*Warning may contain sarcasm*
A Ke$ha song has just come on the loudspeakers. You know what that means: impromptu dance party! *cue cheering* One of my good guy-friends decides to join the girls for some good fist pumping and craziness. Cue embarrassed, monocle-wearing roommate, who proceeds to hoist his friend up on his shoulder and drag him away from the fun. And, I’m not joking here, spanks him for choosing to partake in such undignified behavior (Okay, he wasn’t really wearing a monocle, but I decided to be hyperbolic).
Time skip to later in the evening, we are dancing a line dance called “The Wobble.” The lyrics are racy and the music style is not my cup of tea, but I know it, and I’m going to throw my dignity out the window like I would a Brittney Spears CD. About halfway through, our monocle-wearing friend decides to switch the song while everyone is still dancing, declaring that it isn’t real music.
Thus, I present to you my philosophy of music with a corollary of dance. There is no “real” music, just real tastes. I confess that my generation’s music makes me cringe. I have a hard time dancing to it unless it’s a line dance. As for my tastes, I’m a Swing Era girl. I love Frank Sinatra, Bing Crosby, and Dean Martin. I also love Bob Seger, the Four Seasons, the Beatles, and the Beach Boys. When I’m feeling in an extra-refined mood, I’ll listen to classical.
Dance is dance. If I can dance to it, I don’t care how “crappy” it is. You know, at the end of my last competition, we danced “The Wobble” just for the pure fun of it. Bear in mind that just moments ago, we were waltzing. We were, if you will, continuing in our habits of refined dancing.
In closing, I’d like to address my monocle-wearing, musically distressed friend. My good man, dancing is the poetry of movement. Like poetry, music and dance are varied. You may like it or might not, but try something new. Enjoy the fellowship that dance and music brings. Or, kick off those Sunday shoes and cut it footloose!