Sunday, April 8, 2012

Elijah's Milonga Visit

Every Jew had a large "J" in their passport and a new name.

In English we called last Friday paradoxically "Good Friday."  Here in Germany it is called "Karfreitag."  Maybe a few people noticed that it was Friday was also Passover.
Background for the poem below:
Karfreitag ("day of grief Friday" from old High German) is the day Jesus was crucified long ago.  One should not dance on that day, according to tradition and by law in Germany.  The Polizei could come and fine the organizers of a dance in most cities of Germany.  But the liberal laws in Frankfurt am Main allowed us to dance.  

My guess is that it was not Karfrietag for at least one person at the Pan y Tango Milonga, in Frankfurt am Main.  For Sarah it perhaps was Passover. Even if it were not Passover for Sarah, it was at least Passover for me.  I miss being in Washington DC, where I had close Jewish friends. I won't find that here in Germany.  I love Germany, and you must realize that the Nazi mindset is dormant in each person's humanity and each culture on earth.  If we only knew that, perhaps we could avoid the tragedies of human ignorance and hate.  The poem below is not about Germany but about humanity.  It is about tango.


The Passover Milonga

I danced with Sarah.  That is what she called herself.
"Sarah is not a name I hear much in Germany," I said.

"There is a story behind that. Perhaps you do not know?" she queried.
"It was the Nazis. The name was overused, you see,
'Israel' was on every Jewish man's passport;
'Sarah' was the official name for every Jewish woman."

Elijah came this Passover milonga.
I am sure I saw him dancing in the corner of my eye.
And Sarah danced with me,
I was Israel for a night.

We danced.
We embraced.
And I wondered how the world could not do the same.

Every day is a day to dance, to embrace and hope.



Sunday, April 1, 2012

Follower: A job without promotion

Ladies have to lead on this one, gents.

Revision of original, published 24 June 2011


La Musica is the True Leader
It is time for this present generation to insist on a philosophically sound way of describing the beauty of tango.   Lead and follow are dead-end terms because men are actually not leaders.  The music is and always has been the true leader which both roles must follow.

We form up like soldiers on the dance floor ready to march around in circles when the leader (the music) tells us to.  We go fast or slow because the leader tells us to.  And the true leader is a woman:  
La Música.

Let's think philosophically for the next generation of dancers!  Leadership is a military analogy applied especially to ballroom dance.  Yet followership is not a military ideal.   Please trust me on this; I have over 20 years in the military.  Leadership is central to the warrior ethos. If a soldier is in a following position, it is only with the idea of learning to lead, learning what a true leader is.  Ever see a promotion ceremony at a milonga:  "Now she's a leader, first class"?  No.  Women do not need men leading them, and there is no need of promoting "followers" because they are not in reality followers.  They are women doing magical and wonderful things.  Intelligent things.  Creative things.  They are women. 


Females in the military have it better off in the military than many female tango dancers.  They get promoted!

Females in the corporate world have it better off than many tangueras.  They get promoted and challenged with more and more responsibility.

In the real world, intelligent, talented women don't like being followers under the same definitions of "follower" within tango -- people without the chance of promotion. This is especially true in roles that would stop them from ever having a chance to become a leader. Most people, I imagine, would not like being in a position without hope of promotion.  Tango, one would think, should be the worst dance in the world for intelligent, talented women.  Women do not want to be perennial privates in the Army or mail room clerks forever.

Notice, I have said above that the military and the corporate world are better for women than tango is for many tangueras.  Not for all.  Some women know instinctively know how terribly deficient the word "follower" is for their role in the most magical dance of all partner dances.  In my opinion, the true role of a so-called follower gives her 50% of the responsibility in this dance of what I call, the "Duet of Introversion" -- a dance of being fully aware of each other through the music.

So why haven't women spoken up about this problematic military analogy, called "follower"?  My theory is that women put on their tango shoes and feel the magic.  They shrug their shoulders and say, "Let's make tango, not war."  Or they just say "so what?" or they say "stop talking and let's dance."  The power of tango shoes.
Unfortunately, words are more powerful than we would like to believe, and followership can imply a subservient, mindless obedience, as it is expressed by many  tango instructors.

I cannot denied that there are reasons to preserve the lead/follow analogy.  But at best it still will remain a philosophically and pedagogically problematic term for something so beautiful as the
rol femenino (the feminine role).  How interesting it is how the term rol femenino causes concern because of males who do a great job in the role!  If you are going to be sensitive, start with the most offensive, inappropriate term and work your way to the least offensive. The rol femenino is not an issue with most women in Latin America, according to some very informed sources (Latinas).  They tend to like being women and in their role.  They like coming to the milonga dressed up and melting in a man's arms as a woman.


Why do we keep using this word, "follower," but then attack a traditional term that has been with tango from the start?   Why challenge the tradition of tango for a term that is newer and questionable in its implications?  Imagine using a any rude, rank, and meaningless derogatory word and then trying to tell people its good side and philosophical uses!   Why is it that so many English-speaking dancers have decided to use this term to describe the nearly indescribable role you have in dancing tango?  Of all words, why the "f-word" -- "follower"?
So what is the solution?  It is primal.  Easy.  You don't need a book.



Sex is the solution
Start using the words feminine role or simply "lady," "gal," or "woman."  "Lead-and-follow" has neutered tango.  That is something you might do to a cat, but please not tango!  The masculine role and feminine role are roles of the sexes.  Let's not take human sexuality out of tango!  Should we really desexualize the roles of tango?  God save us all!  What would the old milonguero ghosts say?  Surely this must be a sign of the world truly coming to an end!
The masculine and feminine roles are magical and mysterious.  Yin and Yang.  One is not powerful and the other not.  One is not creative and the other not.  Sharna, a local Washington DC, instructor calls the feminine role "the keeper of possibilities." 

