The D.C. Miracle Dance

It's what you get when you take a passel of Lindy Hoppers, an absence of canned music (thanks to technical difficulties), a nine-piece brass band, a wide-open street corner, and a hell of a lot of enthusiastic spontaneity.

These guys were our saving graces this past Sunday, when the wind raged and blustered and the juice went out of the swing dancers' portable speakers. [See pic.]

But first, back story…

Once a year, Lindy Hoppers from around the country descend upon D.C. for four days of dancing in what is known as a "Lindy Exchange" (just as they do on weekends throughout the year in numerous other cities). These dancers, if they could, would not sleep a wink, would not pause to change sweaty shirts, would not ever need a bathroom break. They stop for food, because they are wise, and they know that food is Good. But otherwise, over the course of the weekend, they pack in as much dancing as is physically possible--this time, a scheduled 35 hours or so in just three days and four very long nights (the dancing goes on, literally, until dawn).

I'd already decided, weeks ago, that for this exchange I would participate only in the free, daytime, outdoor-venue dancing, for two reasons:

1. I am not nearly as die-hard about swing dancing as so many of these other crazy folks are, and I can only take so much. (Okay: I traveled one year to one exchange, the St. Louis Blues version, where I danced for 24 hours over three days--something I will do annually for as long as my two feet and my schedule permit, and on into eternity, because that particular exchange is, quite simply, Da Best. But otherwise, I have neither the time nor the money nor the patience nor the hard-coreness required of those who actually hop around the country, scheduling their lives around these things like so many holidays and relatives' birthdays.)

2. The atmosphere that accompanies daytime outdoor dancing--the way the air feels, the way the music carries--is rivaled, in my mind, by one thing and one thing only: the atmosphere that accompanies nighttime outdoor dancing. If all of my social dancing could be done beneath the moon and star-speckled sky, in the fresh air, on a cool-but-not-too-cold night, I would hope to never see the sun again, and to remain awake for as long as the music played--and I say this, mind you, as a former Californian and Hawaii freak who loves the sun and sunrise and sunset and sun-dried fruits and sun-baked everything (especially skin). But yes, I would gladly be bitten by a Lindy or salsa or tango vampire if such a Prince of the Night were ever to pay me a visit. That being, unfortunately, an utter impossibility, I'll take daytime outdoor dancing as my close-second, can't-stay-away-from consolation.

And so I set out, despite the wind-chill factor, to Dupont Circle to join my fellow dancing freaks for an afternoon of pavement-pounding swing. I could see the bodies bobbing and swirling as I approached the circle. But there was one problem: Where was the music? Then, I saw it: One of the local DJs bounced around in the middle of it all, holding a boom box above his head with one hand to enable the sound to float over the crowd. The big speakers that were meant to blare Fitzgerald, Ellington, Basie et al. into the Dupont afternoon had gone pffft. There was no power. [See pic.]

But in a testament to the fanaticism of these dancers, they danced on. Certainly aching after what was at least 20 hours of dancing at that point, straining to hear, buffeted by the howling gales, they swung and swung until finally, someone had an idea: Get one dude to drive his car into Dupont Circle, and power the speakers from that. Brilliant--except for that whole possibility-of-being-ticketed-or-arrested thing. Still, the dancers were not to be deterred, so soon enough, the car was on the scene, slowly pulling up to the fountain at the circle's spoke.

Then, after a few minutes of plugging in and powering up, there it was: VOLUME. Miracle No. 1. People jumped up and down and hooted and cheered as if they'd been without power for days, a la New York last summer. But it didn't last long, for next to come was the real miracle of the day--Miracle No. 2: the band. [See pic.]

I have seen these guys on this curb before--the one just above the tunnel that takes traffic beneath Dupont. I don't know if they're out there every day, or just on weekends, but whatever their schedule, and whoever they are, we all learned one thing on Sunday: They jam.

After only a few bars made possible by Miracle No. 1 were played, a mass exodus of dancers occurred. We turned to see what was going on, and then we heard--the distant toot-toot-toots and browowowowow of brass--and we saw--the great gaping maw of the tuba, the slides of the trombones. The real music was playing over there, and the dancers chased after it like rats after the pied piper. (Which was all for the best, since D.C. Park Police put the kibosh on the speaker-car after only 20 minutes.)

Never before have passers-by in that area of the city seen a sight like they saw that day. A bona fide brass combo, playing their hearts out. A manic group of Lindy hoppers in sweatpants, jeans, sweaters, scarves and gloves, surrounding the band, shakin' and jigglin' and jumpin' and bumpin'. A swarm of people--Lindy folk and spectators--drawn to witness this magical confluence of music and dance. The line of gawkers stretched on for half a block on both sides. [See pic.]

The energy of the mob, the smiles on all the faces, is something I have not seen in the year and a half (or so) since I moved here. It was a perfect Lindy moment--my only regret being that I was forced to scurry away without getting a chance to shake the bandleader's hand.

So dudes in the band: In the one in however many million chance that you're out there, reading this, know that you've made an indelible memory in the dancing minds of scores of your new, and forever after, fans.