From middle school until the end of college, I was fiercely committed to being an uneducated but passionate music snob. If it was on the radio, it wasn’t good music. It was part of my core identity for a long time and carried me most strongly during the years immediately after high school. I never wanted to create music myself, but I had exactly zero direction and spent all my time going to underground music shows in basements and living rooms, drinking and being incredibly bored by life in general as everyone around me was also doing.
I did enjoy finding new bands, decided what I liked based on what my friends were saying, feeling better than other people if they hadn’t heard of said obscure bands, judging people based on their music taste, and generally being a hipster since day one. And although that part of me was already starting to fade as I developed more elaborate reasons to judge people with the passage of time, my relationship to music changed completely with dance.
It wasn’t all at once, but eventually, I stopped listening to anything except music I can dance to. This includes pop from dancing dance Blues, Fusion and West Coast Swing and also genre-specific music for Kizomba, Zouk and sometimes Bachata. Like this amazing song and video from the talented queen Jennifer Dias.
These days, the moments when I appreciate music for music’s sake are rare. I tend to treat music as a background, a soundtrack. Something to get me pumped up when I have to fight my way through the crowded and chaotic streets of Mexico City and navigate from one end of the airport to another. When I’m on a road trip or when I’m washing dishes. When I put in my headphones and head out the door I get to dance, at least in my head. It doesn’t matter if I’m commuting or working or cleaning around the house. If I’m in the mood for music I’m in the mood to dance. It keeps me connected to my passion and gives me motivation.
And as much as I still enjoy listening to music, the focus has shifted, and somewhere along the line, the appeal of going to a venue dwindled to zero. So when I was asked to go to a concert of the bachata singer Romeo Santos, I was hesitant. I have danced blues and salsa to a live band, and I loved it. The energy in the room was amazing. But a dance social with a live band is a different animal from a concert of dance music. I am also not a huge fan of dancing bachata, and it certainly isn’t something I listen to when I’m not dancing.
But I did go, and I’m really glad I did. What I didn’t know going in is that Romeo Santos is basically a legend and that a lot of people listen to him who don’t dance bachata. He also sings pop and salsa. He’s a good-looking Dominican and Puerto Rican from the Bronx, going on 40, who sings and talks in a high pitched voice while dressing like he’s ready to meet Pitbull at the club and have a fashion-off for the most “mirrey” and yet somehow still manages to be a sex symbol.
When I’ve gone to see live music in the past, I’ve mostly gone to what I would consider “shows” not “concerts.” I’m not sure where I would draw the line exactly, but a show is something that I consider happens in a smaller venue. And I liked shows because of the intimate setting, the cheap drinks, and the feel of an older building. Basically, a dive bar is where I feel most comfortable.
But this was 100% a concert. A giant arena, a light show, heart-shaped confetti, all of it. Not only was the music itself on point, but Santos was an extremely charismatic performer. He worked the crowd telling jokes and brought male and female fans on stage to sing with him, one of which had not one but two tattoos of Romeo’s face. I also liked that the women he brought on stage were not super babes, they were your average looking fans. One got so overwhelmed she started crying and it was one of the sweetest things I have ever seen.
I left remembering what I had liked about having music as part of my identity. After all, you can’t separate music from dancing. Movement as expression is a response to sound. I realized that the importance of music in my life had never really left, it had just changed shape. It had become something more personal, more meaningful to me. However effervescent, everytime I dance I am creating. It’s easy for me to forget the standalone importance music has in my life. But music allows me to connect to other parts of myself. The act of experiencing music for its’ own sake allows me to be a more complete and complex version of myself.
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