To a generation before my lot they were famous and epitomised the era of the ultra smooth dance music that had both a high musicality as well as a vocal, lyrical essence to enhance the mood. Mood was what it was all about.
The Quickstep, the foxtrot, the waltz were the substance, the jive, the bebop, perhaps even the Charleston for those with the energy and the confidence to show off.
Confidence on the dance floor was a substitute for the unattractive grind of the workplace, where young people could dress and perform in the context of the dance, as well if not better, than their superiors. The swing music of the Dorsey brothers was like a touch paper to a firework. The sound of the haunting refrain of Tommies trombone lit the spirit, exciting the hormones fuelling what is in all of us, an escape from the conformity of our upbringing, to rise above our lack of self belief and make us king for an hour or two.
The clash of egos between the two very talented brothers led to their split, each forming his own band with a distinctive style. The music was real music, complicated musical scores and arrangements often topped by a lyric which embellished the rhythm and mood of the music. The crooners of those days were the heady superstars of today's rock band but they were an integral part of the band and its music. We the punters were also part of the experience we didn't just listen, we danced. We became part of the performance with skill we danced and provided an exhibition on the dance floor just as important to us as the band on the stage. Our ability to perform the steps and give the steps, life and verve was mirrored by our partner. She was the clincher, she added the weight the dexterity the gyro which kept the couple in perfect synchronism as we swirled around the floor. But most important, she provided the extra something, the sex appeal, the hormonal drive that makes the world go around. She was a girl you knew from the neighbourhood a couple of streets away, or she was a stranger you had seen across the dance floor and had plucked up courage to ask for the dance. It didn't matter, she was the girl of the moment and you were both caught up in the magic of dance. If that magic now blossomed into something else then the angling for the "last waltz" was all that mattered since it usually meant you "walked" her home after the dance. If you knew her and she lived close to your home all well and good if she was a stranger and a good looker, you would accompany her on her bus to walk the last hundred yards or so to her front door. The kiss the urges flowing both ways was always cooled by the glimpse of the bedroom light, her parents timing the pause between arrival and the sound of the key in the lock. Mary is that you ?
Goodnight and off you went retracing your steps, except now the buses had stopped running and your only option was to walk. You hadn't noticed the drizzling rain when you were with her but now as it began to rain in earnest, the walk was going to be a long one. Eventually turning into you own road,thoroughly drenched but still light hearted, the light in your parents bedroom window hove into view. Is that you John, yes Mum. Did you have a nice night Yes Mum. Goodnight Mum. Goodnight son !! Happy days !!!!!
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