tango of course.
especially the argentinian variety. which these days is the clinch of choice throughout the land. only last night i called the shots as i guided a bevy of compliant females relatively gracefully around a dance-floor somewhere in wales, our eager progress driven by the throbbing strain of a music forged in the meat-packing district of buenos aires during the early years of the twentieth century.
meat-packing? perhaps we'll skip that one till we all know each other better. but i gotta say i don't think this stuff is for feminists. or new men for that matter. in fact i couldn't help wondering whether maybe new men will become an endangered species as this insidious practice spreads.
i don't think of myself as a new man. i do however believe in respect for the ladies and am the first to agree that those with the double X chromosomes are well entitled to equal pay for equal work. and recognise the value of giving birth and home making etc. etc.
so sticking resolutely to the sunny side of gender politics boulevarde, like most of us chaps i reckon i'm a moderate. thus tango caught me unawares. whether tackled in thigh tight skirt, highwaisted trousers and white blouse or tee shirt and jeans theres no getting away from it, the underlying premise of the dance is the control of women by men.
there are gritty antecedents. originally the dance was a mainly masculine manoeuvre amongst the sexually dispossessed compadrones, the tough guys of buenos aires' immigrant districts. as the inevitable bordellos sprang up to temper their tension tango snuck sideways. quickly redefining itself as the ballet of whore and pimp the dance's present day street progeny hasn't left its piquant youth all that far behind.
it isn't quite like that in the uk. here the women who dance tango - the followers - are most emphatically motivated by their own enjoyment. seemingly drawn by a heady testosterone miasma they tumble through the in-door, eager to close their eyes and succumb.
perhaps that's the most surprising thing. the majority of students in the classes i go to are over 30. in many cases by a good long way. and yet its these ladies, who have had plenty of time to think through the issues, who decide to embrace the ritualized acquiescence so fulsomely.
however all may not be as it first appears. for example, of the three pairs of visiting tutors at whose cuban heeled feet i have metaphorically sat, two have been directed by the follower. her partner - the leader - altho accomplished, has more or less done what he was told.
which leads us on to another question. what is it about these narcissistic* sorts that they need to be seen to hold the reins when the missus is actually the one cracking the whip?
do i care? i'm an adult. i consented. and so did the ladies i asked to join me as we paced solemnly and semi seriously** across the parquet. from time to time girls can close their eyes i was told. tho 'not you as well,' counseled one more experienced female. 'you've got to steer.'
by this time too much thinking and not enough groove was sweeping me out of my depth. adrift amongst the pulsating politics and freewheeling pheromones i realised i was hopelessly floundering. and as for the footwork ... i decided to cut the analysis and get on with the dance.
once i had done that the whole thing opened up. i started to get a feel for the leading-with-the-chest trick and we flew round the room. so it seemed that my first tango lesson was much more to do with attitude readjustment than with my clumsy attempts to execute the steps. after all who is naive enough to think that the relationship between boys and girls is ever what it seems? and who says you're ever too old to benefit from the steep learning curve of a dance lesson? i certainly had no complaints from the damsel on the sharp end.
well the not-so-sharp end actually but that's another story.
* it does seem that the boys are fond of themselves. in the style of a true guapo, male tango teachers over a certain age have no fear. certainly when it comes to dyeing their hair. while the younger ones flaunt their ringlets with abandon. or, cutting a dash, shave them aesthetically off.
** at a previous session i was actually reprimanded for talking, and worse still laughing, while dancing. and another time was accused along with my partner of having 'way too much fun.' tango it seems is a serious business where souls entwine. and sniggering is well and truly out. but that's ok. i can go with it. watch me.
