At its heart, tango is a simple dance. You walk. All the flicks, pivots and lunges are just dressing up two people walking together. The moments of flash are wonderful, exciting, but the dance is just as powerful in its nuances. Those are where you see the tension, the passion. The brush of fingers along a partner’s arm, one foot nudging a partner’s into a slow circle, the volumes spoken by a gaze.
Tango dancing begs for glamorous retro styling. Maybe it comes from the norms set by every famous photo of tangueros: man in a suit, woman in a tight dress, sleek hair and high heels. Maybe it’s the romanticism we overlay on both narratives; the dance of the Argentine prostitutes becomes the duet of polished sensuality and the decades of war, inequality and oppression become “the good old days.”
Maybe it’s deeper and more technical than the history. Maybe the nostalgia is part of any great tango music. Ticking, clock-like percussion marks the passage of time, both measures and years. The melodic lines ebb and flow, push and pull. Every rubato passage, one note robbing from the others, makes an aching hold tumble into a resolution. What if the note could have lasted just one more beat? What if? Isn’t that what we always ask of the past?
Tango is more than the sum of its parts. Even contemporary interpretations of the dance and music present something that looks to the past, that taps into a primal, simmering emotion that’s been kept locked away.