amanda castleman

Oxford Mail
August 2000

Last tango in Helsinki

The men prowl one side of the room, women wait – hands clasped expectantly – on the other. This nightmare belongs in a pre-teen disco, but it’s Friday night in Helsinki. And I am about to tango.

A man hovers discretely behind my chair. I sip my vodka and grapefruit, staring into the middle distance. "He wants to dance," my colleague points out, smirking.

So sorry, I can't tango." He is twice my age and quite determined, grey curls brushing his shoulders, clad in a saucy red shirt. The Finn pulls out my chair. I consider crumpling to the carpet, but stand and face the music instead.

In Finland, a woman can not refuse and must suffer two dances, before the beau courteously escorts her off the dance floor. As I stumble over Mr Suave's feet, he's obviously considering a break with tradition.

"Close your eyes and feel the music," he whispers in English. That line was probably a real hit back in the 60s when he was a youngster. But desperate times call for desperate measures. Baby blues firmly shut, I concentrate on the staccato beat and his cues – a pull on the waist, the shifting pressure on my hand.

Suddenly, it clicks and I'm dancing – really dancing – swirling and strutting under his expert guidance. To a woman raised on violent moshing and self-absorbed writhing, the tango is a miraculous gift. I am charmed utterly by the interplay of movement, the easy grace, the companionship. Mr Suave notices my ecstatic expression and moves in for the kill. "I own a 1956 Cadillac," he whispers provocatively. "It's very big."

My lashes flutter open, as the Mills and Boon moment shatters. This is Friday night in a Helsinki tango hall. I am surrounded by middle-aged Nordics, intent on a ballroom trend 70 years past its sell-by date. They speak an unintelligible language, kin only to Hungarian. And this grandfatherly Lothario is trying his luck.

Toto, we are a long, long way from Kansas.

Luckily my whimper is lost in a flurry of accordion notes. Mr Suave deposits me in my chair once more. After a few more vodka-and-grapefruits, the dread subsides. The panic attack was silly, I suppose. After all, Finland is incredibly safe and welcoming, full of affluent, educated and polite citizens. The overall effect – emphasised by the furnishings and fashion – smacks of a 1950s sitcom.

Bless 'em, they even have a sort of "gee whiz, science is our friend" attitude, straight off Terry and June. Nothing, absolutely nothing, frightening is going to happen at the Vanha Maestro old fashioned dance hall – or anywhere else in Finland.

Don't get me wrong. It's not a saccharine nation. The winters are long, dark and cold and the tiny population (5m) isolated. This breeds a deep sadness, which spills over into their adopted art: the tango.

Naturally, the transplanted dance has evolved under the midnight sun. Gone is the fiery element, aptly described as "vertical sex", and the flashy solo steps of Argentina. The Finns shuffle – slow and sweet – to melancholy songs.

Lyrics dwell on love, loss and nature, or a combination thereof. Their archetypal tune, Satumaa (Fairytale country), is about a distant land across the wide ocean, where beautiful flowers bloom forever. But only birds can fly to the isle of happiness; wingless men must remain chained to the soil. The solemn, hymnlike melody – and hints of paradise lost – obviously struck a chord. A prominent liberal theologian wanted Satumaa added to the official psalm book of the Finnish Lutheran church.

Pirjo Kukkonen, an academic who has researched the dance, explains the genre's transformation. "Our tango lyrics are as Finnish as could be. Nostalgic, melancholic words suit this music. "They outline a strategy for surviving everyday life. The basic rhythm can be interpreted as reflecting inner life, perhaps even heartbeats."

Ilkka Heiskari, spokesman for the Seinäjoki Tango Festival, offers a more controversial theory. "The Finns are very melancholy, very sad. We drink too much, sometimes we kill people," he announces.

Riita, the tourist board representative, protests, but Ilkka shrugs and smiles. "We do not speak very much. Tango is our language. It's the quickest way to get a lady."

