the cuban salsa blog

Sometimes it's pretty obvious. Always be your own dancer.

Don’t try to fake the funk.

Authenticity is an inside-out deal. When you are truly connected to the music and your movements are generated by living, breathing emotion, it is in that exact moment that you become real as a dancer.

Ultimately, it’s not your tricks on the dance floor that touch the human soul.

Don’t get me wrong, we love all the crazy turn patterns and tricks, but without an emotional anchor, they are worthless.

Worthless.

To have native Latino men and women, who have grown up in cultures where music and dance are inseparable, approach us several times at any given live music event to compliment our students on their dance is the most heartwarming thing a Latin dance instructor could hear.

I think this is due in part to our philosophy at Paso:

If you are going to dance, give it EVERYTHING that you got, heart and soul, or keep your ass on the sidelines until you are ready to do so.

She needs a partner, not pity.

If you are going to dance with someone, dance as if it were the last dance of your life. If you can’t do that, don’t insult them with a half-baked dance to test out some corny patterns.

Just because it’s Salsa doesn’t mean you have to dance to it.

If you can’t connect with the song on ANY level, why dance to it? Wait until you can connect, and sacrifice your entire body and mind to it.

That doesn’t mean you should be narrow minded about anything. Sometimes you need to actively dig into yourself to find a connection to your partner or the song that’s playing.

But that’s entirely the whole point. Explore, search and pull from the inside.

A tale from the Tango capital of the world.

I leave you with a story about Tango in Buenos Aires, from tangoandchaos.org:

In Buenos Aires they say that, “In the milonga, everyone sees everything”. It means that from the moment you walk in the door, to the time you leave, you will be watched. Your clothing, your walk, your posture, where you sit—all will be scrutinized.

I learned this the hard way.

Several years ago we were in a place called Afiche. It doesn’t exist today, but at the time El Pibe Sarandi had a milonga there. It was only a small restaurant with a tiny dance floor, but because El Pibe is a serious milonguero, many of the important dancers in BsAs squeezed inside to eat and dance.

One night Alejandra and I were there with a woman from the U.S. We were tired and, and all we wanted to do was eat something and listen to a friend who was there singing tango—but the woman had come all the way from the U.S., and she really wanted to dance. She was not very experienced, and I had no desire to dance with her— but it was clear that the milongueros weren’t going to ask her, and it looked like she was going to sit all night.

So, finally I decided to be a nice guy and I asked her to dance. It was the last song of a tanda, and the small floor was packed. We sort of squeezed into the middle, and I shuffled through a tango— but my heart wasn’t in it. Then we sat back down, and I felt pretty good about having done my duty.

A few minutes later, a milonguero came over and asked me to step outside. I had no idea what he wanted, but I followed him out. We stood on the sidewalk for a minute, and then he said, “I saw you dancing.” I thought maybe he was going to say what a nice guy I was for dancing with the tourist… but no. Instead, he said this: “You can do better than that.

You can’t come here in front of these people and dance like that. When you dance tango you must give everything. Wait for the right music, and then give EVERYTHING!”

He kind of tapped me on the chest as he said it. Then he said, “If you can’t do that, do not dance.” And he went back inside.

Asador at Pippo’s, downtown BsAsI stood there, and I could actually feel my face burning. I don’t know what I expected— but to be told by one of the best milongueros in Buenos Aires that I should either get it together, or go home, really stung.

After a bit I went back in and sat down, but I didn’t say anything to Alej. Later the next day I finally told Alej what happened.

She thought for a minute, and said, “Well, XXXX was right. These guys are watching everything you do. The floor may have been crowded, and you may have been in the middle, but they saw it all.”

Then she said, “These milongueros don’t dance all the time. They wait, and they only dance when they feel the music. And they never dance with someone they don’t want to dance with.

But when they do dance… they put all the meat on the fire! And they won’t respect you if you don’t do it also.”

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