So you think you can dance?

eXpressions:

When trying out for eXpressions, I knew I had stumbled upon something special. Instead of being cold and intimidating, auditions felt like rushing for a sorority filled with your best girlfriends who all, by fantastic coincidence, happened to dance beautifully.

Before warming up, all the members of eXpressions’ sensuous dance troupe formed a large circle, integrating themselves with the 10 people trying out. Introductions were candid and warm as each girl gushed about her favorite candy bar or professed an adoration for dark chocolate. In the midst of this girly love circle, each of us lost track of auditions in a sisterhood of trust and eternal friendship. In this circle of sharing, eXpressions felt like what I can only imagine a spin-the-bottle-playing, “Mean Girls”-watching, truth-or-dare-exchanging girly sleepover feels like.

But soon all talk of chocolate ended. In a matter of minutes, this sisterly slumber party was transformed into an aerobically exhausting warm-up that would have punished even Taylor Lautner’s abtastic core. Although all those auditioning were fatigued by dynamic stretching, the tasteful soundtrack pushed everyone to find perseverance as we plied and bounded artfully across the room. Then came the routines.

In the hip-hop routine, we coquettishly swung our hips and flicked our wrists in a way that made Reese Witherspoon’s “bend and snap” look like a spasmodic dry hump. Aside from our feminine swag, we girls brought the emotion in the lyrical routine. This second routine ended with a longing, unrequited lifting of the arms that was as haunting as Natalie Portman’s performance in “The Black Swan.”

All in all, eXpressions tryouts were dazzling, coy, moving and fierce. Together we danced, laughed and cried, but most importantly, we formed a dancing kinship that will inexorably bind us together. Forever. And ever.

By Nick Ellis

BAC:

If you are curious about swag, possess little to no swag or want to “swag it up” in front of an audience, then you should never miss BAC auditions. Although you may be wondering how one learns to swag it out like the freshest of hip-hop gods, BAC has created the perfect environment to let the “swag-challenged” masses grow into the confident, dope-ass, pop-and-locking groove champions they know they can be.

I myself was dubious that, underneath my soft, uncoordinated and awkward exterior, there existed a ferocious, ultra-confident, dirty-dancing alter ego. But my doubts were erased as BAC bumped some tunes that would have made even an arthritic and curmudgeonly grandfather want to break it down. With the selection of the poetic classic “Rack City” accompanying the choreography, my world was transformed.

The BAC instructors functioned as swag captains, assisting the many students auditioning in the mechanics of nailing a perfect dougie, jerk or body roll. As groups were called out to perform the complete choreography in front of BAC, the atmosphere was anything but intimidating or stifling. Hypnotized by Tyga’s rhythmic chanting of “rack rack city bitch, rack rack city bitch,” those performing lost themselves in a flurry of swinging hips and shaking butts.

This intoxicating hip-hop atmosphere would have convinced the shyest of suburban soccer moms that she possessed a badonkadonk in need of expression. Indeed, as BAC tryouts ended, devolving into a glorified dance party, all of us silently acknowledged that something special, something miraculous had just happened in the Dillon Multi-Purpose Room. BAC auditions had made life possible once again.

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By Nick Ellis

Highsteppers:

If you’re anything like me, you’ve probably found yourself terrified, amazed and mesmerized by the Highsteppers and the beats they bring. How can slapping, stomping and clapping create such a thunderous groove? And, more importantly, why does stylized clapping and stomping look so awesome?

Knowing how to snap my fingers and clap my hands, I felt like I had an advantage going into auditions. Although Highsteppers shows appear to be really complex, polished and physically demanding, how hard can “stepping” really be?

Really hard. Turns out, stepping is really, really hard.

The militaristic precision and accuracy required for stepping did not bode well for my undisciplined and unfocused disposition. Yet, despite my personal shortcomings, I was determined to “step.” After an hour of learning choreography, my hands were red, my legs were red, my arms were red. While I thoroughly enjoyed the dramatic techniques I was learning, my body silently protested its new role as a drum.

Before long, I found myself called in front of the Highsteppers panel. No music. Just me, my hands and a tragic sense of balance and rhythm. I punished the floor. I punished myself. All in order to give life to the beats that now resided in my delicate, well-fed exterior. After two hours of literally slapping myself into submission, I emerged a changed man. No longer merely mortal, I became a breathing percussion instrument, a vehicle for thunder, a conductor of the primal forces of the universe.

So maybe I fell over. Maybe I forgot the choreography. Regardless, Highsteppers auditions taught me that hands and feet were not made for grasping and walking. No — our creator made us for one reason: to stomp. To stomp fiercely.

By Nick Ellis

diSiac:

Last sunday, I auditioned for diSiac along with 30 or so freshmen, a smattering of sophomores, one or two other juniors and one courageous senior. As my legions of fawning fans, reverent readers and alliterative acquaintances know, my dancing can best be described as the rhythmic manifestation of an orgasm. So, I mean, it’s the tops, y’know? Obviously, I got in. The members of diSiac probably spent all night in discussions talking about how excited they were to dance in my presence and wondering if I have an identical twin that can also join.

I did learn quite a bit from attending the audition. I now understand why they call themselves diSiac: I was turned on the entire time. That may have just been me, though, as I am sexually attracted to intimidation and physical exhaustion. After the physiologically impossible stretches and the ab-shattering “light warm-ups,” the auditionees were broken into groups and taught an upbeat hip-hop dance and a fluid lyrical dance. Included among said auditionees were eight or so fraternity pledges who were dressed up in tight, ridiculous outfits and were clearly having a wonderful time making utter fools of themselves. There was also the one obligatory fratter who was actually quite good at dancing, putting those of us who had not come as a pledge task to shame.

The dances I learned served their purposes quite well. The hip-hop choreo strung me along before it became starkly clear that my interpretation of the moves lacked such ephemeral qualities as “feeling,” “pop” and “Carlo’s biceps.” The members of diSiac were extremely helpful and supportive, often approaching and asking if I had any questions. Usually, I responded with, “How do you dance?”

The lyrical choreography was much harder for me. This dance particularly accentuated the fact that I am unable to raise my leg above waist level. It also illuminated the fact that jumping while not looking like a clumsy ostrich is the hardest thing ever. All the swoopy foot semi-circles and shoulder sways seemed to blend together in my mind. I found it very difficult to keep my place in the choreography. I was complimented, however, on my masterful “fall to the ground and roll one way, then roll the other way” technique. Now I know I’ll be prepared the next time I spontaneously light on fire, roll to the ground in an effort to extinguish it and then have to dodge an arrow shot by my arch-nemesis, Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg. The lyrical improvisation acted as the shameful coup de grace. Five years of doing things ironically — ever since “Juno,” duh — have taught me that this sort of interpretive dance is not okay to do without making a sarcastic quip and hoping that my friends laugh with and not at me.

Out of everything I learned during the audition, without a doubt the most important thing is that I will always be afraid of that one freshman diSiac girl. You know the one. Five-foot-two-inch black girl with Rihanna hair and a face piercing. She’s ruhll, ruhll scary. Trust me, as a gay male, when I say that I do not throw this adjective around lightly — that girl is fierce. And I am afraid of her. Like seriously, guys.

By Chris Doubet