smooth and funky for an American caucasian male. My style was freestyle. A cross between James Brown and Bobby Brown, with a little bit of the robot
thrown in for good measure.
I had style.
I had grace.
I was the funkiest dude in the place.
Then, I got married. There was no more reason to strut around the dancefloor like a peacock. I had secured my bird by doing “The Bird” like Morris Day. The only grinding left for me to do was on my morning coffee beans.
The problem is my wife likes to dance, just not with me. She says I don't really know any of the steps. I just try to show off how slick I am. And she's right.
So, for her 30th birthday, I thought it would be a sweet surprise to buy her a package of
dance lessons at the esteemed Arthur Murray School Dance. We could learn the steps together and I could finally see if I had what it takes to be as cool as Gregory Hines.
Dancing is much harder than it looks. It's all 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4, rock-step, spin, twist, turn. I had a hard time being confined by that rigid structure. I needed to break free into the snake, the cabbage patch, the Roger Rabbit, etc. My wife told me to stop, but our instructor, a skinny little guy with a heavy accent, understood my need for variety.
"Eats alike, you alike dee hambooger," he said, "buh you kahn't half dee hambooger everyday."
Exactly.
By the end of our lessons, we had received a pretty good introduction to the waltz, rhumba, swing, merengue and the hustle. Our package concluded with a brief "party" where we got to dance with a few older couples and some other lonelyhearts in beginning classes. We all did our still unsteady steps in the strip mall studio, with
disco ball spinning above. The instructors led us through something like a Soul Train line, which I loved, and into a conga line, which I hated.
My hands kept slipping off the meaty shoulders of the woman in front of me. I fell off rhythm. I put my left foot in, when they put their right foot out.
With disco lights shining all around, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and saw Gregory Van De Voorde, not Gregory Hines, and I wanted a hambooger.
When I was a kid, I had the difficult and fleeting dream of being a tap dancer. The late Gregory Hines was a big star at the time and I thought because we shared the same name we might share some talent connection as well. But growing up in rural Iowa, there were not a lot of opportunities or encouragement for male tap dancers.
I have a very clear memory of going to the mall one weekend and seeing kids from a local dance school performing. I was wowed by how many cute girls took dancing lessons, but then the school's one boy student came prancing on stage in a shimmery, male figure skater-like outfit, and although he was great, I knew I would forever choose hoops and hightops over sequins and spangles.
About 12 years later and much more comfortable in my hetero-ness, my dancing dream was reignited when I saw how many cute girls were taking tap classes in college. So, in the spring semester of my senior year, I registered for Beginning Tap. Fortunately for all those cute girls, I had to drop the class when I realized I needed to take Spanish, not the Tango, to graduate on time.
Even without professional training, I’ve always considered myself something of a maestro on the dance floor. At clubs, weddings and parties, I earned a reputation for having moves uncommonly smooth and funky for an American caucasian male. My style was freestyle. A cross between James Brown and Bobby Brown, with a little bit of the robot
thrown in for good measure.I had style.
I had grace.
I was the funkiest dude in the place.
Then, I got married. There was no more reason to strut around the dancefloor like a peacock. I had secured my bird by doing “The Bird” like Morris Day. The only grinding left for me to do was on my morning coffee beans.
The problem is my wife likes to dance, just not with me. She says I don't really know any of the steps. I just try to show off how slick I am. And she's right.
So, for her 30th birthday, I thought it would be a sweet surprise to buy her a package of
dance lessons at the esteemed Arthur Murray School Dance. We could learn the steps together and I could finally see if I had what it takes to be as cool as Gregory Hines.Dancing is much harder than it looks. It's all 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4, rock-step, spin, twist, turn. I had a hard time being confined by that rigid structure. I needed to break free into the snake, the cabbage patch, the Roger Rabbit, etc. My wife told me to stop, but our instructor, a skinny little guy with a heavy accent, understood my need for variety.
"Eats alike, you alike dee hambooger," he said, "buh you kahn't half dee hambooger everyday."
Exactly.
By the end of our lessons, we had received a pretty good introduction to the waltz, rhumba, swing, merengue and the hustle. Our package concluded with a brief "party" where we got to dance with a few older couples and some other lonelyhearts in beginning classes. We all did our still unsteady steps in the strip mall studio, with
disco ball spinning above. The instructors led us through something like a Soul Train line, which I loved, and into a conga line, which I hated.My hands kept slipping off the meaty shoulders of the woman in front of me. I fell off rhythm. I put my left foot in, when they put their right foot out.
With disco lights shining all around, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and saw Gregory Van De Voorde, not Gregory Hines, and I wanted a hambooger.
The Nicholas Brothers, the greatest of all time
1 comment:
Whoa, the Nicholas brothers are killer! I'm going to watch that again!
You and Mrs. VDV keep up the dancing; it's better to feel good than to look good, and hamboogers are comfort food for the soul.
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