The Alienation of Tango

Tango faces profound challenges in the liberal West. In a way, it has become a self-inflicted dance. Its steps do not have fixed configurations, and its music invites interpretation, granting dancers the freedom to improvise and create. Yet this untrammeled nature has led to sweeping transformations—especially now, as free-spirited foreigners pour in, bring with them a flood of exotic influences.

As with anything, there are always those who take it to the extreme—and tango is no exception. While we naturally crave freedom, unbridled freedom often turns against itself. Our ancestors understood this paradox, which is why they established checks and balances and the rule of law. Tango, outside of Argentina, however, remains uncharted territory—a wild frontier where dancers do as they please. Some have replaced the tango embrace with open holds, swapped classic tango music for alternative tracks, redefined gender roles, and introduced elements foreign to tango such as underarm turns, high kicks, and body lifts. Now you visit milongas in the U.S., you often hear exotic music and see dancers of all stripes moving in unrecognizable ways. It is still called tango, but the essence of the dance has been altered. There is little resemblance to the tango danced in Buenos Aires’ milongas.

Tango is a free dance, but it is not a “do-whatever-you-want” dance. It has distinct characteristics. For example, it is a close-embrace dance. Breaking that connection and distancing partners is not tango (see The Fourteenth Pitfall of a Tanguera). Tango is an intimate, emotional, and soulful dance. In fact, tango is more about feelings than steps. No matter how many new steps people try to create, without feelings it is not tango (see Tango Is a Feeling). Tango is a heterosexual dance danced by a man and a woman, allowing his masculinity and her femininity to glitter in each other's company (see Tango and Gender Interdependence). The man is the leader who plots the dance and shines the woman. The woman is the follower who surrenders to the man, synchronizes her movements with his and beautifies the dance. Refusing to surrender, reversing roles, or forming same-sex partnership undermines the very foundation of tango (see The Gender Roles in Tango). Tango is danced to the sentimental music specifically created for the dance. Foreigners often don't realize that the magic of tango lies in its music, which connects the dancers, stirs up their nostalgic feelings, resonates with them, inspires their creativity, and enables them to fully showcase their beauty. Changing tango music to outlandish tunes, the dance ceases to be tango (see The Signature of Tango).

No one can stop the evolution of a dance that embraces free expression. Time alone will reveal which changes endure. Tango has undergone this trial for 150 years. Whatever innovations people attempt today have likely been tried by others before—and most did not survive. The current form of tango—including its music, embrace, steps, and protocols as practiced in Buenos Aires—is the survivors of fitness among zillions of attempts to alter the dance along its history. Tango will continue to evolve, of course, but it will evolve in the same direction that made it tango. Any attempt to remake tango into a different or hybrid form is doomed to fail. If not so, tango would have stopped being the tango danced in Buenos Aires today long ago.

A Cabeceo Story

I didn’t know her name. She looked to be in her mid-thirties, sitting with a friend who seemed about the same age. They were across the room, in the women’s section, chatting and not dancing. I got the impression they hadn't come to dance, but rather to spend time together and watch others dance tango. In Buenos Aires, that’s not unusual.

Now and then, she glanced in my direction. But it wasn’t the look of someone asking for a dance; it felt more like a casual stare. I ignored her and scanned the room for other potential partners. Occasionally, her friend went to dance, but she remained seated, watching. When her friend returned, they resumed their conversation.

I danced a lot that night. And every time I sat down again, there they were — still talking, and she was still looking my way. I continued to ignore her, assuming she wasn't interested, or perhaps couldn't even dance. Instead, I kept my eyes on her friend, whose dancing impressed me. She must have noticed. Once, I caught her whispering something to her friend while sneaking a glance at me. Her friend gave me a quick, uninterested look and turned away. Yet, the woman herself continued gazing at me.

At that moment, it suddenly dawned on me: maybe she was trying to dance with me.

Perhaps she wasn’t a strong dancer — but after so many glances, and after such quiet persistence, I felt compelled to respond. I nodded. She nodded back. Just to be certain, I looked around to see if anyone else was interacting with her, but the connection was ours alone.

I rose and crossed the floor toward her. She watched me the entire way, calm and unwavering. Patient. Brave. Confident. Persistent. These words ran through my mind as I reached her table. That night, I learned something new about cabeceo — about the quiet courage it sometimes carries.

I had misjudged her. She was an extraordinary dancer, better even than her friend. Her elegant and stylish footwork revealed a mastery that could only come from years of training. In fact, only a professional could display such control, elegance, and precision.

During our brief conversation, she told me she was a stage dancer. Curious, I asked, "This isn’t your style. Why do you come here to dance?" She paused, thoughtful, then answered softly, "There are too many young dancers on stage now. I can’t compete with them anymore. I’m getting old."