Interpretive Dance

Interpretive dance. Need I say more? Apparently I do, because, while everybody I talk to about this topic gets the same sort of glazed-over, forced look on there face whilst trying to respond, everyone sneeringly tries to show their support in the name of art. The look people give me is what I would imagine them to have if I told them they could have a $1000 bill, but they had to first dig it out of a pile of dog-shit with their bare hands and lick it clean. The look that is displayed when they think that their pasted on smile is going to be enough to fool those around them but merely looks painful with a hint of revulsion. When everybody can obviously see the disgusted feelings that are lying just below the surface, mixed with the moment between pleasure and pain when their face is contorted in unabashed bewilderment.

Most people want to say what is on their mind about interpretive dance but feel it a betrayal to art as a whole. Don’t feel that way folks… it isn’t art in the first place. It is the bastard cousin of art, the worthless family member that serves no function in the art world at all yet it poses under the name “Art” to attempt to seek an audience. The origin of this unwanted offspring of dance, to me, looks as though it was something that was started during an acid induced, four-day “ freak out”. I bet it was fun to do and watch when everybody was on lots of drugs, but while trying to relate it to the rest of the world, something is drastically lost in the translation. For you jocks out there it’s similar to what synchronized swimming is to sports. While performed in the same venue as some real sports there is no quality involved that could ever define it as a sport. Its like watching someone warm up for a real sport and then take a bow walking away with a cocksure swagger as though they already dazzled you with feats of magnificence.

THE DANCE:
It usually starts off with some Tolkien-esque ethereal music. It often makes me think of fairies and elves dancing in the morning dew of a moss-covered forest, but today it was the Allman Brothers which kind of caught me off guard. There were times while watching this performances that I “interpreted” the “dancers” to be a bunch of frantic drunk people that have just been told that both exits are being guarded by Godzilla. There was also a manic frenzy that looked like everyone was caught in an avalanche or some other such cataclysmic event. Then there were the moments of acted out death mixed with some attempted (geriatric) eroticism (eeeewww!), then another frenzy, and lots of flailing while being dragged around the stage. Almost inevitably everyone falls down together in some intertwined orgy of body parts, as the seemingly endless music draws its last breath. But unless the house lights go completely down then you are in for yet another treat…. Yup you guessed it another ridiculously long song, re-mixed to ear-bleedingly unbearable lengths. Probably by the over-enthusiastic front man of the group who’s passion for drama obviously outshines the others‘…I said passion not talent. I’ll never hear that 25 min. version of “Tied To The Whipping Post” again. Shit, I’ll never hear the original version of that song without lapsing into that same homicidal daydream I had tonight of…well…you can imagine. Minutes number 21 - 25 took some REAL will-power to get through. And then I find myself like a damned fool, clapping enthusiastically loud when the song/fiasco reaches its end.  Not for the genius of the performance but out of passionate relief that it is FINALLY FUCKING OVER. I almost gave a standing ovation.

Now for those of you that are thinking to yourself , “Why the hell is Kevin putting himself through this torture?”, let me explain myself. My son is in a dance class that performs once every six months at the local community theatre. Lumped in with his 10 minute routine is three hours of other local musical performances and dance numbers. I have been pleasantly surprised with most of the local talent. For the most part, I would say that just to see community members show off a different side to themselves was almost worth the 50-something dollars in tickets we spent to see Simon’s 10-minute dance. No that’s not true, it was worth it just to see him dance, he owned the stage.

I learned an important lesson early, to never sit in the front 6 rows during one of these performances. This lesson was taught to me the hard way. I was a rookie. It was in my first 30 seconds of witnessing local interpretive dance that I realized that there was a woman in the group of “performers” that reminded me of a co-worker in drag. There were a few slack-jawed, bewildered moments when I actually thought it was said co-worker letting his weekend freak-flag fly. She was VERY dramatic and took the medium of interpretive dance seriously as a chance to show her passion to the world. She was also a burly woman who looked like she had been baling hay by hand for the last fifty years and had forearms the size of my calf-muscles. The clincher was the first (of many) dramatic, Shakespearian, arm over the forehead, interpretations of death. She fell into the awaiting arms of three fellow performers who did a very convincing job of “interpreting” the allusion of lifting something very heavy, down to every knee-buckling, vein-popping, eye-bulging detail. I'm not exactly sure that there was any actual acting going on at that moment. Either way, it sent me into an uncontrollable fit of the giggles. I felt as though I were a child again. It was as though my father had just finished yelling at me and while he is waiting for my acknowledgment of his rant, in the immediate, second-long, pregnant pause that follows before I could answer, my brother rips a fart. It was the type of giggling that you know shouldn’t be escaping but you can’t help it. You know...the giggles that might get you a good ass-kickin‘, but they have to come out anyway because any attempt to stifle them would be akin to trying to sneeze with your eyes open. Even repeated elbows in the ribs by the ladies on either side of me did nothing to stifle my poorly suppressed laughter during that performance. Pain could not overcome hilarity. If the whole dance troop came down off the stage and started hitting me with sacks of hammers it would have been somewhat of a relief because at least I could have released the volcano of guffaws (that I had been trying and failing to suppress) while they were gang-beating me. I could have laughed right into a coma, unable to defend myself. I was helpless. Lesson learned...all 75 minutes of it, which incidentally was the cumulative total time I bit my lips watching the same dance troop that night perform... again and again.

So here is my disclaimer. I feel a little guilty every once in a while when I let my true feelings out to people who aren’t ready to hear them, so here it is. If you are an interpretive dancer don’t take offense when I say that I don’t respect your “art” and that I'm actually a little offended for real artists out there that produce actual art. This is merely my opinion. Really, in the grand scheme of things what does that matter. Do your thing by all means, but if I have to deal with your performance, then you have to deal with me dealing with your performance, with one of my own… here. The advice That I would give you would be not to try to go too far over the audience’s head with your deeply passionate expressions. We don’t get it. Also, don’t take up too much of my time and ask me to pay to watch something that I can watch my kids do in the living room every time a song comes on the radio. Enough said.

I feel like I could write forever about this subject, but I guess I’ll just sum up this little rant by relating the feeling of undeniable irony I had listening to Gregg Allman belt out his chorus over and over...while feeling little fragments of my soul flake off and blow away. “Like I’ve been tied to the whippin’ post, oh Lord I feel like I’m dying”. Yeah...me too Gregg...me too.