competition

So you didn’t make finals, eh?

On several occasions recently I’ve heard conversations from disappointed competitors about not making finals, or, in some cases, of not placing or even winning. Not surprisingly, these conversations involve a heavy dose of negativity – towards other competitors, towards the judges, and even towards the event and the event directors.

The truth is, if everyone’s only in it to win it, then everyone but two people will be unhappy at the end of the competition.

Look, what we do – this whole dancing thing – is inherently subjective. It’s technical, yes, but it’s also an art form, and along with artistry goes personal opinions, values, and biases. On top of that is the fact that each event has different judges with different values and opinions. And on top of that is the fact that judges will only see a fraction of your dance – and you don’t know which fraction. Plus, each competition has a different mix of competitors. And honestly, someone may have just had a better day than you. It happens. But the bottom line is you just don’t know. You don’t know how other people are performing (especially if you’re on the dance floor with them). You don’t know what the judges saw. You don’t always know what the judges want to see. And the way we do judging is relative, meaning you may have had a great day but there were enough people who had a better day. There are a lot of variables at play, and if you choose to compete, you choose to accept the variability, the unpredictability, and the risk.

If you’re thinking, “Sure, Eric, easy for you to say,” then you don’t know what you’re talking about. I started West Coast Swing <gulp> twelve years ago. And while I had some early success and some recent success, I’ve had a lot of my own struggles – and the frustration that goes with them. There were years when I didn’t make finals, to the point that I stopped competing for a few years. “What’s the point?” I would ask myself. I resigned myself to thinking that I was a great social dancer and a great teacher, but I just didn’t have what it takes to be a good competitor. I had more fun at events once I stopped doing Jack & Jills, but the truth is that I had adopted a negative internal story. On the outside I pretended I didn’t care, but on the inside I was down on myself.

My complaining was symptomatic of an underlying combination of insecurity and self-doubt (something I can’t help but hear in some of the complaining I now hear from others). The idea that I deserved to make finals over other people, that at every and any moment I was superior to others, that my own perceptions and judgments were objectively and definitively correct and accurate – it wasn’t just foolish but also arrogant. And of course the fact that I cared so much about the outcomes of competitions and that my happiness was dependent on them was symptomatic of insecurity – a lack of something that left me without an internal sense of my own value. It was as if my own self-worth – as a dancer and as a person – was based on my success in competitions.

By now I’ve been around long enough to see the ups and downs of competing – in myself and in many, many others. I’ve seen the same story play out time and time again, variations on a theme, but a common archetype nonetheless. And, well, maybe I’m getting wiser in my old age. Maybe I’m just getting mellower. Maybe with experience comes more maturity. Or maybe I’ve just learned from my experience. But I’ve adopted a better attitude for myself and I like to think it’s paying off – in competition but more importantly for my enjoyment of this dance.

So listen, if you compete, or if you’re considering competing, here’s my advice, for what it’s worth:

Accept the reality of competing (see above). Honestly, a lot of the time it’s a crap shoot, and you should truly be okay with that.
Think about why you compete. I started competing to earn accolades so I could teach and contribute to the community. But somewhere along the way I began competing for the ego boost, for the recognition and praise, for the sense of self-worth it gave me. If the latter is what you’re after, you’re going to be disappointed. A lot. And if you’re not honest with yourself about this, the disappointment will continue. (Signs to watch out for when you don’t make finals: you blame others, you feel badly about yourself, you don’t want to see people, you don’t want to dance.) Find your reason for competing and make sure it’s something positive and healthy – an internal drive to grow instead of a need for an external reward.
Don’t point fingers. No matter the outcome, whether you win or don’t make finals or not. The blame game does no one any good. It’s not nice, it’s not fair, and, most importantly, it’s not productive. Blaming others is absolving yourself of any control over the situation, as if there’s nothing you can do, and that kind of attitude isn’t going to help you move forward (nor will talking poorly of other people in a very social community). Which leads to…
Take responsibility for your own dancing. Stop blaming your partner or the judges or anyone else and start working on your dancing. Appreciate your strengths and work on your weaknesses. Develop your dance so you can be great consistently, no matter the judge, no matter the partner, no matter the day.
And for goodness sake, have fun! This is dance. It’s not world peace or solving hunger or curing cancer. The stakes are low and the rewards should be high. It’s something we should do because we love it and because it brings out the best in us. It shouldn’t make us unhappy, frustrated, stressed, or negative. Who wants to be that person?

