I very rarely break tanda and, when I do, its usually a response to disastrous, zigzaggy bumper-car floorcraft (I consider breaking tanda in such situations to be a social duty). But, in this case, I made an exception. [Ive changed the orchestra here to obscure the identifying details]. It was a tanda of those classic Di Sarlis that make every dancers heart leap at the silkiness of the violins, the confidence of Podestás youthful baritone, the discreet bell-like fills and twinkly adornos on the piano. Perhaps it was partly me, partly the way I planted myself heavily and didnt want to step when the singers voice swelled into a long sustained note, partly the way I tried to stop and tap out the triplets when he tried to stride right past them. But, either way, it quickly became a struggle: he was determined to stick to a repeating pattern of 1, 3, 1, 3 executed with mechanical precision in which every step, in whatever direction, felt absolutely alike. It was a tug of war and, the more I resisted, the more he sensed that something was wrong between us and tried to reestablish unity by making me get into his pattern, follow his beat which, to me, ran parallel to the music but had no relationship with it, fitted mathematically, yes, but not organically. After a few songs, I felt that life was too short to continue and thanked him and left the floor. So, what was missing from his dance, since he was absolutely and cleanly on the pulse throughout? I would define it as something Ill call phrasing, using the term as I understand it from speech (though I *think* it is analogous in music; correct me if Im wrong, as Im nervous about using musical terminology right now). By this, I dont just mean breaking a series of notes or words into smaller, separate statements or sections, with spaces between them. Im thinking of something subtler but equally vital. Its the thing that makes the difference between the score, the text, the choreography and the performance, that makes you say ah, I love the way Mark Rylance plays Prospero/Emma Kirkby sings Laudate dominum/Sylvie Guillem dances The Rite of Spring. Its all in the delivery, the execution, the transition from the written to the spoken/played/sung/danced. Listen to a gifted actor deliver a speech in strict iambic pentameter -- strong beat, weak beat, strong beat, weak beat -- in a metre very similar to the underlying feeling in tango. Nevertheless, youll notice that some words are just a fraction louder than others; some are pronounced with emphasis, others almost slurred over; some are delivered just slightly faster; some are articulated just a little harder; some are slightly higher in pitch, some lower and mellower; some run together, others carefully and distinctly separated. In music, this can be even clearer. Listen to Berón singing Tristezas de la Calle Corrientes with Calós orchestra and notice how difficult it would be to annotate the precise rhythms he uses. He adds a huge number of subtle variations to what is written in the score because he is not just producing pitches and timings, but telling a story. This is something detailed and subtle, difficult to convey, hard (but not impossible) to teach. But we need to put phrasing into our movements when we dance: to make tiny variations in speed, velocity, amplitude, smoothness or stompiness, abruptness or delay, softness or tone. To some extent, this comes naturally to many dancers. But what can help is to imagine that, with your dancing, you are reciting a poem, giving a speech, using all the natural tiny variations of your voice to give meaning to what you are saying. We are used to doing this when we talk. This is at the heart of what we mean by expressiveness and its always communicative. Say something in your dancing. Infuse meaning into the movement.
Posted on: Mon, 31 Mar 2014 17:28:49 +0000