Yet the four-day festival, held in a small town on the west coast, reflects little of this morbidity or matchmaking. Couples – often wearing coy little identical hats – clutch each other and pogo beneath the stars. Posters of singers leer from every surface, all pomaded hair and overbright teeth: these are the finalists for the tango king and queen competition. Oddly, this is one of the highest music honours in Finland, perhaps equivalent to winning a Brit award for best new artist. The atmosphere is terribly jolly and the beer flows.

Elsewhere, tango's foothold is more tenuous. Young professionals gather in the capital's trendy bars, swilling down flamboyant vodka cocktails. The music is techno, with nary an accordion note.

"Tango is bollocks," 21-year-old Jani Ahola announces, in careful English slang. His friend Sami Marjanen adds: "I know all the moves, but I hate it."

The divide is both geographical and chronological, as Auli Irene explains: "When people turn 35- to 40-years old, they suddenly want to tango. It's more popular in the countryside too."

But it would be rash to predict the death of this deeply-entrenched dance. Tango has suffered setbacks before – most notably at the hands of WWII and Beatlemania – and bounced back.

That's more than I can say about myself. After seven minutes in Mr Suave's bony embrace, I realise ballroom dancing is not my strong suit – nor is the Finn an ideal suitor.

I would cheerfully return for the saunas, the lakes, the safety, culture and sophistication. But Greylocks and the pre-teen disco jitters leave me cold.

At least we'll always have that last tango in Helsinki.

For further information, contact the Tango Festival in Seinäjoki, Kauppakatu 15 C, FIN-60100 Seinäjoki. Telephone +358-6-420 111, email info@tangomarkkinat.fi or visit www.tangomarkkinat.fi

I am surrounded
by middle-aged Nordics,
intent on a ballroom
trend 70 years past its
sell-by date. And
this grandfatherly
Lothario is trying
his luck.

Toto, we are a
long, long way
from Kansas.
"The Finns are
very melancholy
very sad. We drink
too much, sometimes
we kill people," he says.

"Tango is bollocks,"
21-year-old Jani Ahola
announces, in his
careful English slang.

