Good things come in threes

March 12, 2010
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Is it possible to rock out to a waltz? The Schramms make me a believer with their song Home on Little Apocalypse. The lyrics – apparently based on a poem by Emily Dickinson – are pretty inscrutable and mysterious: “If my coming were my will I could not belong/’cause my heart isn’t here it’s always alone.” But the mystery only draws you more profoundly into a persuasive one-two-three that induces a trancelike sway, of the sort that only exists in three/four time. Ideas can’t be tied up in a neat package in three/four time.  The mystery only deepens.  It just spins and spins.

I think it was probably Camper Van Beethoven that reintroduced obscure dance time signatures into the alt rock vernacular. Consider their Sad Lovers Waltz. Unlike The Schramms’ version, Sad Lovers Waltz is explicit in its intentions. It’s literal, transparent. It’s a waltz about a waltz that sad lovers are meant to dance to. And they do it because they can and it helps.

Taj Mahal put out a song called Cajun Waltz on his album Mo’ Roots. The refrain of the chorus tells us “It ain’t my fault/I’m just doin’ the Cajun Waltz.” I think there’s something to that. The sense of relinquishing responsibility under the spell of the waltz. There are compelling imperatives that go along with living in three/four time, and no one can fully be held responsible for what they might do when under the influence.

Martin Scorsese’s incandescent documentary about The Band’s farewell tour, The Last Waltz, features a haunting handmade waltz performed in the final moments of the film. This instrumental gem percolates with nostalgia and magic, conjuring a collective hallucination that the piece was recorded on ancient instruments in an abandoned carousel.

My friend Sally has a secret life as a ballroom dance afficionado, and one summer she camped out in a state park outside of Washington, DC, so she could attend an evening of waltzing under the stars. When the time came, she fished her ballgown out of her backpack, slipped on her dancing shoes and made her way across the park to the dance hall. There, in the big tent along with other waltz lovers, she danced the night away to the divine accompaniment of a live orchestra. When the waltzing was over, she made her way back to her tent, curled up in her sleeping bag and dreamt of shimmering, whirling angels dancing in three/four time.

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About the author

Amy White

Amy White, Deeper Into Music Contributor, is an artist and a writer based in Carrboro, North Carolina. She writes about art for The Independent Weekly and works in her studio at a bend in the Haw River in Saxapahaw, NC. Amy also blogs about breakfast, coincidence, and funny stuff.

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