Okay, all you "keepers of possibilities," can you lead the way here.  The lead in this issue cannot be a man!   I am getting tired of hearing you line up and call yourselves "followers" with only a slight cringe on your faces.


But perhaps I should just surrender in your arms.  You will take me out for a spin, and I will do things I never have done before.  I will sense how you hear the music and the music will sound all new for me.  At the end, you will tell me I'm a great leader. Because I have surrendered fully to you, I will politely agree, knowing that it was you who brought me there.  It was you who truly led me there.  Now, we both can be wrong together.  No!  It was us with the music who led us to that magical place.  This happens for me at every milonga for me:  The magic of la musica leading a woman in her role and me in mine to a wonderful place called "tango."

 
I just put on my tango shoes just now.  The power of tango shoes fills me.  I surrender.  You win.  Let's make tango, not war!  I will let you lead, and I will call you whatever you want, even if it is "follower."

More on this subject: "The End of Leading is Near"  http://tango-therapist.blogspot.com/2010/11/end-of-leading-is-near.html    

Photocredits:
Hands:  http://creative4life.blogspot.com/

Saturday, March 10, 2012

What you see is NOT what you get

If it were only true that what you see is what you get!
When people start dancing tango, they watch the dancers who are the most visually appealing.

This world is a world of wanting life to be so easy as What-You-See-Is-What-You-Get (WYSIWIG). This term came from the computer world when the first word processors actually started showing users a page that would look the same way when you printed it. 

Although a few intuitive and very astute dancers can see dancers who will feel good, this is not the norm. This talented person is never surprised by a wonderful dance from someone who didn't appear to be the stellar dancer that they are.  I pity the person who can guess so well! Most of us cannot know until we actually dance with someone, or at least we are open for a surprise now and then. For the beginner reading this blog:  I am afraid that overly focusing on how you look is a dead-end experience in tango. The WYSIWYG beginner too often gives up because of the time and energy it takes to focus on looking good. This is true in all other endeavors in life I would imagine.

Perhaps we never entirely grow out of the assumption that what we can see is what we should get. So how good is your WYSIWYG radar to tell how another person will feel on the dance floor? My guess is that most think that they are pretty darn good at this. The person who can see how things exactly how the will feel will rarely dance with anyone who will ruin their theory!

If tango where a religion, WYSIWYG is a red flag for religiosity, which tends to breed the need for the right appearance. Some of my most memorable feelings in tango have been from the surprise of the opposites of appearances: The elderly woman who is a treasure, the woman suffering from PTSD from a tragic childhood, the woman suffering from Alzheimer's, and the awkward beginner at a practica who wants to practice volcadas, finds her own grace and she melts into me in a simple walk. What about the guy who once looked awkward and overweight who now is the most musically talented tanguero on the dance floor, but still amazes women who do not expect to be amazed. 

The social element of tango is to hold a person and feel the person inside.  There is a little boy or girl in your partner who wants to play with the little boy or girl inside of you.  Why wait for appearances?

Have you had a tango teacher ask you to find that inner person? Find the rare teacher who focuses on what you bring to the dance by how you feel to others. To hold the person in front of you, be with them entirely, sense their soul--this is a world of quantum physics world of tango, the world of what-you-see-is-NOT-what-you-get.

Comment or "like" Tango Therapist's Facebook page at this link
or

Photo Credit:

Tuesday, March 6, 2012

GenTANGOman (gentleman)


Off to the milonga.
 
Being a gentleman does not make you a good tanguero, but it helps.  What is most needed is to be a full-witted man and a gentle man at the same time.  That is a gen-tango-man.

Unfortunately in our society we lose positive terms.  Wits.  What in the heck are “wits”?  Surely you must  know about the negative terms “half-wits” and “nit-wits.” 

A full-witted gentleman I call a “gen-tango-man.”  He knows and practices “tango etiquette.”  He can help a lady in OR out of her coat, but also protects her from evil dancers.  I recommend going to this link on tango etiquette (it is one of the "pages" permanently on the right margin of this blog).   At least you should know the rules before you break them when you are in a foreign culture -- and that is what tango is for most of us.  Most of the woman at the milonga are fairly fluent in tango culture.  Are you?   I am not saying that I am perfect or am the perfect gentleman.   I just try.   I am not the rule maker, but I was interested enough in the science of tango that I put together an overview of ideas on tango etiquette – the rules for men as well as women tango dancers.

You will spot a few gen-tango-men at every milonga.  No one is perfect but a full-witted gentleman starts and finishes accompanying a woman to and FROM the dance floor.   Most men I see outside of Latin America are good at taking her out for a spin on the dance floor, but then dispense with her as if she were a dancing leper after the last song of the tanda.  This is an example of doing it half of the way right – half-witted.

Half-Witted is better than the Nit-Witted man:  The nit-witted gentleman lets her lead him onto the floor.  She runs into my partner or me because she is so happy to have been asked or just is not thinking.  Perhaps it is her fist time out with a Nit-Wit.  It isn’t her fault that HE doesn’t know how to catch my eye and keep her at her side.  Then he drops her like a hot rock after dancing a tanda.  Nit-Wit (inherited from the German influence “Nicht / Wissen”  (“no knowledge”).

Neo-Witted Gentleman:  He need more space.  He has been dancing a lot and has the RIGHT to take up three times more space than anyone else.  He has paid a lot of money for those cool moves.  Back up, gentleman, so the neo-ladies can watch and behold his awesomeness.   You get what you pay for, and now you have a free performance to watch (or cringe at what accidents are about to happen).  I am a drummer, and I love neo-tango as a music genre; however, it also promotes some pretty anti-social dancing.  If you need a lot of room than everyone else, gentlemen, then go with a boom box to the gym and dance at half-time.  This is an excellent venue for you:  Lots of room and lots of eyes upon you.

