letter to a friend following my first salsa class

hi buddy,

you should see a salsa class. i've had my mits on so many pretty women this evening you wouldn't believe it. of course it takes a lot of concentration. when you are looking at what your feet are doing its a bit difficult not to gaze down your partner's cleavage at the same time. took some pretty determined focussing i can tell you. i wasn't much good at the dancing. but with twice as many women as men who cares? i'm going to practice.

interestingly enough, although you are no doubt aware of this, the steps tie into the rhythm in eights. its ... one, two, three, rest, five, six, seven, rest. the 'rest' is where i tried to recover from the previous faux pas. for those who know what they are doing it seems to be a kind of off-beat in the dance pattern. this was a great ear-opener for me as previously salsa had sounded like a sort of serpentine percussive writhing punctuated with dramatic hispanic ejaculations. now i know different.

the few men and the ladies, at least the ladies of my approximate age, were really friendly. and started telling me about salsa weekends. which they strongly recommended as there would be 'expert dancers and really good teachers.' 'we dress up,' they said. happily only my imagination boggled.

so far so good. the first part of the class, during which i had impartially stepped on several pretty girls' feet, had been engrossing. the second phase was a different story. this was the 'intermediate' session i was told. for those who knew a bit. i could learn if i watched. so i watched.

sure enough they knew the steps. moving smoothly across the floor with assured reserve, there was not a bead of sweat to be seen. no mistakes. no eye contact. no flirting. zilch.

like a cold shower came the realisation ... these people were enthusiasts. enthusiasts. how disappointing. sure they made the dancing look easy. but they also managed to make it look boring. they had no passion. they could have been collecting rare toilet duck empties or back copies of 'routers monthly'. but would they die for their art? would they fairy cakes?

a bit like jazz, i cherish the idea that this music was born in blood, sex and death. not created by jo and jane soap in the fifty four minutes between finishing their fat-reduced-brekkie-snacks and the trip to B&Q for a vacupac of 20mm cross headed self tappers and the half litre tub of grouting. and it does not need to be commandeered by the rhythm wing of the caravan club. it deserves better. it deserves addicts, acolytes, adepts, fanatics, ego trippers, martyrs, prima donnas, anything in fact, except enthusiasts. ‘a weekend with this lot?’ I thought. ‘you must be joking.’

i’ve done enthusiasts’ weekends. as harmonica player with country and western band frisco i still bare the scars of a new years three nighter at pontins prestatyn on my heart. the punters, tho harmless, were seriously barking. they just wanted to dress up as their favourite western movie character.

in addition to a plethora of bog-standard cowpokes we had several Abraham Lincolns, a smattering of 7^th cavalry officers, more than one high tone east coast lady and a happy abundance of saloon bar hookers. a memory persists of an immaculate six foot apache brave with a scouser accent you could float a liner on. now that is a trans cultural experience.

but, not to be too judgemental, if four nights full board at brean sands encourages the dancing ladies to dress up as skankin’ swamp goddesses, all hot mud and serpents for £175, then why not? and, while we’re all getting primeval, what might flow from their enthusiasm once it had been burnished with a little rum and proximity?

perhaps a salsa weekend might be an experience to remember after all.

just call me snake hips

yours affectionately