Footloose

In 1984, I was a seven year old with eyes and a mind ripe for learning. At that age, experience has a deeper meaning for any child, and for me, I was begging for it. It was during that year that music became an interest. Many would argue that the 80’s was when music decided to take some sick leave having barely survived the disco era. That’s a discussion we can have at a later time, but for the sake of this tale we need to remind ourselves of what was going on during that period of time.

A certain album was still selling, steam rolling to the world record of 104 million copies. Don’t rub your eyes, that’s a 1, proceeded by a 0 and a 4. That album was produced by Quincy Jones (pre-bottom of the bottle Quincy) with a certain shy yet incredibly talented Michael Jackson (before he became Anglo-Saxon and odd). The aptly titled, “Thriller” was dominating other great albums like Duran Duran’s “Rio” and Marvin Gaye’s last album “Midnight Love.” Both Jones and Jackson created seven Billboard Top 100 hits, making the album the third ever to accomplish such a feat in record history.

He was black.

Also worth noting is that “Thriller” followed on the heels of “Off The Wall,” which was a breakthrough LP for Michael Jackson.

In a small home in a weird Los Angeles suburb known as Tujunga, I lived with my parents, who exposed me to music on a daily basis. If it wasn’t Jethro Tull or Pink Floyd from my father, it was Michael Jackson from my mom. Of course, I could be wrong about who listened to that Thriller album more between my mom and dad. My dad was an assassin on the dance floor during the disco days, so it could have been him. I heard that “Saturday Night Fever” LP more than I heard a sermon at church.

At any rate, it was all about “Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’,” “Billy Jean,” “P.Y.T.,” and the title track from that monster of an album, “Thriller.”

The story goes that whenever that album would come on, I would start to dance and apparently kept incredible rhythm. I’d move around as if inspired by what I was hearing. My feet would move, hips would follow, and I somehow was a chip off the old block. There were some B-Boy/Breakdancing influence in my repertoire of moves, as memory serves.

Not really...

I now imagine how my dad would watch with infinite pride, thinking: “That’s my boy. Look at him. The ladies are going to be beating down the doors. There will be cat fights. He will rule the dance floor. Yeah… move it, son. Move! My son will crush Danny Terrio! This is fate! He was born the same year Saturday Night Fever was released! He’s so much better than John Travolta! Look!”

My mom was probably thinking: “Wow… talent. I’ve tapped into his talent and he’s so young. He’s smart and he can dance. This is incredible. We’ve got to take this to the next level!”

I could have been him.

Let me be clear that my dancing was judged by the two biggest fans I had at the time, my parents. Parents wear rose-colored blindfolds when it comes to their kids, as everyone is probably very aware. If they build something, it’s the best something ever. This is not a critique – in fact, I support that style of parenting, because life is so hard, one needs someone who will root for them even if accomplishments are mediocre.

My mother, in her keen parenting, found an activity I enjoyed (outside of recreating Star Wars battles in my room with my action figures and using the walls in my room as tapestries for my marker art) so she acted quickly and scheduled me an audition at a local dance studio. I wasn’t quite sure what a “dance studio” was or what the implications were, so there was no pressure on me. I didn’t “get it.” From what I remember, my mom told me I was going to dance somewhere and I’d be having fun.

Off we went to the dance studio – with dancing shoes that my mom bought (my memory is fuzzy, but this seems like what occurred). The idea is that I’d just show off some basic moves and earn the respect of the instructor. I’m sure it wasn’t a difficult accomplish in the eyes on my mom.

Proving grounds!

I remember pulling up to the dance studio and being prepped by my mom. It seemed early in the day and the studio was empty, except for the instructor. The instructor, who was female, conversed with my mother for a short time, which I didn’t pay much attention to. I was caught up with the fact that I had never seen an entire room made of mirrors. I took advantage of it and made faces at myself.

The instructor took me by my shoulders and told me she’d be putting on some music and that I’d be allowed to just dance… freestyle. That meant nothing to me as I had no official training, so I said “Okay,” and she walked away. Being the consummate performer, I felt no nervousness, I just laughed at the faces I was making at myself. There’s discussions about Frank Sinatra making faces to loosen up his muscles prior to a performance, so I was in good company.

Face maker.

The music was seconds away from beginning and my moment of glory was nearing. It was similar to those moments of a sunrise where the amber light turns to yellow. Time to shine… the music began… here it is…

I felt the beat. It was pulsing through my veins like the very blood that was delivering life to all 60lbs of me. I went for it.

By “went for it,” I mean I sat down on the ground, flat on my butt, and span around in a circle for about 30 seconds. That’s right folks, my moment in the spotlight was sitting… and spinning… like a dog without its rear paws chasing its own tail.

“I’m breakdancing! Look! Look!”

This is not dancing.

And look they did, as bystanders would a train wreck as it happens. The instructor quickly surmised that I had the dancing talent of a tire iron and I can still hear the deafening click of the stop button on the tape player. As Danny Terrio and John Travolta felt a mysterious weight be removed from their shoulders, we were excused from the studio by a two second smirk and an empty “Thank you.”

My mom walked me to the car and we drove to buy an ice cream cone.