Cloud-Nine-Witted (sleepy-witted):  These are somnambulant Tangueros (dancers with a sleep-walking disorder).  They close their eyes and dance!  What the hell?  These gentlemen are rare but cause fully awake men horrifying nightmares for those of us who are awake on the dance floor!  Do they wish they were women who can snuggle up and get lost in another’s arms?  Wake up, Cloud-Niners!  You are menaces to the well-being of men and woman alike!  In every case that I have seen this happen, the men (or women leaders) were good dancers.  I imagine they believe they can dance and use acceptable floorcraft in their sleep.  I hope they guy from Frankfurt am Main can read English and this somehow gets to him before he runs into me again.  J

The solution for becoming a full-witted gen-tango-man:  Tango’s first rule of dance is NOT listening to the music and/or to move with grace.  The first rule is to do no harm:   DO NOT HURT ANYONE.  That is not easy on a crowded dance floor full of frail people.  Almost all of us come to the dance floor with some weak point – perhaps an old injury or some genetic frailty.  Men, protect her and those around you!  Women, keep your feet far away from others and only take big steps when they are suggested (marcado) by a full-witted man – a gen-tango-man.

Saturday, March 3, 2012

When Time Stops


When the hourglass lies down, infinity starts.


Ochos Atrás and Infinity

I drew hourglasses with her feet,
And traced our DNA with my feet behind her.
Our canvass was a creaking-voiced dance floor.
From my mental picture, the hourglasses
Contain sand on each side – the past the present.
Then we entered the portal of timelessness.
We were still, waiting for our next move.
When time stopped – past left, future, right.


Time, laid on its side draws infinity’s sign,
The lazy eight which God only understands.
The Biagi background helps me enter
A timeless trance, where each beat
Penetrates the notion of the finite.
Each time we dance we have defied time
And entered the infinite with ochos atrás,
We have painted our symbols of the infinite,
And playfully put time to rest.

The graceful walk traces this, the sign of life.


Photo credits:
Hourglass in the heavens from National Geographic
DNA photo is a Windows 7 background

*Ochos atrás means literally "back eights," a common figure in tango argentino.

Saturday, February 25, 2012

The Empty Bandoneón Case



The Empty Bandoneón Case
by Mark Word

Strange as it may sound to non-musicians, the mystery of life dwells in musical instruments. 

I have heard of wonderful instruments which have been found or have had been in storage for years, but once found, they require a long time before they speak again.  It’s as if they feel neglected and will not sing with joy until they can trust that you will come back and play with them regularly.

So it was with my bandoneón.  My father bought it for me when I was 12 years old, and “she” was my best counselor, mentor, friend for many years.   As a teenager, I would have never told you these things, but now, I only hope to tell you what musicians know to be true with the relationship they have with their instruments.  I think it is a secret that instruments have their own life, but it shouldn’t be.

I called my bandoneón “Sara.”  She had a personality all of her own.  Her case’s handle looked like a smile, asking me to come play.  But of course I had to do my homework, and had to avoid looking at her smile.  If I took too long to get around to playing, she would be angry at me.  I knew that she was mad because her keys would stick.  I would have to take time to just take care of her.  My father also had bought a repair kit and showed me how to fix the sticking keys.  Sara needed care.  She wanted more than just to go out and play with me. 

Most often, though, she was not moody with me.  She would console me after a hard day.   Each instrument has its own feel, I suppose.  I played the trumpet too, and I learned to resuscitate life into the trumpet.  The eighty-eight keys of the piano too had their own appeal with its left-handed walking bass and the poetic right-brained melody.  The piano could twist my feelings from one chord to the next with her mysterious chords.  When no one was around, I would let the chords sustain until they died out, listening for the Gnostic wisdom they might tell me.  Of course, I did this only when I found myself from time to time alone at home. 

But compared to any other instrument I know, the bandoneón is truly like a person.  Her buttons are in illogical places, like the memories we store in the random recesses of our brain.  Like our words with our meanings, her buttons all have two separate notes.  Just like the dual personalities of private and public, the bandoneón has her left-side keyboard has for soft, intimate private tones. On the right she speaks up in a clear-voiced melody.  She has her manic side too, capable of talking as fast as anyone during the break-neck speed of the variación at the end of a tango.  The bandoneonista just needs to get out of the way and let her talk.  But the most human feature that she has is that she can breathe and sigh without making a note through her bellows.

Maybe I am mad, but I felt her presence most when I just would listen to her breathe.  I would open her smiling case and let her breathe in my embrace.  Her smell was the perfume of wood, enamel and a touch of oil, reinforced with years of having given me so much joy or having helped me during times of sadness.  She would smile with delight as I opened up her case and she would leap into my arms, ready to play a tango or vals.   If she and I really wanted to run and play, we indulged in a milonga.

Sara eventually looked forward to the times I had troubles with my romantic life.  That is when I made up new tangos and would play with her for hours.  This ritual started when my first girlfriend, Elena, had left Montevideo to live in Buenos Aires with her parents, I was sad, but when I pulled out my bandoneón, only then I realized how bad it hurt to have my first love move away.  My bandoneón was a channel to the emotions that I hid not only from the world but from myself.  I embraced Sara and she consoled me.  The day Elena left, I sat with my bandoneón on my lap, but I couldn’t play at first.  I was numb.  I just opened and closed her bellows and let her breathe with me.  I felt her empathy, her soul.  Tears fell on her shoulders, and I told her I was sorry that I had wept on her.  Eventually a vals came out as powerful as I ever had played – Desde el Alma.  This was tango.  Its essence.  My heart ached and now I could speak from my soul about this music that my parents so loved.  Now tango was truly my music, not just my parents’. 

