I went to a dance concert at the New York City Center last night. This event, entitled "Fall for Dance," is a week long festival that showcases various genres of dance and features a different program each night. Tickets are only $10 and are kept low with the lofty intent of exposing the general populace to a broad range of dance they normally may not see. It's a very egalitarian concept.

I went with a friend from work, Stormy, who is a sarcastic person generally, but has a surprisingly sentimental love of dance, particularly ballet. I've gone to some dance events with her and found it surprising how conversant she was in choreography, musical scores and dance technique. I mean, this girl played hockey. Who knew?

Now for $10, you need to go into the theater with an open mind. You're never sure what might come your way.

The first selection were ten brief works from the Pacific Northwest Ballet. The company of eight dancers performed to the accompaniment of a piano only (And because I know Todor will ask me--the pieces were all composed by Bartok). It was breathless, fanciful, pleasurable, a joy to watch. So far, so good.

The next piece featured a soloist wearing enough fringe to look like a Yeti. His piece consisted of spinning and faux capoiera movements to some Brazilian music for 15 minutes. Stormy said, "That was interesting." I said, "That looked like a guy on LSD at Burning Man." It did.

Things started spiraling down from there. A modern troupe called Random Dance took over the stage and contorted themselves for 25 minutes to a three note variation of a techno pop melody followed by a very loud Marilyn Manson song. When it was over, the nebbish man sitting behind me said to his wife, "What was that song?" She replied, "Marilyn Manson." "The killer?" he asks. "No," she replies, "You're thinking of Charles Manson." That exchange was the highlight of that piece for me.

The next selection was called Under the Skin and it offered the clever use of a video of two writhing people projected upon a backdrop of two real life writhing people. By this point, I'm wondering what street will be the best place for me to flag a cab to get home when this is over.

The finale, and Lord, it was a finale, were an ensemble from Barcelona. Two guitarists and two seemingly drunken compatriots who scratched themselves and uttered "alle" every two seconds provided the backdrop. Complimenting this quartet, were two male flamenco dancers who strode onto stage with a bravado that seemed more inherent of their nationality than the character of the dance. They flipped their long hair, snorted, postured and indulged in a heel stomping dance-off between one another for the next 25 minutes. It was so over the top, I wasn't sure if it wasn't more a display of homoeroticism or machismo.
I may not like it or understand it, but I got my ten bucks worth. And a cab on 7th Avenue.