Jordan Wirfs-Brock: Boulder community contra dancing

Boulder community Contra
One of the first men in the door at the Avalon Ballroom in east Boulder carries a pair of dancing shoes in one hand and an orange polo shirt on a hanger in the other. Next, a family – three kids, two parents – enters. Then, a woman with gray shoulder-length hair wearing a sequined sleeveless top, a denim skirt, and blue moon boots. Some look eager. Some look nervous. Some look like they're coming home. They all hand cash or a check to Melanie, a "fifty-something" devotee of contra dancing sitting behind a glittery black and gold tablecloth covered with raffle tickets and name tags.

"This is Bob. He's a honey man. How many beekeepers do you know?" she says. "Have you had your honey today?" Bob tips his hat at her and walks into the ballroom.

"Oh, and here's one who has left the flock and returned," says Melanie. "He's finally gotten off eHarmony and decided to come dance." She laughs, showing the rubber bands in her braces.

The people Melanie doesn't know yet, she soon will. "This is my family."

For fans of folk dancing, the community floor stretches across the Front Range. There's English country dance in Colorado Springs, belly dancing in Longmont, Scottish dancing in Denver, swing and Scandinavian dance in Boulder, and mountain folk dancing in Nederland. And that's just Monday night. In any given week there's also waltzing, Cajun, Israeli, skidoo, tango, hula, clogging and cha cha cha.

Dancers gather in small studios, Masonic lodges, senior centers, and decorated ballrooms. Although it may seem like an exclusive club, seasoned dancers' faces light up when they meet newcomers. Most thrive on learning new moves and meeting new people. A step into the ballroom is step into one of the most welcoming clubs in the state: Colorado Friends of Old Time Music and Dance – CFOOTMAD, for short.

The night's caller, Pat Tognoni, dons a wireless headset like a pop star performing at a packed stadium. Members of the live band, Ladies' Choice, set up their instruments – two fiddles, a keyboard, and a dulcimer. Tognoni starts the pre-dance lesson, walking among newcomers as she calls out instructions:

Circle to the left, one time around.
Balance and swing your neighbor.
Balance and swing your partner.
Right and left with a courtesy turn.

In contra dancing, couples stand next to each other, forming two long parallel lines. Groups of four – or eight in more advanced dances – perform a set of moves reminiscent of square dancing: do-si-dos, allemandes, forward and backward skips. After about 30 seconds, the set ends in a move that sends one couple up and one couple down the line. Then the cycle starts again with a new group of four. In each song, a set repeats 15 or 20 times.

"Oh! The most important part of the dance – and you've only got 15 seconds to do it," Tognoni says. "Bow and thank your partner. Applaud the band. They've gotta know that you like what they're doing. Then find a new partner."

At the beginning of each song, everyone learns a new set of moves. It's tradition to switch partners. By the end of the night, everyone will have danced with everyone else in the room – several times.
Dave Sanders pulls off his running shoes and cotton socks. He's been dancing for 24 years, and as he slips on his dress socks and soft-soled dancing shoes, he talks about the power contra has to bring people together. It's a walking dance, he says, and almost everyone can walk. Beginners and experts can dance together because, "the music tells you what to do." He jumps up to find a partner as the band starts a reel.

A central move in contra dancing – and clearly everyone's favorite – is the swing. Partners hold on to each other tight and pivot as fast as they can. One woman in red Reebok hi-tops spins fast enough to reveal spandex shorts under her skirt. Couples lock eyes to keep from getting dizzy.

"You get to know the color of everyone's eyes as you dance," Tognoni says.

Doug Engelhardt's 14-year-old, Brian, recently took a blind date to his first high school dance. She asked him if he "wanted to grind." When Engelhardt learned what that meant, he says, "I realized I had to find some decent, fun dancing that isn't sexual."

So he took his family, including Brian's younger brother and sister, to Boulder Community Contra. "I have to show my kids that dancing isn't foreplay. It's actually a civil, respectful thing," Englehardt says.

Parents of adolescents aren't the only ones who appreciate the wholesomeness of contra dancing. "It's G-rated, unlike other dances," – like salsa or meringue, Melanie says. Another dancer, Celina, says that contra attracts many recently divorced adults who are tentative about meeting new people. "There's a lot of safe touching and socializing," she says. "It's so not a couples thing. Everybody dances with everybody."

Contra is both communal and private. Partners embrace, gaze into each other's eyes, and spin. Eight beats later they part and dash into the arms of another. Eight beats after that, they are back together: holding, staring, swirling.

"During the dance, your partner is, you know, the one," Celina says. She pauses for a few seconds. "When I was in the mood, I could flirt like crazy."

There's a move in contra dancing called "the gypsy." Without touching, partners lock eyes and walk in a slow, clockwise circle. When they can't bear it anymore, they fall into each other's arms and spin.

A dancer leans over and says that the girl in the tie-dye "make love not war" shirt has been coming here for 10 years with her father. She's barefoot, wearing a full skirt and a grin. She can't be more than 15. Another dancer points out a woman twirling on the dance floor. "The night her last baby was born, she was here," the dancer says. "That's a good way to bring on labor." The woman used to lay a blanket on the stage. Her child slept next to the band while she danced.

There are toddlers and teenagers at the Avalon Ballroom Friday night, but there's an age gap from about 17 to 47. One dancer, Jim, uses the phrase, "fresh blood," while asking why more young people don't contra. Maybe it's because there's no alcohol here. Maybe it's because of contra's old-fashioned reputation. Ask a contra dancer, and they'll say that it's just because enough young people haven't tried it yet.

"It's music that you just can't sit to – you gotta dance," says Tognoni, the caller. "I love it because I get to help people smile all night long."

At the end of the night, the dancers leave as gradually as they came. A few volunteers in the kitchen put leftover Oreos, apple slices, and grapes into Ziploc bags. The fiddle player puts away her fiddle. Tognoni turns off her microphone.

By 11 p.m., the dance floor is empty except for a man in a Hawaiian print shirt, pushing a mop in a circle and spinning.