When I came down from my upstairs room, everyone looked quizzically at me as they sat at the dinner table.  I thought that perhaps they all could see that I had been crying, and I felt this horrible shame of being the youngest and still just a baby.  Mother took away these wild imaginations:   “You have never played your bandoneón like that before,” she said.  Father didn’t say a thing.  I saw his powerfully tacit pride in his eyes.  He squeezed my shoulder as I sat down next to him at the table.  He said so much with his eyes that words were not necessary.  I knew what he was thinking:  Another generation would carry on his beloved tango, the pride of Montevideo.   I felt as if it were my mission now, like the keeper of the fire in ancient tribes.

How is it that we forget about important moments in our lives through the distractions of daily life?  When I turned seventeen, I was so busy with school and many friends that I slowly neglected my bandoneón until I nearly had forgotten her.   A few years later, I was struggling financially at the University, and a friend told me about some Japanese tourists who would give me a pile of money for my old bandoneón.  The only reason I resisted is that I was sure that the tourists were only going to display her on a table somewhere, and Sara would not be played.  I wrote off these sentimental anthropomorphic feelings because I so much needed the money.   I justified my cold calculation, telling myself that I probably would never play her again anyway.   At the last moment before I sold her, however, I decided that I would keep her smiling case.  I guess that was my way of keeping a part of her and get the money too.

I am telling you this story because later in life tango became something very important to me again.  I started dancing tango for the first time.  I felt as if everything I ever knew as a musician was still there:  My feet were like my fingers, playing a duet with my partner on the dance floor.  My lungs were the bellows that told my partner about the phrasing of the music we were playing together.   I felt just as alive when dancing as when I had played music in my youth.  I had new friends and a new passion in my life.  People at work noticed that I was a new person, with a new lease on life. 

I needed my community of friends-who-embrace when my parents died, the biggest loss of my life.  I didn’t deserve having such great parents, and now they were gone.  My two brothers and my sister were far away, but luckily I had friends – mostly from the tango world – who would embrace me and be present with me in my grief.  The solo task was left to me to go through all my parent’s belongings at their house.  Every little thing was full of memories, and it was an emotional roller coaster for me.

I found Sara’s case in the attic.  She was still smiling at me.  How stupid I was to open the case thinking she would still be there!  How stupid, my shock when I opened the case and she wasn’t.   She could no longer breathe in my arms.  I could not play a simple melody and harmony on her.  I could not console her and promise her never to neglect her again!  I was no longer in denial.  She was gone.  Just like a drunken fool, I sobbed onto her red-velvet bedding, which seemed to intensify the smell of her haunting enamel-wood-and-oil perfume.  It was a deep, pitiful sobbing at first without tears, but then all the tears of all my losses throughout my life seemed to let themselves pour out.  How long it had been that I had not wept!  The torrent, I guess, came from years of machismo-glue that had clogged up my tear ducts.

I cannot know where Sara is now.  I only hope some little Japanese kid learns how to play her, and that she will breathe for him, console him.  For now, I console myself by imagining that she sings to me whenever I hear the bandeón as I am dancing tango.  I console myself that my parents realize that their beloved tango lives on only when it is danced, and that I have continued in their hope.  I am carrying the tribe’s tango-fire.  With every tango, with every tanda, Sara’s voice seems to go more and more to the core of my soul – desde el alma.

Author’s Note:
This essay is fiction only in a few details:  I did not grow up in Uruguay, and I do not play the bandoneón (das Bandonion).  Everything else is true, just a different instrument.

Mark Word,

living near the birth of the bandoneón in Rheinland-Pfalz, Germany

Photo credit:  The photos are from an instrument sale on Ebay.  http://www.inorg.chem.ethz.ch/tango/band/band_node47.html

Thursday, February 23, 2012

Tango-Beat's Last Entry


Tango-Beat, my blog, has a new name.

Since 2009 I have been writing a blog, which I thought would be more about music and especially rhythms of tango. Sure, I have written on this, but rarely. It is time for a change, especially because a company called Tango Beat has full rights to that name.

I recommend that you check out the excellent service they do for tango dancers at:
 www.tangobeat.com.

The new name of my blog is:
 www.tango-therapist.blogspot.com.

I have a new entry there already, called the Essence of Tango, because as I was moving over my blog to the new name, it was a draft I accidentally published.

PS.  My blog was nearly named "Tango Iconoclast."  However, I decided on "Tango Therapist" over "Tango Iconoclast." because I am perhaps the opposite of this.  As a few people have pointed out, I am not up to the task of being an iconoclast.  That's hard work!  And much of what I promulgate is a return to traditional tango because of its therapeutic effect in contrast to an every-increasing love of show-tango and tango-as-tourism.  I promote the ideat ideat that a man and a woman taking full responsibility for being present in a dance.  This notion is not iconoclastic but the return to the sacred icon that has been shattered by the same producers (or mentality) that is behind "Dancing with the Stars."  (Sorry if you like this show.)


Thursday, February 16, 2012

Essence of Tango

I nearly had an aneurysm when I asked a tango teacher from a large US city, visiting in DC, what was the "essence of tango."  His response:  "I find the rhythm of tango the least interesting thing about tango.  It is the harmony and melody from Europe that is most interesting."  I tried to clarify because certainly my ears did not hear right.  Another teacher spoke up in a agreement with him. This video clip was what came to mind.  I need not say anything or even quote D'Arienzo. The scariest thing:  The first teacher was from Argentina. I don't expect anyone to believe me.  I wouldn't believe it unless I heard it myself.

Here is a quote from 1949:
"In my point of view, tango is, above all, rhythm, nerve, strength and character... I reacted against that mistake which caused the tango crisis and placed the orchestra in the foreground and the singer in his place. Furthermore, I tried to rescue for tango its masculine strength, which it had been losing through succesive circumstances. In that way in my interpretations I stamped the rhythm, the nerve, the strength and the character which distinguished it in the music world and which it had been losing for the above reasons. Luckily, that crisis was temporary, and today tango has been re-established, our tango, with the vitality of its best times. My major pride is to have contributed to that renaissance of our popular music." - Juan D'Arienzo


Saturday, February 11, 2012

Milonga Lisa










My Milonga Lisa*


The music is fast.
I don't push her to take the next step.
The music drives her to do that!
The music leads --
No, it drives us a la vez.
But she stops when my body signals
The music's moment of pause.
A new phrase takes us back to tempo.