My goal is to keep pushing myself as a dancer, and I use competitions as one measure of that progress. But honestly, I’m up against some great talent – guys I really admire and look up to – and I know I won’t always find success. Plus, at the upper levels there’s more differentiation among competitors, so that each dancer’s best is different from the next, and that makes the judging even more challenging to decipher. So if you can’t handle the disappointment at the lower levels, you’re in for a ride as you move up the ranks. Instead, do your best now to find your inner strength, work on your dancing, and enjoy the journey.

And leave the negativity to someone else. You’ll be better off without it.

Have you had challenging experiences competing? How do you handle frustration or disappointment? How do you console others who might be upset by the outcomes of a competition? Teachers, how do you help your students prepare for competitions, mentally and emotionally?

A winning attitude

I don’t know about you, but no matter how many times I compete, I still get nervous. I may be fine right up until I start dancing, but that first dance – or worse, my only dance if it’s a spotlight – and I’m tense. The adrenaline rushes through my body and it’s like I’m not there. I’m not present or focused and I’m certainly not relaxed.

At this year’s Capital Swing, as I sat there waiting for my spotlight in the All Star Jack & Jill finals, I could feel a wave of panic rising up just under the surface. At times I felt like I just wasn’t in the room; at other times, I could feel my heart racing; and sometimes I would run through dance moves in my head, as if preparing somehow. I watched my peers get up and have amazing dances, some of them out of the park awesome, and I was awed and intimidated. I mean, how am I supposed to compete against dancing like that?

As more and more names got called, I started to get it together. Mentally. I sat there and had a chat with myself. I realized that I was trying too much – trying to plan, trying to prepare, trying to have an amazing dance. And that was what was freaking me out: all the pressure to have an amazing dance. My expectations for myself were huge and it stressed me out.

So I made a decision: just have a simple dance.

As Brandi Tobias said recently, “This is West Coast Swing. They’ve seen it all. You won’t surprise them, you won’t shock them, you won’t impress them. All you can do is make them feel something.” (She’s right, of course.) So I decided to adopt that mentality. My strategy shifted from trying to amaze to trying to just have a simple dance. Suddenly, I was relieved. A simple dance – I can do that.

And when my turn finally came around (I was last, so I had time to talk myself down), I went with my new strategy. And yes, I lucked out and drew an amazing partner, but all of those followers sitting up there were amazing. And yes, got a really fun song, but Beth Bellamy was DJing some great music for everyone in our division. At the end of the day, it was my mindset and attitude that allowed me to relax and stay present and have the most fun I’ve ever had in a competition. In case you missed it, here was our dance:

And the reward? Not my placement, honestly, though that was nice. No, the reward was the confidence I gained from having a great dance in front of a crowded room. The reward was the support from my peers, all of whom I have great respect for. The reward was finding a mental strategy that I intend to use over and over again. Most amazing dance ever? No. We didn’t even win the division. But for me, it was an amazing experience that I’ll never forget. And isn’t that why we dance?

What’s your strategy and mindset for competing? Do you psych yourself out trying to win or trying to have an amazing dance? How do you fight the pressure and stress of competing? Teachers, how do you coach your students to compete? How do you help them adopt the right mindset for competition?

Hitting the breaks… or not

In exploring blues music, one inevitably comes across the infamous “break” – the last 8 beats of a major phrase during which the instruments build up tension that resolves with the new phrase. Sometimes this break is a hard stop of all vocals and instrumentation (what we often think of when we hear the word “break”). Other times it is a change in instrumentation (some instruments temporarily stop playing), and sometimes it’s simply a big percussive crescendo that ends on the first beat of the new phrase.

