I don’ know how we got the gig, six 7th grade girls as go-go dancers for a band made up of High School Boys, but if we ever once thought that our association with these High School Boys would raise our stock with our classmates in elementary school, we were sorely mistaken.
We wore our little league cheerleader’s uniform – circle skirts made of blue corduroy with white lining, blue bloomers, white short-sleeved shirts with peter pan collars, fold-down socks with saddle oxfords – and lest someone commit a faux pas and mistake us for cheerleaders, I borrowed my teacher’s stencil and made us little tiny tags to tape to our blouses proclaiming us to the world as Go-Go Girls.
The song the boys chose to perform for the local talent show was Louie, Louie, and apparently there were some bad words in it (which is probably why they selected it, although it occurs to me just now that it could be that Louie, Louie was the only song they knew how to play) but since nobody on the Kiwanis Club selection committee could actually pick out the bad words when listening to the song played by the original artist, the band won on a technicality. Members of the band never spoke to us, not even as we waited in the wings for
our their name to be called. They prepared the music. We listened to our 45 rpm vinyl and practiced our dancing, without ever considering that Louie, Louie, when performed by this bunch of High School Boys, might not sound exactly the same as it did on our record. We went on stage together, performed as we said we would, then exited and went our own ways. There was no getting to know each other, no hey-could-your-parents-bring-you-to-town-so-we-could-work-some-things-out-over-a-milkshake, no expressions of appreciation, congratulations, or hey-could-your-parents-bring-you-to-town-so-we-could-celebrate-over-a-milkshake afterwards.
I thought about that last night as we danced the night away while The Village People sang Macho Man, In the Navy, and the perennial crowd favorite, YMCA. (Did you know that to make the M by letting your elbows stick up in the air as you put your fingertips on your shoulders is WRONG? It is with a red face that I tell you that I, long-time/hard-core Village People fan that I am, didn’t either till last night.) My daughter, Alison knows The Biker, and tired as he was, he still came over to meet us for a drink at a nearby restaurant last night after the show. We talked and laughed and laughed and talked for a couple of hours that passed in a snap. Eric is so approachable, so attractive, so affable, so easy and fun to be with. All that, and he’s talented to boot. He regaled us with stories from the road, we talked Southern to him, and I declare: he may be a California turned New Jersey boy, but he’s got a streak of Southern in him, too.
You know, next time I see him, I’m gonna’ suggest they get them six go-go-girls as stage dressing. Just picture it: Biker, Construction Worker, GI, Policeman, Indian, Cowboy AND Go-Go Girls – three on each side of the stage. This could work. This could really work.
Though she can no longer fit into her cheerleading/go-go girl get-up, Jeanne Hewell-Chambers needs only two feet and a floor to dance. Stories are her music now as she waltzes through 100 stories in 100 days. You can add her to your dance card by mashing the button in the orange bar at the top of the screen and becoming friends on facebook.
Pull up a chair why don't you, and let's talk . . .