At end we stop and laugh
Like children who've jumped
From a swing to roll on the lawn.
We smile as we lie on the grass.
The music starts; no time to talk!
We run back to swing yet again
To the divine voice of La Música.
My milonguera sits in the Louvre of my mind,
The coy woman who has returned my nod.
She is my Milonga Lisa.


*From Wikipedia: "'Milonga Lisa' [means 'Simple Milonga'], in which
the dancer steps on every beat of the music; and "Milonga con
Traspié," in which the dancer uses Traspiés or contrapasos (changes of
weight from one foot to the other and back again in double time or
three steps in two beats) to interpret the music. Thus, dynamics may
be danced without having to run fast or without the use of much space.

Sunday, January 22, 2012

When a tanguera closes her eyes


Navi went with me to every milonga in the Washington, DC.  She told me how to get there, andshe never got upset with me if I missed the turn she told me to take.  Sure, she would just roll her eyes and say,“rerouting,” and she’d come up with a route that would fix my mistake.  Sometimes she would say, “At the firstpossible moment, make a legal U-turn.” She was delighted when I made a “creative” U-turn because we were back ontrack.  Then in December, I asked her toclose her eyes, and as a surprise I sent her off on a cruise to Germany.  She was totally surprised that she woke up ina whole new world.  She only could tell me longitude and latitude of where I was.   Her whole reason forbeing is know where she is and to help orient me.  But once awake she didn't know where she was! 


Navi was really upset with me.  She was hyperventilating, but I did my best to speak slowly and in a low, soft voice, which calmed her down.  I told Navi that I would soon get a new CD of German maps.  "Navi, you are smart," I said.  Soon you will memorize all the new maps."  I assured her too that she can take me to all my milongasagain.

What seemed to please her most was that I told her that she now knowswhat it is like to be a tanguera!  “When a tanguera really likes the way I dance," I told her, "She closes her eyes and she is totally surprised when she opens her eyes and she is in a place she didnot expect.  Then I know that I have donea good job of letting her be 100% a women but at the same time let her embody the music so deeplythat she forgets that she is mortal for 15 minutes.”  Navithought about that.  She didn’t sayanything, but I knew that she liked the idea of being my tanguera.  She no longer was upset with me.

Now, I have another problem. When I put in the new GPS CD into her memory, she told me in an especially sexy voice as we had arrived at a milonga in Heidelberg something that haunts me.  She never addresses me personally, but in Heidelberg in the shadow of the city castle she did: “Mark,I don’t want to wait for you in the car this time. Can you take me in?  I want to beyour tanguera.  I want you to hold me inyour arms and I will close my eyes the way you told me the tangueras do.  I would sometimes just forget where I am."

Even my psychiatrist (a tanguera) doesn’t believe me that my navigation systemis jealous.  I am worried.  Will Navi stop taking me tothe milongas?  Will she take me somewhere, getting me lost forever?   Navi and I have become close, but what can I tell her?  I cannot tell yer, "You are a navigation system, you cannot be my tanguera!"

Being a tanguero seems toget more complicated the longer I dance.  


Monday, January 16, 2012

Music Workshop: Tango and its African Roots

Preface to the Post:   This article is on musicianship for tango dancers, and may not be easy reading.  My poetry and prose on the psychology of tango are usually easy reading; so please don't give up on me because of a few posts on musicianship!  However, I feel that if you take the time, that it will open your mind to the very roots of tango.  And there are elements of psychology/sociology to this post in that many have devalued tango's roots via a lack of psychological insight.  Maybe it is slow reading, but I hope this discussion will open up your appreciation of why tango moves your heart and your body to move when the now-dead tango musicians begin to play.  Pour yourself some coffee and read slowly, and forgive me if I lose you for a few moments.  If that happens, stay with me.  Get a general picture of the origins of tango and that will open you up to much more later.  I have four videos to share -- it's show and tell:  Not hard at all!

Let's start off inductively by seeing and feeling:  Listen to this folk music (zamba argentina) with dancers very much not in folk costumes!  The music is in 6/8 (very much like the feel of 6 in tango's vals).  Sometimes you will see the dancers feet dancing on the pulse like vals (1**4**/1**4**:||) but often when they are going faster they will dance variations off of tango's most important rhythm (1*3*5*/1*3*5*:||).  More on this rhythm later, but it is the center of what I want to convey to you as being very important in tango's most primal rhythmic expression.



Here is the more traditional not-in-high-heels zamba argentina and you can see the footwork I mentioned above:



Although the majority of musicians and dancers have a love affair with the melodic, harmonic and instrumental influences of Europe, the fact is that tango would be nothing without its heart -- its rhythm from Africa.

Our Lack of Psychological Insight:
I see this huge silence about Africa as a typical devaluation of Africa.  Nothing is new about European influence on misunderstanding the value of Africa and its inhabitants.  Without devaluing Africa, the European slave trade would not have been possible.  Are we all educated and now we are over this devaluation?  Well, let me ask it this way:  Is the Civil Rights struggle over?  Latin America is particularly blind to its own racism, so please don't turn to people from South America for their opinion to find "openness" -- their devaluation of tango's influence is particularly "European" and denied in spite of many glaring facts.  Argentina prides itself on being the "most European" Latin American country, especially being the only Latin American country with so few people of African heritage (less than 3%).  So I would fully agree that indeed, Argentina is the "most European," which may include some the less positive things that Europe has imported to the Americas -- its ongoing ignorance and value of Africa's influence.