Lots of dancers can feel the build up to the break and in response they hit the break hard, stopping completely and holding until the new phrase begins. If it’s a hard break and the music stops, it makes sense that the dancers should likewise stop moving (of course, I know of others who may disagree). But while we occasionally encounter hard breaks (a stop of all vocals and instruments), most songs have breaks that include some vocals or instrumentation. In those cases, a hard stop might not be the most appropriate (read: musical). (NB: Even during a hard break, picking up momentum and building to the new major phrase is a great way to create tension and contrast.) But there are several different ways for interpreting the break section, depending on the nature of the break and what’s occurring musically. I would argue that the four primary ways of dealing with breaks are the following:

Ignore the break and build up to the first beat of the new phrase.
Build up to the break and then stop or hold until the new phrase begins (hard break).
Build up to the break and then dance through the break but with less momentum (soft break).
Build up to and hit the break and then build momentum again to the first beat of the new phrase.

It’s good to be able to do all four options, so you can adapt to whatever song is playing and so you have a wider range of options for responding to breaks, leading to more variety and different creative opportunities. And, as noted in my previous post, it’s always better if you can execute in a way that is comfortable and inviting for your partner.

Of course, the idea here is that at a minimum, whether you have a hard stop or simply change your movement in some way, you should acknowledge the break in your dancing. If the music is changing during the break, then your dancing should likewise change. If you maintain the business-as-usual momentum and dance through any accents or crescendos or stops, then you’re missing the break altogether; it’s not musical, and it probably won’t feel as good.

What is your approach to breaks? How do you describe or identify breaks? How were you taught (or how do you teach) about hitting the breaks?

Shades of Gray

A minor controversy erupted last week as a member of the dance community, one who had been publicly expressing her opinion for some time, distributed an email that included some harsh criticisms of performances at the US Open. Those who were criticized, as well as their friends and supporters, spoke out against this person, attacking both her opinions and her character.

I don’t agree with what this person said, and I certainly don’t condone the way she said it. But the voracity with which people responded to her criticisms gave me pause. Yes, we need to state our opinions – whether popular or not (and especially if not) – with respect, humility, and an open mind to other viewpoints, but at the same time, whether we like them or not, I believe we should also exhibit tolerance and acceptance and allow dissenting or unpopular opinions.

The fact is that we are a community of diverse people, and with that goes diverse experiences, diverse perspectives, and diverse opinions. At the same time, we are a community of people who are often passionate about what we do, which means we often have strong opinions. And there are many who in part or in full depend on what we do for a living, which means we are sometimes prone to taking things personally. In the end, though, it’s this diversity of opinions, and the associated passionate discussions that we share about our craft, that keeps this community vibrant and alive and healthy.

I think it’s important to recognize, too, that we are a community built around an art form, and that means that most everything is subjective and there rarely if ever is an absolute right or wrong. I do my best to keep that in mind whenever I teach, and whenever I write these blog posts, and I try to foster an open forum where all opinions are welcome, as long as they are expressed nicely, with respect and an open mind. It’s particularly on my mind when I try to raise hot-button issues like swing content, as I did in my last post.

In our community we have some “experts” or “authorities”: people whose opinions are highly valued. For my part, I greatly respect those who have dedicated their lives to dance and our community, and who have won competitions and earned well-deserved admiration. I think they have a wealth of knowledge and perspective that can grow and enhance our craft, and therefore they deserve to be considered authorities. After all, if a person has been in the community long enough and had enough experiences, it gives that person a stronger foundation on which to build conclusions, and thus tested and validated opinions. But I also think there’s a danger to blindly accepting the opinion of any one expert as the only and absolute truth, especially at the exclusion of differing or even contradictory opinions. What seems right to you does not necessarily make other opinions wrong. (Of course, even the authorities disagree, so how does one choose “the right one” in the first place?) In fact, I find that oftentimes the differing opinions of the experts either complement one another or else are the same idea wrapped in different language.

At the same time, there’s something to be said for people who have some experience, but not so much that they have lost a more objective perspective. We’ve most likely heard the expression “We need a fresh set of eyes” at one point or another. This is a great attitude – a recognition that those who are immersed in something can lose perspective or objectivity – but it is also an attitude which is sometimes adopted up until that “fresh set of eyes” proposes an unpopular idea, at which point it’s easy to say that the person doesn’t have enough experience.

Thinking of our own community, we don’t all have to agree, but I believe we should hear out and respect others’ opinions, no matter what they are or where they come from. We should also present our ideas with respect for others, recognition that there are others who have been around longer and know more, and an open mind that acknowledges that the content of our discussions is frequently if not always subjective.

