I am meant to be working on a conference paper entitled ‘Conversing with the Past’. But I got distracted by one of those odd Facebook postings: a definition of an unusual and old-fashioned word. “Balter.”
It is, apparently, pronounced BOLL-tuh. Have you heard of it before? I hadn’t either. Apparently, it comes from a Middle English word that originated in Northern Germany. It is also related to the Danish baltre, or boltre which means to roll, tumble, gambol, romp. Balter is defined by Merriam-Webster as an archaic verb meaning to dance or tread clumsily, while the Facebook definition says: to dance gracelessly, without particular skill or grace, but perhaps with some enjoyment. Well, that was me in the 1980s. The type of unco-ordinated but enthusiastic dancing destined to embarrass the pants off our teenagers thirty years later…
As a small girl, like every other little girl who has ever clapped eyes on a tutu, I always fancied myself as a ballerina. A year of ballet lessons put paid to that dream, as even I had to acknowledge I hadn’t the discipline or co-ordination to make it to Sadlers Wells. Country dancing in Primary School was fun, but not so popular after the age of ten when ‘coolness’ became more important than joy. And while I loved Scottish dancing, the long ribbons were a pain to wind up my calves and tie firmly – and lethal when they inevitably came undone in the middle of a reel.
Like all of us entering adolescence in the late 70s, and early 80s, pop music was our staple diet. Lots of synthesizers, electric guitars and a steady drum beat. At eleven, my friends and I would crank up the record player in the living room and dance about to ABBA, Boney M and ‘I Will Survive’ for hours – in clogs, too, the prescribed shoe of the time, bizarrely considerd cool in my circle of friends.
By the time we were old enough to hit the discos, we’d developed our own individual styles of ‘balter’, unencumbered by any knowledge of those slick, professional moves we now see on every music video since Michael Jackson released his Thriller album. Despite our lack of sophistication, these were happy times full of happy music that lifted the heart and the feet.
While co-ordination may have been an issue with some of us, no one could have doubted our gleeful enthusiasm. Perhaps I did look like a whirligig on spin cycle, but I had the time of my life – and plenty of exercise – leaping around the dance floor to all those catchy dance tunes. Disco music, it turns out, can provide a bigger dose of dopamine and a more natural high than any drug on the market. I miss that!
My teen years arrived, to the tunes of waltzes and polkas, as we undertook ballroom dancing classes in the school hall. Our partners were either pre-pubescent and shorter than most of us, or man-sized and yet to be introduced to deodorant. And of course we were all dressed in drab, unflattering school uniforms, so I don’t think any of us felt like Cinderella swanning off to the Ball.
Then, we discovered the Discothèque, the home of pop music, flashing lights and the glorious, glittering disco ball, madcap dancing and extravagant outfits. For the younger dance enthusiasts, those too young to get through the door of the adult nightclubs, there was the junior version: the Blue Light Disco. These police-supervised dances, free of drugs and alcohol, originated in Australia in the 1980s and were popular for young teens well into the 90s and early 2000s, before mobile phones became the new social platform.
And what about our inspiration? Those wonderful dance movies of the 1980s and 90s? Grease, Saturday Night Fever, Dirty Dancing, Fame, and Footloose, all iconic, all inspirational. We knew all the words to all the songs, even those on the B-side. I admit, some of the plots may have been a little thin, but the music got into our blood. Then Flashdance arrived, which provided my first experience of hearing my own name on the big screen. We had nothing else in common, Alex Owens and I, apart from a penchant for legwarmers, but then we weren’t the only ones keen on those fabulous fashion accessories back then, heaven help us. Yet I was certain they gave me the Midas touch as I leapt and dived down the hallway, as agile as any show-off goalie, determined to imitate the extravagant moves of Jennifer Beales. Surprisingly, no agents came knocking at our front door, to add me to their list of potential talent…
But I’m procrastinating again. Time to stop dipping into my childhood, conversing with the past and get back to that conference paper. Oh by the way, before I go, balter can also mean ‘tousled or matted hair’, which is doubtless what we all sported after a sweaty evening on the dance floor!