After eight years of unabated success, York's 12th Night Extravaganza finds itself at the grounds of the city's University having definitively outgrown the facilities at St.John's. And whilst acknowledging that the running of the North of England's only salsa congress is not the work of one person in isolation, its rise is surely a testament to Tony Piper's philosophy and will.
I find that any social event be it a lesson, club night, or congress weekender, reflects the culture and values of its main organisational driver. I believe 12th Night to be no exception, and whilst Tony's forthright manner may not be everyone's cup of tea, his Salsa Extravaganza is a more telling measure of the man. It has a charm of understated informality; an inclusiveness that draws together the leading lights of the region, and yet generously showcases the talents of those less well-known. Its programme of workshops have been planned to give a relaxed and easy pace throughout the day; and the parties at night, unfettered from the sideline's critical eye, are a true celebration of dance.
Dance as the end, and not the means to an end, is the Extravaganza's core.
And so I find myself in the middle of my basic but clean single room in Wentworth Hall, all dressed up and ready to dance, clutching a bottle of delectable rosé champagne for Mary and Tony in thanks for being their guest. With steam still issuing from the shower of the en-suite, I pull the door to and head out on the three minute walk to where the festivities are - The Roger Kirk Centre. It's Friday night and the man-made lake, around which York University campus is huddled, is an ice-rink for ducks as England bears the coldest winter she's experienced in fifty years.
Stepping into Reception, Mary and Tony are already there as hosts with a warm greeting for all. I get the obligatory banter and friendly abuse which I hurl back in equal measure - it'd've been rude not to. After hanging up my coat on the plentiful racks (an important and oft-overlooked detail at other places), I proceed through the now-closed cafeteria and into the generous main hall. One look tells me all I need to know.
A long well-staffed bar on one side; a dance floor bound on one side by a 0.5m high stage and ample seating-around tables on the other three; a total capacity circa 500 people; and open-able windows in the entirely-glazed outer wall means some measure of client control over ventilation. The floor looked like unsealed resin over concrete which was already kicking up power through erosion (many dancers over the weekend were to assume that talc had been laid down); the ladies' balls of foot were going to be throbbing at the end of the night; and dancers who didn't have stopping technique were going to be spinning gingerly.
The sound engineers would have had their hands full (they certainly didn't look like happy bunnies) with the highly sound-reflective surfaces and multi-tiered ceiling. As it turns out my preferred spot, right in front of stage, had the best acoustics - which was just perfect as Palenke were playing. They were one highlight in a studded evening, and a real surprise was whom they'd co-opted as their guest timbalero: none other than Jimmy Le Messurier. Palenke was right on the money, creating an atmosphere of relaxed yet vibrant energy which DJ Lubi skillfully continued for his all-too-short stint.
The time in-between the band's sets featured entertaining dance performances: dancesport chachachá, dancesport rhumba, mambo and funk-freestyles. These physical interjections, far from breaking the momentum of the night, were kept short and proved valuable association and cooling-down time. Certainly those in the audience, with their lighted faces, were cheered and cheered. When the shows closed and the band resumed the stage, I'd stopped doing my impression of being a hot-water bottle on legs. Now at a partner-considerate lukewarm temperature, I snuck up on Mary and pounced on her for a dance.
That's a metaphorical pounce by the way. For those of you who know Mary, you'll agree that catching her unawares is one of the great scientific improbabilities.
I was due only to spend the one night in York; some soul had had the temerity to book my room for Saturday night ...the cad! Mary discovered this over the course of our salsa a la cubana together, and offered me their spare room for Saturday. She's not the type to brook any argument, especially when hospitality is concerned. Truth be told, Tony had offered as well not a few hours previously - and with both their generous invitations, I chose to be honest and place myself in their debt once again.
Friday night proved to be the Essence of 12th Night. And as I retired to bed in the not-so-wee hours of Saturday, I remembered again why I needed to be in York.
(On to Part Three.)
Yeo Loo Yen
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