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LJ Idol Week 7 - No True Scotsman
The fiddler's bow flashes as he plays, his fingers flickering. His notes flirt with the mandolin and accordion, lighter than my feet will ever be.
I don't care. I dance.
It's a tradition. Monday is an odd night for dancing, but it's the one with the music I love. This pub is usually a refuge for elderly drinkers, but tonight it's claimed by a different clientèle.
The air is stifling. Beer fumes and cigarette smoke condense on my sweaty skin. I'm sober, but intoxicated with camaraderie, endorphins and the love of the music. I am buried in the crowd I meet here every week. Our feet fly together.
The minuscule area in front of the stage was never designed for the enthusiastic efforts of amateur Celtic dancers. These days it flexes beneath us, keeping time with the beating of the bodhrán, with the thumping of my heart.
My eyes meet Niall's across the dance floor. As so many times before, I quickly glance away, feigning interest in the band. I'm not looking, but I am acutely conscious of him, even through the press of bodies and the thrashing of feet.
Everyone whoops as the song finishes, applauding and sucking in lungfuls of the fuggy air. The bearded accordion-player grins at me as the band begins a new tune. This is my favourite set of reels, starting with The Silver Spear and building in intensity to the explosion of the High Reel. It's irresistible; I tap, stamp, kick and spin as the music lifts me from the base of my spine to the top of my head.
The crowd is moving, too, and somehow the shifting of bodies brings me next to Niall. I sneak another glance. The hem of his kilt flicks as he follows the rhythm with lithe grace. His dark hair curls sweat-slicked across his forehead, and his white shirt sleeves are rolled above his elbows. Even sodden with sweat, he smells good.
We dance through the building intensity. The single half-beat of silence before the High Reel is expected, but exhilarating every time. It bursts within my chest like a bubble of joy. The musicians are working as hard as the dancers, pushing the tempo, pushing us, pushing them.
It ends, as it must. The pub explodes with cheers, and the musicians disband, heading for the bar and a well-deserved drink. I head for the door. It's too hot in here, in more ways than one.
The crisp night air is a welcome relief against my flushed cheeks. I lean against the cold concrete wall, trying to catch my breath.
A familiar voice startles me as I'm handed a glass of water. "Here you go. I thought you might like a drink." It's cold and refreshing. Drinking it gives me something to do as I try to form a coherent sentence.
"They're on top form tonight," I offer, gesturing with my head towards the door.
Niall nods. He glances at me and looks away, his usual calm, quiet manner replaced by something more diffident. "You are, too."
I have no way to reply except a smile. We stand in silence until the random twanging of strings tells us the band is doing a quick tune-up.
"Coming?" he asks, holding the door open for me. I suppress the urge to make an old joke, and wade back into the dense atmosphere. He follows me in, and we join the group.
As the music begins, he takes my hand.
I don't care. I dance.
It's a tradition. Monday is an odd night for dancing, but it's the one with the music I love. This pub is usually a refuge for elderly drinkers, but tonight it's claimed by a different clientèle.
The air is stifling. Beer fumes and cigarette smoke condense on my sweaty skin. I'm sober, but intoxicated with camaraderie, endorphins and the love of the music. I am buried in the crowd I meet here every week. Our feet fly together.
The minuscule area in front of the stage was never designed for the enthusiastic efforts of amateur Celtic dancers. These days it flexes beneath us, keeping time with the beating of the bodhrán, with the thumping of my heart.
My eyes meet Niall's across the dance floor. As so many times before, I quickly glance away, feigning interest in the band. I'm not looking, but I am acutely conscious of him, even through the press of bodies and the thrashing of feet.
Everyone whoops as the song finishes, applauding and sucking in lungfuls of the fuggy air. The bearded accordion-player grins at me as the band begins a new tune. This is my favourite set of reels, starting with The Silver Spear and building in intensity to the explosion of the High Reel. It's irresistible; I tap, stamp, kick and spin as the music lifts me from the base of my spine to the top of my head.
The crowd is moving, too, and somehow the shifting of bodies brings me next to Niall. I sneak another glance. The hem of his kilt flicks as he follows the rhythm with lithe grace. His dark hair curls sweat-slicked across his forehead, and his white shirt sleeves are rolled above his elbows. Even sodden with sweat, he smells good.
We dance through the building intensity. The single half-beat of silence before the High Reel is expected, but exhilarating every time. It bursts within my chest like a bubble of joy. The musicians are working as hard as the dancers, pushing the tempo, pushing us, pushing them.
It ends, as it must. The pub explodes with cheers, and the musicians disband, heading for the bar and a well-deserved drink. I head for the door. It's too hot in here, in more ways than one.
The crisp night air is a welcome relief against my flushed cheeks. I lean against the cold concrete wall, trying to catch my breath.
A familiar voice startles me as I'm handed a glass of water. "Here you go. I thought you might like a drink." It's cold and refreshing. Drinking it gives me something to do as I try to form a coherent sentence.
"They're on top form tonight," I offer, gesturing with my head towards the door.
Niall nods. He glances at me and looks away, his usual calm, quiet manner replaced by something more diffident. "You are, too."
I have no way to reply except a smile. We stand in silence until the random twanging of strings tells us the band is doing a quick tune-up.
"Coming?" he asks, holding the door open for me. I suppress the urge to make an old joke, and wade back into the dense atmosphere. He follows me in, and we join the group.
As the music begins, he takes my hand.
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So much energy in this story, I could see the dancers' every move. Almost feel them.
Nice job
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Images of celtic dancers will be with me for the rest of the day - I have you to thank for that!
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And that bubble of joy: I know that moment. I know the leaning against the concrete hoping it would suck the heat out of my body after dancing too long in a tiny space, and how good the water is when you drink it down.
So much this.
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Loved the imagery in your writing. Almost made me feel the atmosphere in the pub ... the smell, sound and sights
Ahhhh Celtic Dancers !!! Well Done
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I thought this was a great piece of writing.
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