What do you think? Do you think all opinions are equally valid or are some more valid than others? Do you agree that winning awards makes someone an expert? Are there other ways of becoming an authority? Are there ways to ensure that we do a better job of being open and respectful? What can we do to resolve differences in a more civil manner?

The $64,000 Question

Every few years a controversy erupts in the swing community, something at a competitive event that riles people up and gets everyone talking. That happened once again at this year’s Tampa Bay Classic.

I first heard about this through the grapevine, not long after it happened, and I subsequently read Liza May’s account of what happened. After a few rounds of phone tag, I was finally able to get in touch with someone who was in the room, so I could find out what actually occurred from someone who was there.

I’ll spare you the details, but essentially what happened was that the Showcase couples competed Friday night, and on Saturday, the head judge convened a second judging panel to review video of the routines for swing content. Saturday night the Showcase competitors were called into a special meeting, where they were informed that their routines would likely receive swing content violations at this week’s US Open. Competitors were shocked and concerned, others were appalled and confused, and everyone was upset and angry that the head judge killed the mood of the event.

As a result, a firestorm erupted on Facebook as Mario Robau commented, and then Earl Pingel and Parker Dearborn debated with him about what happened, what it means for the competitors involved, what it means for judging in general, and what it means for the dance and the dance community as a whole.

While pretty shocking, it wasn’t nearly as bad or as severe as reports might have you believe. The Showcase competitors weren’t disqualified at the event, and no one told them they had to change their choreography. From what I heard from Showcase competitors, they were mostly upset that no one provided a clear explanation of what “swing content” is – and therefore what they should do to make sure they have enough of it in their routines.

And that, in my mind, is what this is ultimately all about: swing content. What is it? What is enough of it to call a dance “swing” or not “swing”? And even if you could say how much of it you need for a dance to be “swing”, how would you measure it?

Whether we like it or not, our dance is competition-oriented, meaning that it is competition that both sets the standard and simultaneously pushes the limits of our dance. One could argue that our dance has evolved so rapidly because our community’s top competitors have been seeking new music and new moves that expand our dance. At the same time, others argue that what’s being done is no longer swing – and that brings us back to the definition of “swing.”

I don’t consider myself a swing purist, but I also think that there are some things out there today on our competitive dance floor that aren’t swing. I took one of Mario’s intensives once, and personally, I kinda like how he defines swing. I’m paraphrasing here, but in his intensive he lays out the elements of swing that together make the dance: partnership, a slot, starting with even rhythms and ending with odd rhythms, the connection of the anchor, and a foundation of 6- and 8-count patterns. He then uses the analogy of a table to describe how he sees the dance: swing is the tabletop, held up by several legs – these elements of swing – and while you can remove one or two of them, eventually, if you remove too many, the table collapses and you no longer have swing.

In my mind, there are certain things that are not swing: excessive walking, finger spins, rolling around on the floor. These are not unique to our dance, or even to any dance, and when I see too much of it in competition, I can’t help but roll my eyes and think, “For goodness’ sake: dance!” But there’s a grey space between swing basics and “flash and trash” – where two people are dancing together to the music with some but not all of those key elements of swing – that leaves some of us thrilled by the display of innovation and others disappointed at the degradation of our dance.

The bottom line is that there is no universal definition of swing, and the definition – like the dance itself – is very personal, with each person having their own view. We may get a consensus among an authoritative body of judges, but my guess is that the definition will either be so narrow as to limit creativity and innovation (and thus cause a riot among competitors) or else be so broad that it says nothing (but appeals to everyone). This dance evolves – it originally came about and became its own dance by evolving away from its parent dance, lindy hop – and it will continue to evolve. Maybe a new dance will be born, maybe this dance will cycle back to its origins the way the lindy community did a few years ago when it had its revival, and maybe we’ll just keep pushing the limits of this dance while keeping it rooted in the fundamentals.

I don’t know how this will all play out, but I’m looking forward to seeing it either way.

What about you? How do you define “swing”? How do you feel about the direction of the dance and its “swing content”? Would you like to see more swing in competitions? How much more? Post your comments below.

One more thing: Happy Thanksgiving! And best of luck to those competing at the US Open this weekend!