Rest peacefully, Dr. Bunny Briggs. In September of 2010, I traveled to Las Vegas, Nevada with six other tap dancers in the dance company Cats Paying Dues, to perform live on the 45th Annual Jerry Lewis MDA Telethon. While dancing on national television for a venerable cause was an unforgettable experience, it was the afternoon leading up to our evening performance that left the brightest impression on my hearts memory. One of the most legendary and vibrant tap artists from the era of vaudeville and big bands was a man named Dr. Bunny Briggs. At the time, he was an 88 years-old national treasure residing in a nursing home in Las Vegas, occasionally visited by young tap dancers eager to hear his story. Our director, Andrew Nemr, knew Bunny for many years and arranged for us to spend the afternoon in his small, dimly lit room. A knock on the door sparked an exchange of Bunnys signature catch phrase, BAMALAM, and the conversation commenced. For approximately four hours, I sat enraptured by the tales of a man who got into show business as a small child with hopes of one day buying his single mother a house. On the walls hung posters from bygone decades, advertising performances in which the headlining acts were Duke Ellington, Sarah Vaughan, and Bunny Briggs. (Duke used to introduce Bunny as the most super-leviathanic, rhythmaturgically syncopated, tapsomaticianismist.) On a small table, a radio was tuned to a local jazz station, and behind the bright eyes and snow white hair of this man lay the memories of charleston and black-bottom steps, and timeless characters like Bill Bojangles Robinson, Sammy Davis Jr., Charles Mingus, Baby Laurence, Jon Hendricks, the Nicholas Brothers, and Sandman Sims. Through anecdotes and advice, he imparted wisdom about the joy of rhythm, the sting of racism, the nature of show-business, and the importance of loving what you do. Before we departed, Bunny offered us a brief soft-shoe to the tune Im Old Fashioned, supported gently by his walker. When I danced that night, I felt more connected to my art than ever before. The steps I had practiced and perfected since the age of three were all at once new and ancient to me. The studio band played the notes to a song written by Gregory Hines, called Apollo, and we danced a tribute to those who paved the way for the artistic pursuits of generations of tap dancers to follow. Yesterday, another master left the room, but the sounds of his typewriter feet linger on in the dancing of everyone he inspired. Rest in rhythm, Bunny. youtu.be/3e4HxWjolGg
Posted on: Sun, 16 Nov 2014 19:08:24 +0000
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