1849
W hen Sarah Dreyfus arrives at Roseland Ballroom at a quarter to seven on Saturday night, she hesitates before paying the $12 admission—just in case Joseph offers to pay when he arrives. Though over the past two years they have frequently danced together downtown on Sundays at the Marc Ballroom, it is the first time he’s invited her to dance at Roseland. At seven she buys her ticket. Maybe he’s waiting inside.
Sarah loves the history of Roseland. It originally opened eighty years ago in 1919 in a dirty brown five-story building on Fifty-First Street, before moving to Fifty-Second Street off Broadway in 1956. Hundreds waited on line for the ballroom’s grand opening. Billie Burke, Flo Ziegfeld, and Will Rogers appeared. In the 1920s and ’30s hundreds of dance hostesses were available to any man sober, orderly, and willing to pay. In 1942 the price was eleven cents for a three-minute dance.
Hostess Ruby Keeler was said to have met Al Jolson, her husband-to-be, at Roseland. But by the 1950s hostesses had disappeared; there were too many beautiful women freely available.
In those days, gum chewing and alcohol were banned, and men and women had to be properly attired. There were even rules about the depth of necklines, and how much back a woman’s dress could reveal.
Sarah’s read that Rudolph Valentino danced at Roseland, as well as James Cagney, George Raft, Mrs. Arthur Murray, the Astaires, Joan Crawford, Betty Grable, Ray Bolger, Anne Miller, and June Havoc. Sarah wishes it were still the 1940s. They might all be here tonight.
L eather banquettes for relaxing, under smoky mirrors, line the ruby walls. A fence made up of vines, leaves, and crimson-glass roses defines the polished, golden dance floor. On the stage a ten-piece Latin band plays “Besa Me Mucho.” Solitary figures wait and watch. Sarah heads downstairs to check her coat.
She has a special bag for her new dance shoes, and in the ladies’ lounge, as she changes into them, she admires the transformation of her legs from every angle. Shoes make all the difference.
“Don’t you dance at the Ballroom?” asks the hefty blonde sitting next to her, her shoes off and her feet up. “I’m Andrea.”
“Yes, I do. I’m Sarah.” Andrea is a dreary Kathy Bates look-alike, wearing a matronly blouse, a long green skirt, and worse, black practice pumps with socks, yet at the Ballroom she’s always on the dance floor. “Are you taking classes anywhere?”
“I’m mostly taking privates now. Do you know Harry Korn? The old guy—dresses all in brown? Polyester, like from the seventies! Teaches Latin and tango. I take privates with him at the Hungarian Ballroom over on the Upper East Side. He only charges fifty dollars an hour, but he really teaches you good. If you want his number I can give it to you. He’s old, but dancing with him is really something. Besides,” Andrea whispers, “I think he can use the money.” Without waiting for Sarah’s answer, she writes the telephone number on a piece of paper towel. Sarah tucks it into her bra. “If you call, tell him I gave you his number. Ya know, you have red spots all over you. Are you allergic to something?”
“I just get that sometimes. Maybe I’ll give him a call. I’ve never taken private lessons. I imagine you get plenty of attention?”
“Yeah. Harry gives you a full hour.”
“Are you here with anyone?” Sarah asks.
“Nah, I came alone.”
“That’s brave! Nice to see you, Andrea.” Sarah decides to wait in the powder room for Andrea to leave.
T ina accompanied Sarah the day she went to Randy’s Dance Shoes, a cramped store overlooking Seventh Avenue on Twenty-Third Street. Boxes of shoes lined every wall from floor to ceiling. Racks showed off samples: flat, soft-soled practice shoes, basic practice pumps, tap shoes, tango boots, a wide range of dressier dance shoes with heels of all heights. The shoes were primarily black, with an occasional flesh-colored pair, and
W hen Sarah Dreyfus arrives at Roseland Ballroom at a quarter to seven on Saturday night, she hesitates before paying the $12 admission—just in case Joseph offers to pay when he arrives. Though over the past two years they have frequently danced together downtown on Sundays at the Marc Ballroom, it is the first time he’s invited her to dance at Roseland. At seven she buys her ticket. Maybe he’s waiting inside.
Sarah loves the history of Roseland. It originally opened eighty years ago in 1919 in a dirty brown five-story building on Fifty-First Street, before moving to Fifty-Second Street off Broadway in 1956. Hundreds waited on line for the ballroom’s grand opening. Billie Burke, Flo Ziegfeld, and Will Rogers appeared. In the 1920s and ’30s hundreds of dance hostesses were available to any man sober, orderly, and willing to pay. In 1942 the price was eleven cents for a three-minute dance.
Hostess Ruby Keeler was said to have met Al Jolson, her husband-to-be, at Roseland. But by the 1950s hostesses had disappeared; there were too many beautiful women freely available.
In those days, gum chewing and alcohol were banned, and men and women had to be properly attired. There were even rules about the depth of necklines, and how much back a woman’s dress could reveal.
Sarah’s read that Rudolph Valentino danced at Roseland, as well as James Cagney, George Raft, Mrs. Arthur Murray, the Astaires, Joan Crawford, Betty Grable, Ray Bolger, Anne Miller, and June Havoc. Sarah wishes it were still the 1940s. They might all be here tonight.
L eather banquettes for relaxing, under smoky mirrors, line the ruby walls. A fence made up of vines, leaves, and crimson-glass roses defines the polished, golden dance floor. On the stage a ten-piece Latin band plays “Besa Me Mucho.” Solitary figures wait and watch. Sarah heads downstairs to check her coat.
She has a special bag for her new dance shoes, and in the ladies’ lounge, as she changes into them, she admires the transformation of her legs from every angle. Shoes make all the difference.
“Don’t you dance at the Ballroom?” asks the hefty blonde sitting next to her, her shoes off and her feet up. “I’m Andrea.”
“Yes, I do. I’m Sarah.” Andrea is a dreary Kathy Bates look-alike, wearing a matronly blouse, a long green skirt, and worse, black practice pumps with socks, yet at the Ballroom she’s always on the dance floor. “Are you taking classes anywhere?”
“I’m mostly taking privates now. Do you know Harry Korn? The old guy—dresses all in brown? Polyester, like from the seventies! Teaches Latin and tango. I take privates with him at the Hungarian Ballroom over on the Upper East Side. He only charges fifty dollars an hour, but he really teaches you good. If you want his number I can give it to you. He’s old, but dancing with him is really something. Besides,” Andrea whispers, “I think he can use the money.” Without waiting for Sarah’s answer, she writes the telephone number on a piece of paper towel. Sarah tucks it into her bra. “If you call, tell him I gave you his number. Ya know, you have red spots all over you. Are you allergic to something?”
“I just get that sometimes. Maybe I’ll give him a call. I’ve never taken private lessons. I imagine you get plenty of attention?”
“Yeah. Harry gives you a full hour.”
“Are you here with anyone?” Sarah asks.
“Nah, I came alone.”
“That’s brave! Nice to see you, Andrea.” Sarah decides to wait in the powder room for Andrea to leave.
T ina accompanied Sarah the day she went to Randy’s Dance Shoes, a cramped store overlooking Seventh Avenue on Twenty-Third Street. Boxes of shoes lined every wall from floor to ceiling. Racks showed off samples: flat, soft-soled practice shoes, basic practice pumps, tap shoes, tango boots, a wide range of dressier dance shoes with heels of all heights. The shoes were primarily black, with an occasional flesh-colored pair, and
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