Beefs No. 4 : Who Stole the Soul?

Maybe it was the colors, those burnt oranges, lime greens, and deep unrelenting violet purples? Maybe it was the tailored pants, or the high heeled shoes? Maybe it was the pure cocaine, good weed, or grape Ripple? Or maybe people just understood their bodies better forty years ago. Whatever the reason is, people sure knew how to dance back then. Today, even at the funkiest, soulful, ass-bumping party of the year, the best we can all hope for is some drunk girl waving her arms and screaming ‘wooo-yeeaah’, or some schlep awkwardly trying to ‘dust ’ his shoulders off. Somewhere along the line, through advertising, ill-fitting mass produced clothing, and misguided notions about masculinity, we as a culture lost our dancing gene.

Everyone I know loathes dancing, or should I say every man I know loathes dancing. Now keep in mind, these same aficionados of swing love some good old Marvin Gaye, Boogaloo Joe Jones, and Detroit hip hop, but these same dudes would rather hold a fat baby at a bris than do a line dance on Soul Train. It’s not that they hate the act of dancing; in fact many of these men love to watch women gyrate and move rhythmically. It’s almost as if the act of dancing strikes some sort of primordial fear in their souls. It’s as if their inner child is mourning their lack of moves and most likely grooves. For these men, dancing has become a foreign language, a Sanskrit code of incoherent shapes, lines and meanings. For most modern men, dancing is something best left to the ladies and dudes high on meth wearing children’s jewelry.

There is a certain sadness in this modern truism. I mean, how insanely incredible would it be to walk in on some dank, darkly lit party and find thirty dirty bike messengers dancing rhythmically syncopated moves in some sort of Williamsburg/Portland version of the Soul Train line dance? There would be no judgment, because even the most awkward dancer would know where ‘1’ was on the beat, and everyone would feel completely comfortable moving their arms. How much more enjoyable would nightlife be if it were peppered with rhythmic gyrations with beautiful strangers, instead of awkward head nodding with aloof copy editors? I’m not suggesting everyone start moving around at parties and shows like the old guy at Burning Man, but we can study from the masters. Take a little James Brown, ad some Jackson, sprinkle with some various Latin street dancers, some Crazy Legs, a little Gene Kelly, and you'll be 'doin the damn thing' soon enough. Take your time, and perfect your style, but it’s time to end this soulless partying. I mean quiet desperation has its place, and everyone loves a brooding smoker, but can’t we Superbeasts take a page from Don Cornelius and just get the fuck down once in a while?