Saturday the nightclub was packed, a myriad of anticipating and curious faces in the dimly lit room. The band strummed and tuned, exotic sounds of kanoon, ney, djembe, tabla, harmonium.
That night, what I loved best was the table next to ours. There were five Middle Eastern men there, enjoying the evening's performance. The band played traditional songs, and these men sang along, and clapped.
Their clapping was not just clapping on the downbeat, all together now, a marching beat. No, it was offset, even from each other, musical, following or anticipating the drummer's flourishes. One would clap fast, one would clap slow, one would add three short claps at opportune times. It was thrilling and exciting and made the show into something real.
Shelle and I had already put on makeup in preparation, theatrical eyes with black lines extending far beyond the eyelids. My darling S raised his eyebrows and shook his head, not one for so much makeup, but later said it looked great under the lights.
We pulled on our costumes in the little bathroom with cold tile floors, and had to walk barefoot through the restaurant to get into the nightclub, health code be damned.
Much to my dismay I discovered my belt was too loose, and would surely show the top of the skirt underneath it. But worse than that, I feared further slippage during one of our many level changes; bending knees down to the ground could possibly expose my bellydancer butt. Probably not quite as unappealing as plumber butt, but I didn't want to flash anyone, people were eating. This thought followed me like an annoying little dog.
The band played while we sat and sipped wine before we were invited to perform. When our song started we maneuvered through the crowd, just the drums playing slow tempo, we smiled hello at everyone.
When we came back to the center of the room we "noticed" each other, came together, and started our dance. It's a steady rhythmic song, unvarying in its trancelike 6/8 waltz. The flute and kanoon add the melody.
A series of turns, palms joined back to back, undulating motion that transitions into heavy stepwork. Turn and backbend, angled so I’m still behind her we lean forward, back, forward, back, serpentine and sensual.
She pivots so we're facing. Hip drop, don’t forget the accent. Hip lift, accents belong to first me and then to her. Write the letter M with our hips, eyes locked on each other.
A casual turn away, bye bye darling, we face the band, slowly turn around to the audience again, I knew without looking at her not only where she'd be but also what a joyful and playful grin she'd have on her face, and found my face aching with my own silly smile. Hip slide so she’s in front of me. She bends low, and our arms rise up and make the shape of a lotus flower.
We completed our routine and then did an improvised drum solo. It was her first live improv, and she loved it. We shimmied and danced and said goodbyes, returned to the center, bowed, waved, gave a final zaghareet, and exited the room while the band pounded with their drums.
Thankfully, my belt stayed up, and I didn't let loose the cracken. And she, most cursed with such problems, didn't have a costume malfunction either, however her costume bra fell out of her bag and she left it there under the table. The band leader called me on Monday to let me know it was being held for ransom.
After exiting the room, We changed clothes and stayed for the three other beautiful dancers.
First the lovely demure and severe redhead in green satin with incredible stage presence.
Then the sassy but elegant dancer with gorgeous back muscles in brown velvet pants and gold beads.
Finally the evening's star, impeccable and joyful, boisterous and fun, dressed in a gold beaded bedlah, with leopard-print skirt and gauntlet gloves.
Consummate performers, all.
Interesting how personality shines through when people let it. The individuality of expression is what I love best.
The audience interaction, the clapping, the singing, the dancing, the wine, my beloved and good friends, these simple things help me to forget the troubles of the world.
That night, what I loved best was the table next to ours. There were five Middle Eastern men there, enjoying the evening's performance. The band played traditional songs, and these men sang along, and clapped.
Their clapping was not just clapping on the downbeat, all together now, a marching beat. No, it was offset, even from each other, musical, following or anticipating the drummer's flourishes. One would clap fast, one would clap slow, one would add three short claps at opportune times. It was thrilling and exciting and made the show into something real.
Shelle and I had already put on makeup in preparation, theatrical eyes with black lines extending far beyond the eyelids. My darling S raised his eyebrows and shook his head, not one for so much makeup, but later said it looked great under the lights.
We pulled on our costumes in the little bathroom with cold tile floors, and had to walk barefoot through the restaurant to get into the nightclub, health code be damned.
Much to my dismay I discovered my belt was too loose, and would surely show the top of the skirt underneath it. But worse than that, I feared further slippage during one of our many level changes; bending knees down to the ground could possibly expose my bellydancer butt. Probably not quite as unappealing as plumber butt, but I didn't want to flash anyone, people were eating. This thought followed me like an annoying little dog.
The band played while we sat and sipped wine before we were invited to perform. When our song started we maneuvered through the crowd, just the drums playing slow tempo, we smiled hello at everyone.
When we came back to the center of the room we "noticed" each other, came together, and started our dance. It's a steady rhythmic song, unvarying in its trancelike 6/8 waltz. The flute and kanoon add the melody.
A series of turns, palms joined back to back, undulating motion that transitions into heavy stepwork. Turn and backbend, angled so I’m still behind her we lean forward, back, forward, back, serpentine and sensual.
She pivots so we're facing. Hip drop, don’t forget the accent. Hip lift, accents belong to first me and then to her. Write the letter M with our hips, eyes locked on each other.
A casual turn away, bye bye darling, we face the band, slowly turn around to the audience again, I knew without looking at her not only where she'd be but also what a joyful and playful grin she'd have on her face, and found my face aching with my own silly smile. Hip slide so she’s in front of me. She bends low, and our arms rise up and make the shape of a lotus flower.
We completed our routine and then did an improvised drum solo. It was her first live improv, and she loved it. We shimmied and danced and said goodbyes, returned to the center, bowed, waved, gave a final zaghareet, and exited the room while the band pounded with their drums.
Thankfully, my belt stayed up, and I didn't let loose the cracken. And she, most cursed with such problems, didn't have a costume malfunction either, however her costume bra fell out of her bag and she left it there under the table. The band leader called me on Monday to let me know it was being held for ransom.
After exiting the room, We changed clothes and stayed for the three other beautiful dancers.
First the lovely demure and severe redhead in green satin with incredible stage presence.
Then the sassy but elegant dancer with gorgeous back muscles in brown velvet pants and gold beads.
Finally the evening's star, impeccable and joyful, boisterous and fun, dressed in a gold beaded bedlah, with leopard-print skirt and gauntlet gloves.
Consummate performers, all.
Interesting how personality shines through when people let it. The individuality of expression is what I love best.
The audience interaction, the clapping, the singing, the dancing, the wine, my beloved and good friends, these simple things help me to forget the troubles of the world.
posted by sahalie at 11:26 AM
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