Lost in the dance

“Plenty feign it, as many more copy it, but only the rare few have it naturally and wear it well”

SPEAKER'S CORNER
DEMISE HORAN

FOR whole 15-minute stretches last Sunday week in Malahide Castle, Neil Young played his guitar continuously, intensely, brilliantly – and apparently oblivious to the audience of thousands that filled the field in front of him. His lengthy solo runs with the guitar seemed to be as much about indulging his own passion for the instrument as they were an attempt to entertain the crowd. But that in itself was entertaining.
More entertaining still was the white-haired woman ten yards in front of us. She and Neil Young really should be introduced. Rapt as he was by his own magnificence, she was right there with him in his world of rapture. And wonderful as he was at playing the guitar, she was equally wonderful in her intense enjoyment of it.
She danced, she twirled, she swayed her arms in perfect time to Neil’s rhythm. She even engaged the services of a male prop at one point for the purpose of pirouetting away from him and gliding back towards him. Effortlessly, elegantly, gracefully. And completely unselfconsciously. That was the greatest appeal of her performance: in the midst of thousands this middle-aged woman danced like most would only dare dance in the safety of an empty living room.
She wasn’t the only one dancing. All over the place shapes were being thrown: sculpted guys trying to impress giggling girls; aloof girls pretending not to notice adoring guys’ movements; hippies swilling from hip flasks and dragging on cigarettes as their hips swayed out of time; me trying not to look awkward; one pre-teen boy proudly mouthing the words of every song with a permanent smile on his face and frequent glances at the admiring parents beside him.
But she stole the show – because hers wasn’t a show. She was responding to the music instinctively, passionately, unashamedly. Maybe she had the benefit of some inhibition-quelling substance, but if she did it only enhanced her performance. (Unlike many others there who had clearly indulged in a few too many substances and couldn’t even perform a standing-up maoeuvre properly).
Unselfconsciousness is a wonderful thing. There are plenty who feign it, as many more who copy it, but only the rare few who have it naturally and wear it well.
Its path is a curious one. Most of us have it as children, and looking at children at play, at their displays of affection and emotion, and at their interaction with each other is delightful because of it. There is no affectation, no inhibition, no pretence. Just them being who they are.
Somewhere along the adolescent road, most of us lose our unselfconsciousness. Its loss makes us awkward around certain people, makes our conversation stilted, makes us feel like we don’t fit in, makes our mannerisms clumsy, in some cases even has a fairly serious effect on our accents.
And then, in adulthood, some regain that blissful state of not worrying what others think of what we’re doing or how inelegantly we’re doing it. Some partly regain it. Others never do.
For some people it manifests itself only on certain occasions. Like at football matches, when the emotion of the team in whom you’ve invested so much of yourself gets the better of you and you cry, or jump, or dance without even remembering to check if you look ridiculous. Or listening to music. You get caught up in the sentiment of the song and lose yourself in it.
Its manifestation as a regular personality feature is connected in some way to self-confidence, I suppose, or being comfortable with who we are. As we grow into our personalities we tend to lose our inhibitions. Not in a show-offy way, just in a way that says ‘I am the way I am and I’m happy’.
It’s where we should all want to be. There’s no one I would rather have been in Malahide Castle than the lady with the green coat, white hair and flowing dance routine. (Except maybe the guitar-playing genius on the stage.)