Dancing like the pros

When you're in the middle of dance class and the instructor asks, "How many of you have ever had whipped cream on your butt?" you can be pretty sure you're in for an interesting experience.

In fact, the master class on the style of Bob Fosse that I attended at Pineapple Studios in London was probably the most intriguing — and certainly the most inspiring — dance class I've ever taken.

Taught by Chet Walker — one of Fosse's original students and the creator of the hit Broadway show "Fosse" — and attended by dancers from the London productions of "Fosse" and "Chicago," the class was two hours of insight into the workings of Bob Fosse's very strange, creative mind.

When I saw the sign advertising Chet's class (he insisted we call him Chet, but then again, he also insisted we shout out random things while we were dancing), I was incredibly excited. I've always been interested in the "Fosse style," known for its mildly contortionist positions and for the fact that it's completely unlike any other style of dance.

Despite my desire to learn to dance in this style, however, I've never been able to find anyone who teaches it, even in New York. When I asked Chet about other classes, he told me that there literally is no one who teaches a regularly meeting Fosse class, anywhere. You can learn it only in special workshop situations (rare), by watching it and trying to copy it (hard) or by getting cast in a Fosse show (right!).

So, in other words, when I arrived at the class, I was feeling pretty lucky to have the chance to take it at all, and I was fairly wound up for an incredible time. After the warm-up, though, I was thoroughly demoralized. My legs were shaking so much I could hardly stand, and dancing next to professional ballerinas and performers from the West End — the London equivalent of Broadway — was not doing much for my ego.

Then came the payoff. The class that followed made up for all the frustration I've ever felt in dance classes I've taken. I've never experienced anything quite like it. The thing with Fosse's style is that it's completely unique, and therefore incredibly difficult to teach, but Chet had learned the real deal. He had worked with Fosse, he knew how Fosse taught and he passed that on to us.

After one particularly complex string of commands — "Stand on your right leg with your left leg in front of you. Now lean forward and arch your back. Pull your arms backward as far as they'll go, but let them dangle below your elbows. Drop your head forward and roll it slowly to the front while sliding your feet backward, pulsing your rib cage and gyrating your hips" — everyone in the class was lost, pros included. I was starting to think I was playing some ultra-complex game of abstract Twister instead of dancing.

Chet watched us struggle for a minute, with an aggravating smirk on his face. Then he delivered his punch line: "How many of you have ever had whipped cream on your butt?" Thankfully, no one felt the need to answer him.

After enjoying his moment, like the true Broadway performer he is, Chet explained himself, saying that Fosse had asked him the same thing in rehearsal once, following it up by saying, "I want you to dance like you've got whipped cream on your butt and it feels really good!" The funny thing is, we all got the step after that.

The secret to performing the way Bob Fosse saw it, Chet explained, is convincing the audience that your dancing has a purpose. It's not that they have to know what it is you are doing, but they must be convinced you are up to something. The mystique Fosse created this way is also what made, and still makes, his dances so sexy — especially today, when audiences have become immune to blatantly sexual moves and skimpy clothing.

To prove his point, Chet kept up a running commentary as we danced, giving us a basic story idea — we were cat-burglars in New York City — that had nothing to do with the actual dance, and grounding every one of the steps to something in the real world or at least something concrete. The images he gave ranged from comical and innocent — strutting flamingos and human elevators — to so incredibly vulgar that even the whipped-cream idea started to sound tame.

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The difference in everyone's dancing was incredible. For me, I was amazed that all of a sudden the combinations of wiggles, ripples, pulses and gyrations that had been absolutely impossible suddenly fell into place.

I couldn't move the next day, when all those wiggling and gyrating muscles decided to complain about their sudden abuse after 20 years of lethargy, but while I was in the class, the feeling was amazing. I was on such a high after the class that I was tempted to flamingo-strut down the street.

It's hard to go back to the predictability of my weekly jazz class after those two hours of inspiration, but, as the cliché says, life goes on. Maybe I'll try to convince my current London teachers to put some flamingos and elevators into our double pirouettes and grand jetés.

Then again, if I want to go all out, I am still a little curious about the whipped cream thing.

Amanda Brandes '02 is an English major from Rutland, Mass. She is currently studying in London and can be reached at abrandes@princeton.edu.