The moment of doubt
Posted on
Last night I went to a party for my grandmother's 80th birthday. As you would expect, it was a fairly subdued affair, especially given that the average age in the room could still have qualified for a free bus pass. But it was, nevertheless, held in a function room and there was, of course, the obligatory mobile disco. At parties such as that, I have to feel some sympathy for the DJ as, try as he may, it's highly unlikely that the whole room is really going to get fired up when most of the occupants can barely stand without help. Even so, this one made a concerted effort, and several of the 'younger' attendees did eventually take to the dance floor (yours truly not included).
But this blog isn't specifically to do with that party or even that DJ. And while I could probably create a whole other article about some of the party guests, I'll politely decline to do so. Instead, this article focuses on the moment of doubt every participant on a dance floor at that kind of party will experience as one song ends and another begins. The moment itself causes an entirely involuntary reaction and virtually every sober person on the dance floor* is susceptible to it. And they all know it's coming. Songs typically last three or four minutes, so it's going to be a fairly regular occurrence.
In a typical scenario, one song will be playing and all of the participants on the dance floor will be merrily dancing away to it. As the song draws to a close, the DJ will typically fade it out and begin to fade in the next track. Depending on the ability of the DJ, this in itself might create a moment of doubt as the brief overlap of the songs makes neither particularly distinguishable. The true moment, however, is when the introduction of the new song is heard clearly for the first time.
As a spectator, the moment itself is visible on the faces of the dancers as each of them looks up slightly and stares into space while they try to place the song. The slower ones stand out a bit more as their lips tend to be moving ever so slightly, as if attempting to articulate the act of thinking. Occasionally, they will look towards a more experienced or knowledgeable fellow dancer to see if they recognise it first.
If the new song has a change of tempo to the previous one, there's an added element of awkwardness while the participants adjust their movements to cater for it. This is made more complicated if the overlap from the previous song lasts too long as they're not sure which one they should be dancing to. And it's particularly difficult for those who only dance at those kinds of parties and struggle with just one song playing.
More awkward still are those moments when a particularly embarrassing song comes on. In the time it takes for the moment of doubt to pass and the moment of realisation to kick in, the participant is left with a difficult choice. If the moment of doubt is over too soon and they leave the floor quickly it could appear that they're too familiar with said song, which in itself could be an embarrassment. But if they take too long to recognise it, they risk passing a point of no return where they'll just have to stick it out. It could potentially happen any time the song changes and it's risks like this that make dancing at these kind of parties a hazardous business.
Admittedly, I can't dance, and since I've acknowledged this and come to terms with it, I just don't try anymore. As a spectator, I find the whole thing most amusing. Being able to predict the facial expressions as each song ends is priceless. And watching those that don't react fast enough—or perhaps react a little too fast—to the songs a self-respecting person probably shouldn’t be seen dancing to is so often priceless. It's more fun watching anyway.
* At this point, I should point out that at most of the parties I go to, it's not the sober ones that are on the dance floor.