One of the strangest but also most intriguing
and redemptive things that humans get up to,
in almost any culture one cares to study,
is occasionally to gather in large groups,
bathe in the rhythmic sounds of drums and
flutes, organs and guitars, chants and cries,
and move their arms and legs about in complicated
and frenzied ways, losing themselves in the
bewilderment of a dance. Dancing has a claim
to be considered among the most essential
and salutary activities we ever partake in.
Not for nothing did Nietzsche, a painfully
inhibited figure in day to day life, declare
‘I would believe only in a God who could
dance’ (a comment that stands beside his
equally apodictic pronouncement: ‘Without
music, life would be a mistake.’)
But dancing is at the same time an activity
that many of us, arguably those of us who
might most need to do it, are powerfully inclined
to resist and deep down to fear. We stand
on the side of the dance floor appalled at
the possibility of being called to join in,
we attempt to make our excuses the moment
the music begins, we take pains that no one
will ever, ever see our hips unite with a
beat.
The point here is definitely not to learn
to dance like an expert, it is to remember
that dancing badly is something we might actually
want to do and, equally importantly, something
that we already well know how to do to – at
least to the level of appalling proficiency
we need to possess in order to derive key
benefits.
In almost all cultures and at all points of
history (except oddly enough perhaps our own),
dancing has been widely and publically understood
as a form of bodily exercise with something
very important to contribute to our mental
state. Dancing has had nothing to do with
dancing well, being young or revealing one’s
stylishness. Summed up sharply we might put
it like this: dancing has been valued for
allowing us to transcend our individuality
and for inducing us to merge into a larger,
more welcoming and more redemptive whole.
The Ancient Greeks were for the most part
committed worshippers of the rational mind.
Their foremost God, Apollo, was the embodiment
of cool reason and disciplined wisdom. However,
the Greeks understood – with prescience
– that a life devoted only to the serenity
of the mind could be at grave risk of desiccation
and loneliness. And so they balanced their
concern with Apollo with regular festivals
in honour of a quite different God, Dionysus,
a god that drank wine, stayed up late, loved music and danced.
The Greeks knew that the more rational we
usually are, the more important it is – at
points – to fling ourselves around to the
wild rhythms of pipes and drums. At the festivals
of Dionysius, held in Athens in March every
year, even the most venerable and dignified
members of the community would join into unrestrained
dancing that, irrigated by generous amounts
of red wine, lasted until dawn.
A word often used to describe such dancing
is ‘ecstatic’. It’s a telling term.
Ecstatic comes from two Latin words: ex (meaning
apart) and stasis (meaning standing) – indicating
a state in which we are symbolically ‘standing
apart’ from ourselves – separated from
the dense, detailed and self-centered layers
of our identities which we normally focus
on and obsess over and reconnected with something
more primal and more necessary: our common
human nature. We remember, through a period
of ecstatic dancing, what it is like to belong,
to be part of something larger than ourselves,
to be indifferent to our own egos – to be
reunited with humanity.
This aspiration hasn’t entirely disappeared
in modernity – but it’s been assigned
to very particular and woefully selective
ambassadors: the disco and the rave. These
associations point us in unhelpful directions:
towards being cool, a certain age, wearing
particular clothes, liking a certain kind
of often rather arduous music. Such markers
of an elite, knowing crowd reinforce, rather
than dismantle, our tendencies towards isolation
and loneliness. We need, urgently, to recover
a sense of the universal benefit and impact
of dancing. But the greatest enemy of this
is fear, and in particular, the fear – as
we may put it – that we will look ‘like
an idiot’ in front of people whose opinion
might matter. The way through this is not
to be told that we will in fact appear really
rather fine and, with a bit of effort, very
far from idiotic. Quite the opposite; we should
accept with good grace that the whole point
of redemptive, consoling, cathartic communal
dancing is a chance to look like total, thoroughgoing
idiots, the bigger the better, in the company
of hundreds of other equally and generously
publically idiotic fellow humans.
We spend a good deal of our time fearing – as
if it were a momentous calamity that we did
not even dare contemplate in daylight – that
we might be idiots and holding back from a
host of important aspirations and ambitions
as a result. We should shake ourselves from
such inhibitions by loosening our hold on
any remaining sense of dignity and by accepting
frankly that we are – by nature – of course
completely idiotic, great sacks of foolishness
that cry in the night, bump into doors, fart
in the bath and kiss people’s noses by mistake
– but that far form being shameful and isolating,
this idiocy is in fact a basic feature of
our nature that unites us immediately with
everyone else on the planet. We are idiots
now, we were idiots then, and we will be idiots
again in the future. There is no other option
for a human to be.
Dancing provides us with a primordial occasion
on which this basic idiocy can be publicly
displayed and communally celebrated. On a
dance floor filled with comparable idiots,
we can at last delight in our joint foolishness;
we can throw off our customary shyness and
reserve and fully embrace our dazzling strangeness
and derangement. An hour of frantic jigging
should decisively shake us from any enduring
belief in our normalcy or seriousness.
Whenever we have the chance to invite others
around, especially very serious people by
whom we’re intimidated or whom we might
be seeking to impress, we should remember
the divine Dionysus and dare, with his wisdom
in mind, to put on Dancing Queen, I’m so
excited or We are Family. Knowing that we
have Nietzsche on side, we should let rip
with a playlist that includes What a Feeling,
Dance with Somebody and Hey Jude. We should
lose command of our normal rational pilot
selves, abandon our arms to the harmonies,
throw away our belief in a ‘right’ way
to dance or indeed to live, build the intensity of our movements to a frenzy
and merge with the universe or at least its more immediate
representatives, our fellow new mad friends,
before whom the disclosure of idiocy will
be total.  Through a glance, we glimpse a huge project.  How we might more
regularly experience ourselves as vulnerable in front of other people in order to become better friends to ourselves
and more generous and compassionate companions
to others. The true potential of dancing has
for too long been abandoned by thoughtful
people to stylish ambassadors who have forgotten
the elemental seriousness of allowing themselves
to be and look idiotic. We should reclaim
the ecstatic dance and uninhibited boogie
woogie for their deepest universal purposes:
to reconnect, reassure and reunite us.
