Last Friday at 7pm, Auckland’s ‘first annual’ hoedown began at the Grey Lynn RSC. Gabi Lardies was there to attempt a line dance.
My pink cowgirl hat waited patiently in the lounge all week, quietly anticipating Friday night from her perch atop the couch’s arm rest. When I saw her, pink with brown pleather laced details, in the op shop, I wondered what sort of life she’d had so far. A bachelorette party? A kid’s birthday? An accessory in someone’s bedroom? A very glamorous person’s sun protection? I hoped she was ready to add hoedown to the memoir, because I’d just paid 25 hard earned dollars to attend one.
Last Friday at 7pm Auckland’s first annual hoedown began. Look, I know there surely has already been a hoedown in this city at some point, somewhere, but this was the phrase used on the advertising material, in a yellow chunky, subtly western font. The annual descriptor is possibly redundant too, given the first thing one of the organisers said to me at approximately 7.25pm was that the appetite for the next hoedown was already rampant. “Maybe bi-annual?” she pondered, holding a frothy pint of lager.
The early 30s contingent of K’ Road-adjacent Aucklanders had turned up to Grey Lynn RSC’s Function Room 2 in cowboy hats, boots, cowhide printed chaps (sadly over jeans), little scarves knotted around necks, denim vests, plaited hair, many leather belts and two plastic gun holsters, complete with toy guys that popped when triggered. My pink hat was perfect, though I wished I’d done more than pair it with panelled jeans, a white tee and docs. Still, that tacky cheap thing on my head had incredible transformational powers. I was no longer the woman whose car blew up on the motorway that morning, with her own joie de vivre tank on empty. I was a cutie ready for a dance. Busted radiator? Shredded fan belt? Towing fees? Never heard of them.
Like all good parties, this one was laden with the finest offerings from the Grey Lynn RSC kitchen: mini samosas, mini spring rolls and hot chips in paper cups. There was an itinerary and a structured activity. At eight, Annette strode over the chipboard floor with her white diamante-encrusted boots. The fringe on her plaid shirt wobbled, and her mini skirt tutted from side to side. Underneath her hat, a Britney mic held onto her ear, its little speaker clipped to her waistband. The two hour line dancing lesson had begun.
Annette is a local legend for those in the know. She’s been a self-employed line dancing tutor for 22 years, and her first gig was at a “gay bar on K’ road, would you believe?” From Tuesdays through to Thursdays, she teaches classes at Epsom Methodist Church, sadly none of which align with schedules that require going to work. Luckily, she’s also available for 21st, 40ths, 50ths, 60ths, hens parties, school balls, work events, church functions, weddings, and whatever Friday night was.
The first dance, and most of the following, involved many steps – to the front, side, other side, behind the other foot, kicks and and a move I never understood, a kick that sent you 45 degrees clockwise, so you could start it all again facing the other wall of the room. The complex manoeuvres had to be in time with the music and 40 or so other dancers. Annette zipped around, so she was always at the front, counting “one, two, three, four, one, two, three, four” surprisingly fast to an ungainly collection of failing limbs. On top of the steps, we were supposed to move our hips – I could not do this fast enough, gyrating in short jerks like a demented bunny trying to procreate.
Next to me, a woman was wearing gorgeous silver boots, with threads of beads dripping off them. Even the sparkly beads were more coordinated than me, who kept confusing which way that impossible kick was meant to take me. Also, I had eaten approximately 100 mini samoas which were now getting jumbled around. The woman started to do unlikely movements like shoulder shimmies, arm wiggles and extra kicks in between the official steps. What the hell. I was just desperately counting and panting.
After god knows how much confused stomping around, it was time for The Honky Tonky. Yes, The Honky Tonky of “you put your right boot in, you put you right boot out” fame. All the jumping around started to hit. I felt the dancer’s high course through my veins, and then we were holding hands and running at each other screaming. If I felt like a 20-year-old cutie earlier, now I was a five-year-old on a sugar-driven morning break. I’ve never been so happy in my life.
During a short breather between songs, I perched myself next to the samosa-laden snack table and a woman in a pink cowboy hat, with a tiara stuck on its front and delicate feathers around its brim. “I actually hate this,” she said. “I came because I thought if I ever am going to like dancing it’s going to be now, but I realised I hate it.” I looked at her and tried to veil my horror. I was pretty sure I’d just experienced peak humanity – what it really means to be alive. I swallowed the fact I thought maybe this person was a monster, because this monster is someone I know, like and admire. Everyone is different, I told myself. We are not built the same. Still, accepting difference and being tolerant does not mean I understood her at all. My own heart was swelling with love from holding hands with others, attempting to step in time with them, and running towards each other.
I began to make further enquiries about this woman’s humanity, but Annette was already corralling us back onto the dance floor. “You’re going to love this one,” she told us. It was a number she choreographed herself, and included a little kick. But, more importantly, it was set to ‘Man! I Feel Like A Woman!’ by Shania Twain. Annette knows how to please a crowd, or at least this one. I started to get really into the V-step, which lets you pretend you have great big shoulders to throw around.
Two hours is a long time to line dance, even for me, who has recently become the unlikely victim of a gym addiction. Annette kept telling us we “look great” right before letting out a rumble of laughter. Still, the people persisted and sweat beaded. By the time the last dance came around, I was exhausted. The “little drink and lie down” that Annette promised we could have afterwards was extremely appealing. Eagerness palatably filled the room, with everyone pretty much thinking they could nail the steps. “Ready?” asked Annette. A couple of soles hit the ground too soon. “Wait!! Wait!” Three embarrassing minutes later our time with Annette was over. Someone put on ‘Maneater’ by Nelly Furtado to quell the tears and the stomping continued.
The next morning my pink cowgirl hat sat her weary hips on my passenger seat. We were heading to Geoff’s Emporium, churning up Bond Street, when a strange sound started making its way from underneath the car’s bonnet. Something was flip-flopping around in there. I pulled into a church driveway, popped the bonnet and had a look inside. One of the belts (alternator? fan? drive?) the mechanic had replaced on Friday was hanging loose. Heat rose from what may or may not be the combustion chamber. The mechanic did not answer my call, but when I texted him to say “looks like a belt slipped off” he replied saying, “no worries”. Perhaps he was wearing a pink cowgirl hat of his own.