I’m in La La Land

Here I am, the eternal optimist. New leggings handpicked for the occasion; name tag on my vest. I’m a good twenty years older than everyone else huddled around the sign La La Land Flashmob. Ahead of our first rehearsal, mixed emotions bubble up. The joyous anticipation for the magic of dance; that high of moving […]

Here I am, the eternal optimist. New leggings handpicked for the occasion; name tag on my vest. I’m a good twenty years older than everyone else huddled around the sign La La Land Flashmob.

Ahead of our first rehearsal, mixed emotions bubble up. The joyous anticipation for the magic of dance; that high of moving to music as a group. Shapes, sounds, ripples. The lure of showbiz, though it was never to be my path. For a moment, I am Emma Stone in her yellow dress, Ryan Gosling in tow, under an indigo sky.

And then I become the imposter. The one riddled with technical shortcomings, the one who should have packed it in a long time ago. The one who may not cut it today. In theory, flashmobs are for amateurs, but I know they are in fact magnets for closet professionals, street performers and ferocious wannabes.

And yet, somehow, here I am. The love of dancing only marginally stronger than the fear of failing. Something feels different though, a nameless unrest. My eyes look pleadingly at the leggings, as if they could infuse some of their newness to my limbs, too.

As I enter the studio, I am met with a feast of leotards and legwarmers, barely covering chiselled, wiry bodies. Long, long legs ply into pretzel-like knots, painful just to look at. The ‘amateurs’.

Suddenly a body uncoils at lightning speed and takes the hot spot. His face says twentyish, his top screams DANCE CAPTAIN and his thighs “don’t mess with me”.

So we’re off. An instant dance troupe, taking to the floor, ready to cajole our bodies into a story we don’t yet know. The studio is heaving, the day sweltering. The deafening sound of industrial fans, and the Flamenco storm upstairs, muffle CAPTAIN’s conceited instructions. I crane my neck, but I can hardly see his moves, or, crucially, his feet.

The steps seem simple, but the speed is out to get me; I can learn this, but not in one go. I try to follow, and to savour the moment. That siren call is always there- the invitation to inhabit and linger in each step, guessing its untold story, instead of furiously memorizing their sequence. A spat between instructions and desires; a battle of wills taking place in fractions of a second, count after count.

And it is all happening too quickly. I want to admire the other dancers, each with their own styles, curves and edges; I notice how one girl seems to move very slowly, only to meet each count impeccably. I see struggle become elation as people go from challenge to mastery. I want to acknowledge that here we are, strangers yet united, suddenly woven together by a song. But there is no time. Relentlessly, one count follows another and then another and directions become incessant.

I know I will get there, I know it will come together, I know I need to sleep over it and to rehearse it again tomorrow; and I know I will rehearse it because I care and because on the day I want it to be perfect and all I need is repetition.

But today is not about repetition. Today is fast, furious, and all about a young choreographer whose neck is on the line, with two days to go. Today is about those who can and those who can’t, and we are unceremoniously herded into groups.

An achingly small number of us are made to sit and watch, whilst the chosen ones pump their way through most of the song; our tiny bit is at the end, the terpsichorean equivalent to ‘Lobster #3’ in the Nativity play. The gremlin in me is triumphant. Despite my love for it, despite my dedication, it gloats, I will never be in the club.

The soloist struts to centre stage; she is a bird of paradise in lycra, long glossy ponytail whipping around as she pirouettes. “Isn’t she fabulous?” I realise my starry-eyed neighbour is talking to me. “I want to dance like her”. I nod vaguely, hoping to avert the conversation. And then it hits me. “No”. This time I turn to her. “I want to dance like me”.

I scoop up my things and slip out through the back door. They won’t notice I’m gone. I am in front of studio 4, which is free, it says, for another hour. I scurry in, close the door, plug my phone into the speakers. The conflict ends. Body and mind as one flourish into my own steps.

The familiar notes of Another Day of Sun begin. Same song. Very different beat.