We’re all programmed to dance, says Janette Manrara. “Babies can’t walk, they can’t talk, but put a song on and they start to wobble.” One of the first things she did, growing up in a Cuban family in Miami, was to stand on her dad’s feet when he danced salsa.
You’ll probably know Manrara from her role as a professional dancer on Strictly Come Dancing, and from presenting its companion show, It Takes Two. She’s the real deal, and she’s going to teach me how to dance.
Somewhere inside me, I know what she means about being programmed. Music is important to me, and when it’s the right kind of music I feel the urge to move to it. But I haven’t progressed much past the wobble stage. I’ve never really felt entirely comfortable – even at ease – on the dancefloor. The odds aren’t exactly stacked in my favour: I’m a gangly, introverted, English, now 56-year-old bloke – maybe it’s OK to throw in the towel on this one and accept my place as a wilting wallflower.
But the issue is less about the shape or age of my body, more about what’s going on inside my head. It’s about self-consciousness and self-confidence, too much and too little, respectively. I enjoy dancing, but I worry about how I look when I do it, and what other people are thinking. That’s why I generally only do it when I am drunk. Or on my own. Often both, actually.
And right now, I’m neither. It’s midday, we’re in a bright dance studio in Fulham, west London, and it’s scaring the hell out of me. There are mirrors all along one wall – that’s not going to help the self-consciousness. It’s also a constant reminder of how un-alone I am. It’s not even just me and Manrara – Lucy from BBC publicity is here, and so is David the Guardian photographer, with all his stuff. “Forget he’s here,” says Manrara. “Dancing is not about showing off, it’s about feeling a certain way, and as soon as you realise that you’re not doing it for anybody else except for you, you will look good dancing, and enjoy it.”
We start with a little warm up: shaking, loosening, head-lolling, after which Manrara says I seem to have good self-awareness and I get a celebratory double fist-bump. Now she’s going to teach me the basics of salsa. “Because salsa is the least technical, you don’t need to think much, as long as you can follow the timing.” Aiming not too high, then.
The steps I’m learning are less like the competition-standard Latin dance moves you see on Strictly, more like something you might see at a family party in Cuba. I’m happy with that; take me to the family party in Cuba. “It’s not a performance,” she says.
First without music, she shows me: step forward, back, close feet, step back, forward, close feet. Now lifting the feet a bit, whoops, no, that way. Next right and left, legs bent a bit, less stiff, less like a salsa-robot.
What about my arms? I never know what to do with my arms. “Imagine you’re playing the drums, hands in front, elbows out, and your hands are going the opposite way to your feet. And move the hips.” She wiggles her hips, like a slalom skier. I waggle mine, like a drunk tripping over. The hips don’t lie. But I think they can wait; baby steps and all that.
Manrara then puts on some salsa music, loud, though not quite loud enough to drown out my inhibitions. Now she’s in front of me: “Don’t look down, or you’ll step on my feet,” she says. Where to look then? I’m not ready for eye contact; I settle for over her shoulder.
OK, fine, it’s not so bad. But it’s quite a specific routine that Manrara has taught me, and I’ve been able to follow. But I also want to be confident, you know, just dancing, at a club (unlikely, these days, to be honest), at a wedding, possibly, dad dancing to I Will Survive, Staying Alive or Thriller.
“There is no right or wrong, it’s about letting go. When a song comes on that you love, forget who’s around, it’s about you; just be Sam. What’s your favourite song?” God, my favourite song, so many … “Your favourite style of music, then?” Er, I like a lot of reggae? She puts on Bob Marley’s Could You Be Loved and tells me to close my eyes and relax.
That – eyes closed – is a good one. I’m not in a bright studio with a famous dancer off the telly and a photographer from a national newspaper, I’m in a beach bar … Don’t let them change ya, O! Or even rearrange ya! Oh no! And I’m beginning to wobble, in a good way – well, my way, I don’t care if it’s good or not, remember? I still don’t know what to do with my arms …
“Put them up!” says Manrara. What, in the air? I don’t think I do that … well, maybe once, in Ibiza in 1987, but I’m not really a “hands in the air” kind of guy. So I just wave them around a bit – but then I hear David clicking away with his camera, and I remember where I am and why I’m here, and it kind of ruins the moment.
Still, I get a double high five, and guess what: Manrara says I’ve got natural internal rhythm! Ha! Obviously she tells everyone that, but I’m taking it.
Anyway, back to the salsa, and she wants to try one more thing. Remember the step: forward, back, close feet, back, forward, close feet, then side, side. But now she takes hold of my hands … And that’s making me self-conscious all over again. I should have mentioned the hand operation I had a couple of weeks ago, the fresh scar It might feel a bit weird and rough – is that why she’s recoiling in horror? She’s not recoiling in horror, though – she’s spinning around! Loosen your grip, she says. I see, to make us less twisty, less like a wet towel being wrung out.
She spins again, this time more successfully. I’m not going to lie, I’m feeling a tiny bit pleased with myself, not that I had much to do with it. It leads to more congratulations and double high fives. “Own your length!” Manrara tells me. What does that mean? “That’s not being cocky or arrogant or thinking you’re the best when you walk into a room; it’s about loving and embracing all of you. Own it!”
Got it: own my length. And I have to promise to go out and dance more often. “Because it really is medicine for the soul, and will help with confidence in all aspects of your life.” Great, I think that’s me cured then. As from today, no one puts Sam in the corner.
Janette Manrara hosts the Strictly Come Dancing Live UK Arena Tour, 20 January-13 February.
Tickets are available at strictlycomedancinglive.com
