DANCE REVIEW

Dancers go downtown : Trio's swervy, nervy 'Roadtrip' journeys to the land of the hip
By Margaret Putnam
Special Contributor to The Dallas Morning News


"Remind me to get a tattoo this week.

I just felt so out of it Saturday night. Everybody else at Ground Level Dance's loft concert wore skimpy slip dresses and stupendous high-heeled sandals. No chance of my attempting a slip dress; a tattoo, however, is definitely a possibility.

The only question is where. Maybe like CoCo, on the shoulder. But more likely on the ankle, like Angela, a subtle touch for a dancer. Or, more daringly, like Shanon, on the back of the neck.

Not that I could ever be so hip as those three. After all, they live in an industrial space on Parry Avenue, where they rehearse, give dance classes and, as on Saturday night, invite friends in for tapas (thoughtfully provided by Tarantino's, next door) and a 30-minute dance performance called Roadtrip.

For just 10 bucks, it was as close as you'll get to a New York, downtown kind of experience. (But to be honest, the last time I went to one of David Gordon's loft concerts, Baryshnikov was sitting right behind me.) You could jostle your way past bodies, an aquarium, a kitchen table on a platform, Roy Lichtenstein prints and beaded curtains to find a free space to sweat, and inhale smoke, in peace.

Around 9:30 p.m., you and 60 others could cram into the far end of a long, narrow studio and watch CoCo and Angela and Shanon take their imaginary road trip. The black floor had been turned into a highway with yellow stripes; lights dimmed, Chuck Berry blasted forth. The dancers, backs to us, stretched and yawned and snarled wearily. Then for the next half-hour, to the crackle and whine and some changing of the dial, they danced out whatever ideas the music conjured up.

Angela became a gawky, impassioned teenager listening to Elvis wail "crying over you" and believing with every ounce of her being the words were meant for her. She flung arms and legs every which way, with breathtaking abandon. CoCo turned tough and intense with the Beastie Boys, planting herself midhighway like an immovable stump. She wiggled, slashed the air with her arms. Shanon, in contrast, became a human accordian. While Etta James sang in low, throaty tones, Shanon slid along the floor, angled a leg upward, folded herself up, did a backbend.

The dances were slight but intense and idiosyncratic. Tongue-in-cheek titles such as "I Spy...," "Last Rest Area" and "Slug Bug Red" carried out the road-trip theme, as did Frank Lacey's clever tape montage.

At the end, everyone clapped wildly. Sweat dripped off the dancers. They beamed back their delight, wiggled a bit and did a curtsy, flipping up the hems of their little black slip dresses.

Too cool.

(If you must know, CoCo is CoCo Loupe, and it's Shanon Leyrer and Angela Sharp.)

Margaret Putnam writes about dance for The Dallas Morning News.