Surely you have heard the term"Afro-Cuban music"!  Have you ever heard of "Afro-Argentine" music?

Sorry, that was a trick question.  Of course you have heard Afro-Argentine music.  Not only have you heard Afro-Argentine music, you dance to it at every milonga and in every traditional tanda.   [Please visit the link on the term "Afro-Argentine" here].

I wrote an earlier musical workshop article on thinking in six.  The post was on the vals and I even used Baroque dance to show how the vals is really in six.  However, as I wrote that post, only then I remembered about my earlier discoveries as a Latin percussionist:  Most well-known Latin American music (son, mambo, salsa, merengue, samba, bossa nova, cha-cha-chá to name a few) came out of the sacred 6/8 rythyms of Africa.

Let me give you the most important example, the 6/8 rhythm that created salsa, mambo, son, merengue, cha-cha-chá, cumbia and others.  They all first started like this in 6/8:  1*3*5*/*2*4**:||  This part of my show-and-tell story needs you to clap!  If you start out slow and then eventually get it up to tempo, you will find yourself miraculously clapping out the most popular clave-rhythm in all Latin American music, which is also miraculously NOT in 6/8.  The first time I did this I was dumbfounded!

The preceding rhythm is today called the "son clave" (from the Cuban music called "son," a slower version of mambo).  The word "clave" comes from the word for wooden dowels (claves or "nails") slaves used to play the rhythms of their homeland.  The dowels held together the crates the slave dock workers unloaded from European ships.  Later, during and after the chaos of the Haitian's war against the French colonists, some slaves escaped to Cuba taking their clave rhythms with them as their only baggage.  In Cuba, then, we really do not have "Afro-Cuban" music.  Really, the black Haitians musical inventions in the new world was Afro-French to be fair to Europe's important influence with their music in Cuba.

Again the rhythm above was in 6/8 as:  1*3*5*/*2*4** :|| which is often reversed to *2*4**/1*3*5* :||  This reversed clave-rhythm will have to be a later discussion because it is the most important development of the most dancable music in tango's Golden Era.  (I hope that perks up your interest for a later post).

Tango has only the first part of the rhythm above, which gives tango the drive that it has:

6/8:   1*3*5*/1*3*5* :||

When you put this rhythm into straight time it turns into something close to the original as 3/3/2 (1**/4**/7*).  Especially in tango nuevo, one hears the 1, 4 and 7.  What gringos often don't hear in most Latin American rhythms is that the "clave" rhythm never goes away.  In fact it is omnipresent and responsible for the melody along with what is being played for syncopation around this rhythm.  If you don't hear it, I believe that you feel it and it is what drives you to love tango.  I have heard tango musicians and teachers talking about syncopations that show up in the music, but they are not aware of the underlying rhythm that has generated these syncopations.

What I hope to demonstrate here is that this feeling of 6/8 is actually behind the pulse (heart) of tango.  So how is it that vals, which is essentially in 6, is "European" as so many claim?  If you wish to get at the primal tango, listen to tango´s "vals cruzado"!  The vals often explicitly expresses the 1*3*5*/1*3*5*:|| of the original tango rhythm from Africa.   I have been saddened to experience in my discussions with some tango musicians and vocalists that the majority see the vals as hardly being tango at all but "European."  This is simply ignorance of the facts.  I more recently have come to see that the vals is more primal and directly connected to tango than any other expression of tango.  The "cruzado" of the vals cruzado is the crossing rhythm of a vals within a vals.  Nothing is further from the truth that the vals is "kind of like a Viennese waltz," as I have heard musicians claim.  To me this is just another devaluation of the African link.  Being aware of this rhythm makes my vals.  So far, I have not heard any complaints.  Instead, I experience some some huge smiles and laughter from the pure joy that the cruzado brings to the dance.  The steps seen in the zamba above (1*3*5*) are applied to what the musicians are doing in the vals, and it has a feeling of flying.

Let me give you another example, this time from Gotan Project.  This piece (below) is also in six.  The key to it goes back to our primal rhythm of 1*3*5* :||   But this time they ingeniously slow things down and drop the 3 on the first measure and the 5 on the second measure.  So here is how it looks:  1***5*/1*3*** :||  Practice clapping that rhythm very slowly and then you can clap it to Gotan Project below.  I promise it will be fun, and get you back to your African roots.



I started this blog idea from a question of my conocido, Andreas, in Germany.  He heard the above music as being divided into two measures of 4/4 + 2/4.  His question gave me the idea of showing how important 6/8 is to most Latin music.  Did I say Latin?  Much of jazz, fusion, funk, soul and rock take from this rhythm.  The clearest examples of this rhythm in today's music is hip hop and regetón, which have this 6/8 rhythm of  |1*3*5*:|| as their base).  The later two types of music may have come dircetly from modern Angola's popular and very-much-analogous to tango music and dance, called kizomba.

Warning label on the kizomba video clip below:  Tanger@s who love nuevo may never want to dance tango again after seeing this dance from Angola.  Second warning:  Do not let your children see this next demo unless they are over 21.

If you hear hip hop in the background, maybe you will also notice the same slower milonga rhythm.  Nothing is new under the sun.  Here we have the old African roots, now (or still) being danced like condombe/tango and with the same rhythm. Interesting. ¿No?





For those who see this as a mix of sensual Latin and tango dances combined, do not forget where kizomba  comes from:   Africa.  The heart of our tango, and the Afro-Argintine music that forces you to get up and dance.

Finally, ask yourself why you feel impelled to dance when tango plays?  Is that the European influence or the African that does that?  I really cannot answer that question for you, but for me, it is NOT the European influence.

PS:
My next blog will be on the great dancing and people I have met in Germany.  Thanks for sticking with me.

Saturday, December 24, 2011

When a Tanguero Falls in Love



The Harbor

When I discovered the harbor ofyour heart,
It was after a long voyage fromacross the ocean,
I did not know I was even gettingclose to discovering you
Until I first spotted gulls thatguided me
To the continent of yourcharacter.

