By
Lisabet Sarai
I’ve
got music in my blood. My mom crooned 1940s torch songs while she did
housework. My dad played clarinet and sax in swing bands from the
time he was eleven years old. Later, he was a soloist for the local
symphony orchestra. My sister tackled the violin and performed in
musical comedies, while my brother could coax amazing sounds from
pretty much any instrument he picked up. In fact, he has supported
himself as a singer and song-writer for more than three decades – a
feat possibly even more difficult than making a living as a writer.
And
me? I’ve always loved to sing and have a decent voice, even now,
but somehow all my attempts to learn a musical instrument have fallen
flat. As a child I tried the clarinet (following in my father’s
footsteps). As a teen I took piano lessons. In my twenties, I bought
a guitar. I never got beyond the rank beginner stage with any of
these efforts, possibly due to insufficient motivation. Somehow the
process did not inspire me. Or perhaps the problem was poor teachers.
My piano instructor, for instance, never realized I was memorizing
all my pieces so I didn’t have to read the score.
At
this point in my life, I sometimes regret my failures in this area.
However, I recently came to the realization that my body is my
instrument. As long as I can remember, I’ve been a dancer. Music
speaks to me in a deeply physical way, animates me, takes me over.
When the music calls, I can hardly sit still.
For
my fifth birthday, my parents took me to a performance of the ballet
“Giselle”. I was enchanted. I still remember the breathless
excitement of that frigid January night, coming home on the subway
long after midnight. I had no doubt I was destined to be a ballerina.
My father and mother indulged my fantasies, enrolling me in ballet
and tap dancing classes. I was immediately hooked. I’d gladly
practice for hours, and shy as I was, I adored being on stage.
In
high school, I line danced to Greek and Israeli music. In college, I
belonged to the modern dance club. During my years in grad school I
studied belly dancing and began to perform semi-professionally.
Meanwhile,
there was square dancing, swing, salsa, rock ‘n roll, all the
multitudinous ways two people can move together. Nothing can match
the thrill of dancing with a compatible partner, the sense of two
bodies totally in sync. Dipping, twirling, swinging your hips,
matching your steps, anticipating the moves, riding the beat – it’s
almost as good as sex. I get the same sort of high. And to be
completely honest, I’ve been literally seduced more than once by
the sense of connection I’ve found with a skilled dancer.
These
days, arthritis and injuries restrict my ability to play my chosen
instrument. Still, the energy flows. When the band strikes up a
Rolling Stones number – when the guitar wails and the drum pounds –
when Rickie Martin croons about La Vida Loca or Carlos Santana
invokes his Black Magic Woman, I’m caught once more in the web of
music. I slide off my bar stool, shimmy my shoulders, shake my booty,
ripple and whirl, ignoring the very real possibility that I will
barely be able to move at all the next day. The music commands my
body and I obey. And for those moments, I’m flying, young and full
of power once again, lost in the pure joy of dancing.
I
come back to this sense of buoyancy and freedom again and again in my
writing. I’ve penned many scenes where a heroine is taken over by
the music. Often, she’s doing a strip tease, but there’s nothing
sleazy about these performances. On the contrary, there’s a purity
to the way these dances merge with desire. My women are lit up from
within by the rhythm, the melody and the mirroring lyrics.
Mirroring
me, of course. As we explored last month, we all write ourselves into
our stories. My characters dance because I do, deep inside if not
always in the world, when the music calls.
Insightful post, Lisabet. I majored in music in college, but your dance analogy is spot-on. Years ago, the tango was considered a seduction ritual. As was Ravel's Bolero. But it was the lyricist Sammy Cahn who said it best in Sinatra's "Come Dance With Me"-- "For what is dancing but making love set to music?"
ReplyDeleteDefinitely. Even a solo dance is in some sense making love to yourself - or perhaps to the audience, if you have one.
DeleteThis sounds so familiar. My whole family was musical, although not professionally, except that my mother was a grade school music teacher for a few years. We were in the church choir, the choruses and glee clubs of our respective high schools and colleges, and local or regional amateur groups doing musicals like The Music Man and various Gilbert and Sullivan works. Dancing, though, was beyond me (except for very basic ball-room dancing; the local 4H club sponsored lessons at the Town Hall.) I've never been all that physically well-coordinated. I envy people who are.
ReplyDeleteI'm actually very clumsy - witness the number of times I'm tripped and broken something - but something changes when I hear the music. Weird, but I'm grateful.
DeleteYou are so right, Lisabet. Music embodies desire so powerfully, but it's hard to convey on a page.
ReplyDelete