In Pursuit of Cool: A Life in Dance

As a young child, I was angry at Kylie Minogue. My bitterness stemmed from her 1989 VHS release, Kylie: The Videos and might be attributed partly to her big perm of dreams (“It’d ruin your hair!” - My Mum, 1989–present), partly to her asymmetrical leotard and ra-ra dresses but, mostly, it was The Locomotion. In the video, Kylie and her friends flounce through an airport then onto a dancefloor (I don’t know either) swooshing their arms, swinging their hips, spinning, jumping… It was mesmerisingly cool. And easier than learning your ABCs, apparently. "I know you’ll get to like it if you give it a chance now”, Kylie urged. Liking it wasn’t the problem. And many, many chances were given. I was, simply, a terrible dancer.

It was around the same time that I began an ill-fated spate of dance lessons in Highland, Tap and Disco. I don’t quite know what happened but some other local girl definitely ended up with second-hand, barely-used dance shoes. I imagine the dance teacher and my mum had a quiet chat after class one night: a shake of the head, a sympathetic pat on the arm, a solemn nod of understanding…

It’s testament to my obliviousness that I did not let an utter lack of ability deter me. In primary school, I may have joined the chorus of protests against the annual Scottish Country Dancing P.E. lessons but give me a ceilidh now and I’ll be the Gayest of Gordons, full of spunk and simultaneously lacking any grasp of what waltzing is. At high school discos, I lived for the last slow-dance of the night with some curtained crush, hanging from his sweaty neck in a dreamy haze of Lynx Africa and Charlie Red.

If the teenage years are for development and experimentation, well… I tried. I’m proud to have retained special muscle memory dedicated to the fine and intricate moves of the Spice Girls’ Stop routine. I spent many hours lined up in front of a living room mirror with friends who, like Kylie and her pals, just… looked right when they danced. I clutched my mic (early-prototype massive straighteners) and tried to master the peace sign. I was Bovine Spice on the end of the row, Kappa trackie bottoms unstudded and flapping happily with each slightly mistimed stomp.

As a fledgling adult, I became a bit more aware of my shortcomings. At parties, the call of some generic Indie banger would always overcome any intention to retain my dignity. My friends – and strangers – looked absolutely fine, like normal dancing people. I was less ‘tearing up the dancefloor' and more ‘won’t somebody please collect the turnip and return it to the soil with urgency’.

In my pursuit of cool, I once spent more days than I care to admit trying to learn the clappy bit from Common People. I thought, if Jarvis can do it… but, sadly, repetition and hope alone do not a Brit-Pop waif make. Sometimes a girl knows when to stick to her arena of Saturday Night and the Macarena.

In not one of these situations have I ever felt cool. But, in most of them, I felt free and pretty silly and aware that I loved dancing, even though I was not good at it.

To an extent, I found my people and my place at the sweaty Emo gigs of my late teens and twenties, always down the front, ribs compressed, a strand of someone’s sweat-soaked hair stuck to my tongue. Ironically, I felt the most euphorically alive when closest to death-by-moshpit. I also spent years envying the crowdsurfers whose studded belts and chains battered the top of my head until I finally took the opportunity during the final song of a Blink-182 show. I knew as I was being hoisted into the air that this would be the only time I would ever do it; it was a sacred moment that I would have no desire to ruin by repeating it. 'This is it! I’m cool now,' I probably thought, as strangers thumbed my bum crack.

A few years ago I went to Kellerman’s, the real-life Virginia mountain resort from Dirty Dancing. It was full of middle-aged vacationing couples there for a special Dirty Dancing themed weekend. It was as kitsch and as uncool as you can imagine. On the final day, the itinerary called for professional dance lessons in the barn, which I rejected in favour of an afternoon of outdoor arts and crafts. Maybe I would have thrived and changed my entire skillset from an afternoon of learning how to cha-cha ("unlikely", I hear you cry) but at the costume dance party that night, I wasn’t pining for the ability to count steps. I was just up there (dressed as Penny the professional dancer, of course) flailing around and having the time of my life.

These days, it seems like everybody’s doing a brand new dance. As much as I barely grasp what a Tik Tok is, it’s hard to miss clips all over the internet of viral dance challenges. How do people move like that? Does it hurt? Why are 16 year-olds able to “woah” and Renegade themselves to multi-millionaire status when I am still flummoxed by The Locomotion? It’s incredible.

Life in the confinements of a global pandemic doesn’t leave a lot of opportunity to share my sweet moves with the world. The other day I was dancing in the kitchen to the radio and I caught my reflection in the window. I was rhythmless, sluggish and I laughed at myself. But in a sisterly way. Practice has not made perfect; I don’t think it’s even really made passable in my case. God help me if this sounds like a "dance like nobody’s watching" manifesto but, my fellow turnips: embrace the uncool, let yourself feel good about the things you’re bad at and take Kylie’s word for it – you might just get to like it if you give it a chance now.