Back to the portfolio

Oxford Mail August 2000		Last tango in Helsinki
		The men prowl one side of the room, women wait – hands clasped expectantly – on the other. This nightmare belongs in a pre-teen disco, but it’s Friday night in Helsinki. And I am about to tango. A man hovers discretely behind my chair. I sip my vodka and grapefruit, staring into the middle distance. "He wants to dance," my colleague points out, smirking. So sorry, I can't tango." He is twice my age and quite determined, grey curls brushing his shoulders, clad in a saucy red shirt. The Finn pulls out my chair. I consider crumpling to the carpet, but stand and face the music instead. In Finland, a woman can not refuse and must suffer two dances, before the beau courteously escorts her off the dance floor. As I stumble over Mr Suave's feet, he's obviously considering a break with tradition. "Close your eyes and feel the music," he whispers in English. That line was probably a real hit back in the 60s when he was a youngster. But desperate times call for desperate measures. Baby blues firmly shut, I concentrate on the staccato beat and his cues – a pull on the waist, the shifting pressure on my hand. Suddenly, it clicks and I'm dancing – really dancing – swirling and strutting under his expert guidance. To a woman raised on violent moshing and self-absorbed writhing, the tango is a miraculous gift. I am charmed utterly by the interplay of movement, the easy grace, the companionship. Mr Suave notices my ecstatic expression and moves in for the kill. "I own a 1956 Cadillac," he whispers provocatively. "It's very big." My lashes flutter open, as the Mills and Boon moment shatters. This is Friday night in a Helsinki tango hall. I am surrounded by middle-aged Nordics, intent on a ballroom trend 70 years past its sell-by date. They speak an unintelligible language, kin only to Hungarian. And this grandfatherly Lothario is trying his luck. Toto, we are a long, long way from Kansas. Luckily my whimper is lost in a flurry of accordion notes. Mr Suave deposits me in my chair once more. After a few more vodka-and-grapefruits, the dread subsides. The panic attack was silly, I suppose. After all, Finland is incredibly safe and welcoming, full of affluent, educated and polite citizens. The overall effect – emphasised by the furnishings and fashion – smacks of a 1950s sitcom. Bless 'em, they even have a sort of "gee whiz, science is our friend" attitude, straight off Terry and June. Nothing, absolutely nothing, frightening is going to happen at the Vanha Maestro old fashioned dance hall – or anywhere else in Finland. Don't get me wrong. It's not a saccharine nation. The winters are long, dark and cold and the tiny population (5m) isolated. This breeds a deep sadness, which spills over into their adopted art: the tango. Naturally, the transplanted dance has evolved under the midnight sun. Gone is the fiery element, aptly described as "vertical sex", and the flashy solo steps of Argentina. The Finns shuffle – slow and sweet – to melancholy songs. Lyrics dwell on love, loss and nature, or a combination thereof. Their archetypal tune, Satumaa (Fairytale country), is about a distant land across the wide ocean, where beautiful flowers bloom forever. But only birds can fly to the isle of happiness; wingless men must remain chained to the soil. The solemn, hymnlike melody – and hints of paradise lost – obviously struck a chord. A prominent liberal theologian wanted Satumaa added to the official psalm book of the Finnish Lutheran church. Pirjo Kukkonen, an academic who has researched the dance, explains the genre's transformation. "Our tango lyrics are as Finnish as could be. Nostalgic, melancholic words suit this music. "They outline a strategy for surviving everyday life. The basic rhythm can be interpreted as reflecting inner life, perhaps even heartbeats." Ilkka Heiskari, spokesman for the Seinäjoki Tango Festival, offers a more controversial theory. "The Finns are very melancholy, very sad. We drink too much, sometimes we kill people," he announces. Riita, the tourist board representative, protests, but Ilkka shrugs and smiles. "We do not speak very much. Tango is our language. It's the quickest way to get a lady." Yet the four-day festival, held in a small town on the west coast, reflects little of this morbidity or matchmaking. Couples – often wearing coy little identical hats – clutch each other and pogo beneath the stars. Posters of singers leer from every surface, all pomaded hair and overbright teeth: these are the finalists for the tango king and queen competition. Oddly, this is one of the highest music honours in Finland, perhaps equivalent to winning a Brit award for best new artist. The atmosphere is terribly jolly and the beer flows. Elsewhere, tango's foothold is more tenuous. Young professionals gather in the capital's trendy bars, swilling down flamboyant vodka cocktails. The music is techno, with nary an accordion note. "Tango is bollocks," 21-year-old Jani Ahola announces, in careful English slang. His friend Sami Marjanen adds: "I know all the moves, but I hate it." The divide is both geographical and chronological, as Auli Irene explains: "When people turn 35- to 40-years old, they suddenly want to tango. It's more popular in the countryside too." But it would be rash to predict the death of this deeply-entrenched dance. Tango has suffered setbacks before – most notably at the hands of WWII and Beatlemania – and bounced back. That's more than I can say about myself. After seven minutes in Mr Suave's bony embrace, I realise ballroom dancing is not my strong suit – nor is the Finn an ideal suitor. I would cheerfully return for the saunas, the lakes, the safety, culture and sophistication. But Greylocks and the pre-teen disco jitters leave me cold. At least we'll always have that last tango in Helsinki. For further information, contact the Tango Festival in Seinäjoki, Kauppakatu 15 C, FIN-60100 Seinäjoki. Telephone +358-6-420 111, email info@tangomarkkinat.fi or visit www.tangomarkkinat.fi
I am surrounded by middle-aged Nordics, intent on a ballroom trend 70 years past its sell-by date. And this grandfatherly Lothario is trying his luck. Toto, we are a long, long way from Kansas.
"The Finns are very melancholy very sad. We drink too much, sometimes we kill people," he says.

"Tango is bollocks," 21-year-old Jani Ahola announces, in his careful English slang.
		*Back to the portfolio*