So what did a 60’s kid imagine when hearing the word ‘dance’? A horde of tap dancing munchkins, of course.
Or maybe, even the Eighty-One?
But, alas, twas not to be. We were going to learn to waltz. For those of you who do not have such refined bleeding, I mean breeding, here’s a quick reminder.
The waltz is based around 3 beats. The first is Loud, the second two are softer, making it ONE-two-three, ONE-two-three. It gives waltzes their smooth gliding motion, just like the competition couples you see on TV.
The Rascals have a good example:
And, of course, George wrote a waltz (not the chorus, tho!):
God help me………….I had to learn to waltz…………with Mom. This could have been one of the most embarrassing things in my young life, like seeing mom’s underwear on the floor, or being in her gynecologist’s waiting room.
So, dere we wuz–circling around the living room to Sinatra. I’m mortified beyond words. One hand on her waist, one holding hers. Thank God for little favors–the old man wasn’t around to laugh at my shame. But if I have to step on feet, I’d rather do the hippo thump on hers now. Maybe if stars align, I’ll escape this dance without injuring a girl who will write graffiti on the shithouse walls Monday.
Gotta admit, it helped, but I was not going to close my bedroom door and practice. That would mean I would have to turn in my ‘I’m a Boy’ membership card. One thing, tho: Mom said, ‘Right now, there are girls all over practicing with THEIR mothers. If a girl steps on your foot, I promise she will be petrified.’
Hmmm–never thought of that. I guess we’re in this together. And the waltz will be the ONLY dance.