If you ask members of the Baby Boomer generation, what in their opinion was the greatest dance from their younger years, you would undoubtedly receive an assortment of answers, such was the number of dance crazes that came out of the 50’s, 60’s and 70’s.
Right up there I imagine would be the jive, one dance style that still retains its popularity. But there was a lot of competition back then, with weird stuff like: The Mashed Potato; Locomotion; Stroll, and Hitch Hike, to name just a few.
But I recently watched a video on Facebook, posted by one of my ex-Bermuda cronies of a party in the 1970’s, and I was reminded of something that helped make those times so memorable – the greatest dance ever devised by man – not the Watusi or Hully Gully, but the Bump!
Now whoever invented this dance, it’s pretty obvious to me that it must have been someone with a sadistic bent, a retired tax inspector perhaps,and which you might think contradicts my opinion of it being the greatest.
But there is something deeply satisfying about being able to knock eight bells out of each other on the dance floor without seriously falling out. And in spite of being one who is to dancing what Kim Jong Un is to stand-up comedy, I wasn’t half bad at it.
And I have the scars to prove it.
Freud would have made something out of that.
Like a lot of men of my generation, it takes a few gallons of wine to loosen up my head sufficiently to take to the dance floor.
And see, that’s what I like about alcohol, it’s a rejuvenating potion, because no sooner am I up there, than I am at it like a mantis at speed.
Any doubts about my dancing ability are washed away in a tide of Rioja, and I suddenly know without a doubt, that I am pretty damn cool.
Trouble is whilst ‘getting on down’ is ok, ‘getting on up’ presents a problem, nevertheless judging by the gyrating and the chucking out of legs at odd angles going on around me, the Twist seems still to be the most popular dance with other Golden Agers.
But these days there is a worrying sound above the music, reminiscent ofa gate with rusty hinges. It’s the sound of hip and knee replacements under stress.
Dancing has become a dangerous game.