Three minutes and forty-five seconds can seem like an eternity to both the performers and onlookers of such an uninspired sequence. We circled the middle of a grotty village hall in front of an unresponsive audience of sun-deprived English holidaymakers. Our routine consisted of about six basic steps that were repeated to the monotony of the Venga-beat. We decided to perform to the Vengaboys’ “We Like To Party”. The only memorable part of that holiday, for all the wrong reasons, was a talent competition I entered with my sister. The six of us - Mum, Dad, and us kids - were stuck in a caravan. When I was thirteen, we went on a family holiday to Aberystwyth, a “holiday resort” in West Wales. “How do you not worry about what other people think?”Īdmittedly, the moment you live in can become the past you cringe at later. It is best to do this naked (preferably at home, not on street corners) with the music up so loud it becomes your pulse. Dancing is of the body and it is the body, helping to locate you in an exuberant present.įreestyle dancing is magic. Dancing becomes a means to get out of the head, moving away from the everyday and towards the sensory. This is what Bolan may be singing about, and what our dancing man is embodying - a groove compulsion. I was ten-years old, indifferent to the words, enraptured by the beat, Brown’s percussive grunts, the way he compelled me to move. I remember being in my Nan’s spare bedroom, Walkman in hand, headphones in ear, surrounded by floral décor and grooving to James Brown’s 'Sex Machine'. “Do you dance to cheesy pop and 60’s hits too?”Īs a girl, away from my troupe, I sometimes strayed from the pure kids’ hits. I’d love to be privy to the music that fuels his movements. Unlike my dancing man, I was part of a troupe with my little sister and our two cousins. I am curious to know how I moved at that age, if the routines were always the choreographed head, shoulders, knees and toes, and if I had any rhythm. Not quite right out the womb, but I still see it as a precocious start. I started dancing when I was two, or so Mum told me. As much as I want to succumb to this optimistic playfulness, the boring part of me tells me to believe that Bolan was lyricising figuratively. Imagine babies not dragged kicking and screaming into the world, but displaying their best jazz hands to the midwives. Marc Bolan sang that he danced himself right out the womb, and there is an unadulterated joy in attaching literal weight to the lyric. Maybe my soon-to-be friend and I are pre-destined to move. “Dancing man, how did you get your spark, and how do I get mine back?”įinding the impulse to groove, to shake what yo’ momma gave you, could be innate. So I quiz the invented version of him every time my bus drives past.Īnd while I search for answers from this stranger I long to befriend, the act of watching slowly starts to reignite my own passion for a good old boogie. Musing over the importance of every detail. I’ve created a running dialogue with him in my head. The conversations I have with him exist only as daydreams. I haven’t found the courage to speak to him yet. I can’t say I’ve seen any lone dancing men (or women) on other street corners in the middle of the day. Dancing? That’s not a done thing round here, maybe not anywhere. I try and understand why he moves on the same corner and why he does it by himself. His focus, the drink of choice, and the perspiration could all be hints that his dancing is more functional than symbolic. If you happen to be at the dairy nearby, reaching for a V at the same time he is grabbing a sports drink, you might see beads of sweat on his forehead and cheeks. He swings a large cotton shopping bag from right hand to left. Sometimes I see him walking towards his spot. I’ve started smiling at him if I see him walking down the road, or on the bus, but I don’t think we are at the stage in our relationship to philosophise.

You see, at different times in my life, I’ve been a dancer too. But when I watch him, something makes me want to ask for his name and find out more. Some people think he is “strange” - my family included. On a sunny day, you’ll often find him beside a busy intersection on Auckland’s affluent North Shore. His hair is shoulder length, with a few grey streaks. He wears a blue sports top, dark track pants and red boxing tape wrapped tightly around his wrists and the palm of his hands. His moves are controlled with flexing wrists and swinging arms, transferring weight from one leg to the other. Subscribe to us right now at 'Like' us on Facebook. BASIA BULAT - IT CAN'T BE YOU (BalconyTV)īASIA BULAT performs the song 'IT CAN'T BE YOU' for BalconyTV.

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