That Night My Routine Fell Flat
Three minutes into my audition piece, I saw the judge check her phone. My kicks were sharp, my turns were clean, but the music—some generic electronic track—was sucking the life out of every step. I finished, bowed, and walked out knowing I'd bombed it.
Back in my studio apartment that night, I dug through my grandfather's old vinyl collection. He'd been a saxophone player in the '60s, and his stack of jazz records had been gathering dust in my closet for two years. I dropped the needle on something random. Within eight bars, my foot started tapping. Then my shoulders joined in. I wasn't just hearing the music; I was feeling it in my collarbone, my ribcage, the back of my knees.
That's when it hit me: I'd been dancing over my music, not with it.
Duke Ellington Taught Me to Listen
I started with "Take the 'A' Train" because the album cover had a photo of Duke looking impossibly cool in a plaid suit. The opening brass hits aren't just an introduction—they're a challenge. The first time I tried choreographing to it, I made the classic mistake of moving on every beat. Exhausting. Wrong.
The magic lives in the gaps. When Ellington's piano drops out at 1:14, there's this delicious pause where you can almost hear the subway rattling underground. I learned to hold a suspension there, my body stretched like a rubber band about to snap. When the horns crash back in, that release feels earned, not frantic. Lindy Hop dancers have known this secret for decades: this track breathes, and your routine needs to breathe with it.
My swing-out has never looked cleaner.
The Night Benny Goodman Almost Killed Me
"Sing, Sing, Sing" is not polite music. Gene Krupa's drum solo famously drove audiences into hysterics at the 1938 Carnegie Hall concert, and it'll do the same to your cardiovascular system. The first time I ran my routine full-out to this track, I nearly blacked out during the brass section.
But here's what I love: the tempo forces honesty. You can't fake your way through a fast Charleston or pretend your kicks are extending when they're not. The clarinet wails, the trumpets scream, and you have two choices—commit completely or get left behind. I choreographed a section where I literally stand still for six counts while the drums build, letting the anticipation cook until I explode into a split leap on the cymbal crash. The contrast makes the movement feel nuclear.
Fair warning: your thighs will hate you. Your audience won't.
Nina Simone Let Me Stop Performing and Start Feeling
After two weeks of high-octane routines, my body was begging for mercy. I almost skipped past "Feeling Good" because the tempo felt too slow, too exposed. That's exactly why I needed it.
Without a driving beat to hide behind, every choice becomes visible. The way my wrist circles during the lyric "bird flying high." The weighted transfer through my hips when the bass walks down the scale. I stopped thinking about "impressing" anyone and started dancing like I was alone in my kitchen at 2 AM, slightly buzzed on red wine, living entirely inside the sound.
Contemporary jazz choreography lives here—in the spaces where technique meets vulnerability. Simone's voice cracks open something in your chest, and suddenly your développé isn't just a leg lift; it's a declaration.
Dizzy Gillespie Broke My Brain (In the Best Way)
I was ready to quit on "A Night in Tunisia." The first rehearsal, I counted myself in on beat one and was lost by beat three. Afro-Cuban clave patterns layered over bebop swing? It's like trying to rub your stomach and pat your head while solving a crossword.
But I kept at it because a teacher once told me: if you're comfortable, you're not growing. I spent three days just walking across the floor, trying to let the rhythm live in my hips instead of my head. Once I stopped fighting the complexity and let my body absorb it, something unlocked. My isolations got sharper. My turns developed this whip-crack precision I'd never had before.
Now I throw this track on when I need to scare myself a little. Nothing keeps you humble like music that's smarter than you are.
Miles Davis Gave Me Permission to Chill
"So What" sounds almost lazy at first. Two notes in the bass. Some brushed cymbals. Miles playing like he's making it up as he goes—which, of course, he mostly was.
I used to cram every second of music with movement, terrified of dead air. This track taught me the power of doing less. I choreographed a two-minute solo where half the phrase is spent in stillness or pedestrian walking, letting the muted trumpet do the heavy lifting. The audience leans in when you're not trying to claw their attention. Counterintuitive, but it works.
Modern jazz and contemporary both eat this up. Your body becomes another instrument in the conversation rather than a soloist shouting over everyone else.
Your Turn to Drop the Needle
Last month I performed the full set—Ellington through Davis—at a small showcase in Brooklyn. The judge who'd checked her phone two years earlier? She was in the audience. Afterward, she asked who'd choreographed my work. "Me," I said, "with a lot of help from some dead jazz legends."
Jazz doesn't ask you to dance at it. It invites you inside, gives you a drink, and lets you find your own way through the melody. Pick one track. Close your eyes. Move before you think.
Your routine will never be the same.