I saw your smile, a waterfall onyour coastline,
And the sound of its soothingpower
Was the first time I heard yourvoice.
On I sailed and I saw the curvesof your mountains,
The flowing rivers of your longhair.

Suddenly a breath-robbing viewovertook me –
Your harbor, your heart.
I felt immediately safe there.
I could see your harbor had nohidden shoals,
No murky waters and unknowndangers.

Your harbor is clear.
I can see to the bottom.
I am hypnotized by theplayfulness
Of the dolphins that play inthe waters of your soul.
I see that they are youryouthful spontaneity.

Your harbor lulls me with waves of hope.
Your harbor is my place of refuge,
A weary vagabond sailor on aship,
Once a captain, but now alone, afloat,
With tattered sails and no crew.


When I discovered the harbor ofyou heart,
I watched in wonder, and thenimpulsively,
I dove into the waters of yoursoul,
And played with the dolphins.
I was not a Cortez who came toconquer a continent.

Your continent, waterfalls,terrain, rivers, clear waters –
And especially your harbor –conquered me.


Saturday, December 10, 2011

Returning from War in my Tango Uniform

The following story is fiction with a high percentage of truth.  Find what seems to be true to you. This is a story about finding liberation from jealousy and possessiveness.  (I originally wrote this in 2009 while living near Ft. Hood, Texas).


It wasn't the prettiest tree,
but we guarded it well
The hardest thing for me to be deployed was not getting shot at. Having near-miss IED explosions that dazed me were horrifying too, but the hardest thing was to be away from my fiancé. I wanted to believe that she was being faithful, but there were so many stories of women cheating on their men. “Teresa was different,” I would tell myself. “She has true class and culture. She wouldn't do that.” But over and over we would hear about affairs that were being firmly denied, and the facts came in that were undeniable. Although it was against regulations, we even had access at S-2 to use satellites to go look at our homes. I had heard stories of guys who could see the pickup trucks parked out in front of our homes, and later the denials over the phone. Soldiers went home for two weeks of home leave, and they had their stories too. Infidelity was our obsession.

Although it was against regulations, Specialist Gaffney in the S-2 shop went and took real-time photos of everyone's home near Fort Hood.  He was in our platoon, and decided to do us all a favor.  One evening he handed out "pictures of home" to everyone in the platoon.  I told him that he could be busted to private for that.  "The intelligence satellites are to keep us alive from deadly threats, not to see who is sitting on your porch at home, Specialist!"  But then, I couldn't help but look at the photo.  Teresa's car was there.  No pickup truck in sight.  I didn't bust Gaffney to private, but he had extra duty and a counseling statement.  If the captain had known about it, he would have had an Article 15 and lost rank for sure.  I was easy on him because he just was being stupid and wanted to help everyone in his own 19-year old way.  



The winter sun on Teresa's car near Fort Hood made
 it look like a pickup truck at first glance. 


Since learning tango with Teresa, my fiancé, I noticed the word "tango" being said all the time in Iraq.  In the military if you are spelling something out on the radio or even in person, you don't say "t" but "tango."  Also, everyday I would hear someone saying “Tango Uniform” for this or that, meaning "broken."  For example, over the radio, we would hear that a vehicle had broken down and was irreparable: “Call out the wrecker, it’s Tango Uniform.” In reality “Tango Uniform” means "T.U." for “tits up” (that is, flat on your back).  Radios, vehicles, even relationships were "Tango Uniform" -- ruined by infidelity or some other thing.  The first sergeant even said at chow, “My marriage is Tango Uniform."   I would have thought that the young marriages would be the most fragile, but officers and senior enlisted soldiers had the highest statistics for relationship casualties.  The rear detachment commander had checked the First Sergeant's fears of fidelity.  At chow Top lowered his head and told me, "Yeah, she's cheating on me.  My kids even know the guy, and he’s sleeping in my bed.” He told me that he didn't want to go back because he was afraid he’d kill them both, leaving his children without parents – one dead and one in prison.  I felt sorry for Top because he would never confide in the chaplain or -- God forbid -- go to the behavioral health tent.  He'd just suffer on his own, and maybe he'd join the other soldiers on the growing list of soldiers at Fort Hood who had consummated their deep pain with a murder/suicide.  I didn't let my mind wonder about this.  I couldn't report the top NCO for pondering murdering his wife, but if it happened, I knew that I would never be able to get that out of my mind.


Instead, I preferred to think about good reunions.  I preferred to imagine having Teresa in my arms again.  Before I left for Iraq, Teresa and I had taken some dance classes and we loved it. First we loved salsa the most. But then we discovered Argentine tango.  We were getting pretty good at it before I left.  To keep me up on my tango, Teresa has been sending me videos of “tangueros” dancing, and I even practiced by myself whenever I had a moment by myself. I loved to watch, but again, the atmosphere of distrust made it very hard for me not to feel jealous and wonder if some sultry tanguero was slipping off with her after a dance. I wondered if she were happily “Tango Uniform” with him in bed and that our engagement also might be sadly "Tango Uniform."


Next to my cot, I always had a stack of her letters that always started, “Dearest Tanguero Adorable…”  She often wrote about being true to me.  She affirmed her maturity, her own self-worth and of course, our love. I hated that I still had my doubts. But I did.  The negative thoughts would come to me and whisper, “A lot of women were saying this, and they were off doing the wild thing.”  But one thing she said really made me believe her. She told me over a crackling long distance conversation, “Sweetheart, you know, if a lot of these women had a way of getting their need for touch met, then they might find it easier to be faithful. Tango allows people to get an important need met—the need to be touched. And if they had any sense of culture and self-discipline they would feel no need to go beyond that.” That sounded genuine. I also was able to dance a few times and feel what Teresa was talking about. There was dancing at a large FOB not far from our sector in Baghdad, and they had salsa dancing there. I found myself feeling so much better after that dance, and even more committed to Teresa.  The magic of music, dance and human touch fulfilled me.  I didn't have to go beyond that.


