Don’t Walk, Boogie (Artist Date #5)
Playing records and dancing in the middle of the day
I’m writing about my weekly creative adventures. They’re inspired by Julia Cameron’s book The Artist’s Way. “An Artist Date is a tool for attention. A solo expedition to do something that enchants or interests you.” These dates, I hope, are a way to replenish my energy, gather new ideas, feel braver in the world.
For this artist date, I choose a few records, play them back to back in the middle of the day, and dance.
I’ve always loved loved loved records, always had a few vinyl albums. I like to prop them up against walls or on tables, make a little display of my favourites. A large square record feels bigger and better and more important than a little tape or CD. If I adore an album, I need to see it large and important on my shelf.
I finish my phone call, tidy away my papers and laptop, set my chair aside and create a dancefloor on the living room rug.
First is Gladys Knight and the Pips. I laugh a lot at myself as I try to dance in a smooth way to match Gladys’ smooth voice but end up in a sort of arhythmic tap-dance. Still, it’s such a pleasure to hear the songs on vinyl. I like holding the sleeve, finding the right side, slipping it onto the turntable, then the moment when a dusty crackle rises, that rough, not-quiet sound of the needle on the vinyl before the music begins.
I play Star Eaters Delight, which I have on gold vinyl by Lael Neal, she’s one of my recent loves. I met her after a gig and she signed it to me! The opening track is called I am a River and I dance like I think a river might. The song is propulsive and eager and compelling. It’s the kind that begins with you nodding your head, then your shoulders lift and fall, and a moment later your hips and knees and elbows are joining, too. Remember dancing, remember magic, Lael sings. I did, I do.
It’s intimate, I realise, sharing these private moments on artist dates but knowing I will write about the experience helps me pay attention more and try to describe how it is to be brave in small ways within myself. Is it weird to say I had to work up the courage to let myself dance without self-consciousness, even alone?
My body only remembers how I danced most recently—side steps and claps in the kitchen—but not how I would dance on a dancefloor. I try to imagine myself at different eras of my life. Who was I when I danced at music festivals and clubs and weddings? I decide to keep on dancing and see if my body had the answers.
I find Don’t Walk, Boogie, from 1978 which includes great disco songs from Tavares, T-Rex and La Belle Epoque. The record is my mum’s, so when I listen and dance, I think of her as a young woman with bobbed dark hair and flares listening and dancing, too. My uncle was a DJ, so between them they had so many records. In fact, my mum has written her name hard and underlined on the sleeves, warning him away.
I suddenly remember a very early memory of dancing as a tiny child, pretending I was a bird, I think, or a ballerina, caught in a trap. I danced while trying to loosen my arms and legs and when I thought I was free, I was pulled back. I borrow the example from my childhood self and now, on the rug in my living room, try to dance the story of each song, expressing the lyrics in my moves.
The doorbell and the postman call to the front door and Marshall Hain’s Dancing in the City follows me downstairs as I sign for a package. As I dash back to my flat I have a vision of being in my early twenties and hearing this song at a party. I’d wanted to dance but didn’t dare dance alone. Now, beside the sofa and the cushions and the bookcases, I do dance.
The song shimmers, hypnotic.
June 2025. This essay is by me, Gemma Seltzer. I run Write & Shine, a programme of early morning writing workshops. Also: I’m hosting a free summertime writing hour for Write & Shine on Friday 18 July, from 7-8am (UK time)! Virtual, on Zoom. Sign up via Write & Shine for details.