This is where the driver should
maneuver with "back ochos."
Close to the end of our deployment after I came back from a mission with my platoon, the commander was standing there, and I thought there was bad news. We all fear last minute tragedies in theater or back at home at the last minute before returning.  It seems like shit happens all the time at the very last minute of a deployment.  We were supposed to come home on the 10th of January, and we didn’t have much time left in country. As I had suspected, the commander had bad news.  “The XO's team just missed running over an an IED, and he’s being MEDEVAC’d to the hospital in Baghdad.  He’s doing okay -- nothing really serious, but that means that you’re going back early as the rear-Detachment commander instead of the XO,” he told me. That meant that I’d lead the forward party to help prepare for the return of soldiers back home at Fort Hood. 


My emotions were properly dampened as the commander told me.  First of all, the XO and I were close friends.  We were in the officers' basic course together; so this was terrible news, but at the same time I knew that I would be home for Christmas.  It is probably impossible for most people to understand that this actually 99% bad news that I would be home for Christmas.  I felt like a traitor to my platoon, getting to go back early. I felt humiliated telling the soldiers under me, and all the while I was so happy to be leaving that hell hole and see Teresa. I was totally conflicted in my feelings.  But if I had been given the chance I would have stayed.  Like it or not, I was going back in time for Christmas.  I also decided that I would not tell my family or even Teresa.  I felt sort of ashamed that I was coming back. I was also dreading my return to my fear of what I might find remaining of my hope of marrying Teresa.


What would I find? Intellectually, I knew that everything would be okay, but I had these great fears in my gut too -- fears that seemed deeper in my gut than the the dangers of going "outside the wire" on a mission.


When I arrived I had to go through lots of briefings and medical screens like everyone else would have to do in January. But on Christmas Eve, I would be free. I knew where Teresa would be from our conversations -- at a Christmas Eve tango party. So I put on my dress blue uniform – the only thing I had at my locker at work. I drove down to the University of Texas in Austin.  The UT Ball Room was down I-35, sixty-something miles from Fort Hood, where the milonga was being held. I put on an overcoat so as not to cause a scene when people saw me in uniform at the dance. 


It took a while for me to spot Teresa. She was dancing with a handsome man, and I felt my face turning red. I stood in the back, and no one seemed to even notice me. I realized that I was spying on her like Specialist Gaffney's eagle-eye from through the stratosphere.  I knew it was wrong for spying, and I deserved extra duty like I had given Gaffney.  Also, I felt this mad jealousy well up in me because they were chest to chest, and he danced so well. She looked so satisfied in his arms. I had a feeling of great sadness at first: Like a little boy who was watching his best friend run off with someone else. Then I fought back the rage and jealousy. I tried to stay in the shadows of a far corner but I was sure that my red hot face would surely alert everyone that I was there.  Certainly someone would ask, "What's burning!"  The striped sides of my dress blue uniform pants surely would give me away if I tried to escape now as the tanda ended.
  

As people were leaving the dance floor, I spotted Teresa coming my way. My stomach twisted and my hands were sweaty. 



An older gentleman stopped her with a nod of his head. Another song started and they danced. She had not recognized me. The man was old enough to be her father. Wow, he was good. He made the younger man look like a klutz. Although they danced simply, people stopped to watch them.  Teresa and he looked as if the music controlled them, forcing them to dance so wonderfully. Teresa looked like she were in some sort of tango Nirvana, and I realized that it was the music, the touch, the moment that was filling her soul. I felt this … this … huge well-spring of emotion, of love, of trust.  She wasn't in heaven because of that old man but because of the power of the embrace, the music and joy of movement, just as she had said before.


As if I did not even choose to, I felt my overcoat fall to the floor around my feet. People were leaving the dance floor, and someone said, “Teresa! My God, he’s back!” 


Teresa's tanguera friend was pointing with one hand and the other was over her mouth, realizing how loud she had said it. The room went dead silent. Everyone started clapping, and Teresa came running to me, with a crowd behind her. She melted into my arms. She was crying. Others stood by and gave me hugs like I was their long lost friend. “Thank God you’re back. Teresa has told us so much about you; it’s as if we have known you forever,” an older woman told me, holding onto my hand like my mother would.

This is the tango community: A bunch of people who touch each other as if this were what human beings do best. 

The music started again, and she led me out onto the floor.  I felt so self-conscious at first.  It was like a wedding dance and we were the only ones on the dance floor.

I just tried to do what I had seen the older man doing, listening to the music and letting the music move my feet. I danced simply, but it felt like I was on a level that I had never had experienced. It was the embrace, Teresa melting into my soul.




My engagement and my love for her were all saved from my worries of catastrophe and hurt at that moment. 


Now when there is a military event, Teresa does no longer calls my uniform my "Dress Blues"; she calls them my "Tango Uniform" because of our reunion dance in Austin.   


I am reluctant to tell her what "Tango Uniform" really means.




Post Script:
This story is of course fiction, but so true about soldiers, love, trust and what tango has to offer the world.



Photo credits:
Link to IED explosion is here.
Older gentleman photo:  Visit  
http://practimilonguero.wordpress.com/page/4/
The photo of Salado, TX was from Google Earth.
All photos with the "tango uniform":  Izabella Tabarovsky, Washington DC



Photo models:
Dina Dalipagic and some unknown tanguero in uniform.

Note:  The "Tango Therapist" now resides in Germany.  He is father of two sons who live in Germany.  Besides being a lover of Argenitine tango and a tango blog writer, he is a therapist for post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) and family problems (now in Germany) and is a lieutenant colonel in the US Army Reserves, Medical Service Corps.