Boogie Woogie Quotes

Sometimes in life confusion tends to arise and only dialogue of dance seems to make sense.

If movements were a spark every dancer would desire to light up in flames.

Caution not spirit, let it roam wild; for in that natural state dance embraces divine frequency.

Dance as the narration of a magical story; that recites on lips, illuminates imaginations and embraces the most sacred depths of souls.

Down in Louisiana we call that Boogie Woogie!

If spirit is the seed, dance is the water of its evolution.

Dance is the timeless interpretation of life.

Show me a person who found love in his life and did not celebrate it with a dance.

If you opened the dictionary and searched for the meaning of a Goddess, you would find the reflection of a dancing lady.

Don't breathe to survive; dance and feel alive.

Life is an affair of mystery; shared with companions of music, dance and poetry.

Dance to inspire, dance to freedom, life is about experiences so dance and let yourself become free.

Through synergy of intellect, artistry and grace came into existence the blessing of a dancer.

DANCE – Defeat All Negativity (via) Creative Expression.

She who is a dancer can only sway the silk of her hair like the summer breeze.

One step, two steps, three steps; like winds of time experience joy of centuries, when movements become revelations of the dance of destinies.

Dance is the ritual of immortality.

Good morning, daddy! Ain't you heard The boogie-woogie rumble Of a dream deferred? Listen closely: You'll hear their feet Beating out and beating out a - You think It's a happy beat? Listen to it closely: Ain't you heard something underneath like a - What did I say? Sure, I'm happy! Take it away! Dream Boogie Hey, pop! Re-bop! Mop! Y-e-a-h!

Burdened no more is soul for whom life flows through dance and not breath.

Dance is that delicacy of life radiating every particle of our existence with happiness.

Sometimes I have trouble falling asleep but it's not so bad I don't worry and I don't weep. In fact I'm glad. Because I get up off my pillow and I flip on the light. I get down and get hip in the still of the night I stretch and I yawn and then I breathe real deep And dance myself to sleep. I hoof around my beddie just a-tappin' my toes Before I know what's happened I'm a-ready to doze Got some partners I can count the boogie-woogie sheep I dance myself to sleep.

Transcend the terrestrial; surpass the celestial, from nature’s hands when you receive the sublime pleasures of dance.

When a dancer performs, melody transforms into a carriage, expressions turn into fuel and spirit experiences a journey to a world where passion attains fulfillment.

One night I was layin' down, I heard Papa talkin' to Mama, I heard Papa say to let that boy boogie-woogie. 'Cause it's in him and it's got to come out.

Spirit is a child, the tune of dancing feet its lullaby.

Make dance the mission every moment seeks to accomplish.

Burdened no more is soul for whom life flows through dance like breath.

He was rowed down from the north in a leather skiff manned by a crew of trolls. His fur cape was caked with candle wax, his brow stained blue by wine - though the latter was seldom noticed due to the fox mask he wore at-all times. A quill in his teeth, a solitary teardrop a-squirm in his palm, he was the young poet prince of Montreal, handsome, immaculate, searching for sturdier doors to nail his poignant verses on. In Manhattan, grit drifted into his ink bottle. In Vienna, his spice box exploded. On the Greek island of Hydra, Orpheus came to him at dawn astride a transparent donkey and restrung his cheap guitar. From that moment on, he shamelessly and willingly exposed himself to the contagion of music. To the secretly religious curiosity of the traveler was added the openly foolhardy dignity of the troubadour. By the time he returned to America, songs were working in him like bees in an attic. Connoisseurs developed cravings for his nocturnal honey, despite the fact that hearts were occasionally stung. Now, thirty years later, as society staggers towards the millennium - nailing and screeching at the while, like an orangutan with a steak knife in its side - Leonard Cohen, his vision, his gift, his perseverance, are finally getting their due. It may be because he speaks to this wounded zeitgeist with particular eloquence and accuracy, it may be merely cultural time-lag, another example of the slow-to-catch-on many opening their ears belatedly to what the few have been hearing all along. In any case, the sparkle curtain has shredded, the boogie-woogie gate has rocked loose from its hinges, and here sits L. Cohen at an altar in the garden, solemnly enjoying new-found popularity and expanded respect. From the beginning, his musical peers have recognized Cohen´s ability to establish succinct analogies among life´s realities, his talent for creating intimate relationships between the interior world of longing and language and the exterior world of trains and violins. Even those performers who have neither "covered" his compositions nor been overtly influenced by them have professed to admire their artfulness: the darkly delicious melodies - aural bouquets of gardenia and thistle - that bring to mind an electrified, de-Germanized Kurt Weill; the playfully (and therefore dangerously) mournful lyrics that can peel the apple of love and the peach of lust with a knife that cuts all the way to the mystery, a layer Cole Porter just could`t expose. It is their desire to honor L. Cohen, songwriter, that has prompted a delegation of our brightest artists to climb, one by one, joss sticks smoldering, the steep and salty staircase in the Tower of Song.

Limit not to only five, when the divine gifts the supreme sixth; the sense of dance

Out where the boogie stopped and the woogie began.

Flyblown figs shimmer at you my bug-eyed boy. The glitzy-bodied flies boogie-woogie to your static grin numbing you while sexy screwworms empty you like a black hole.

The grand wild sound of bop floated from beer parlors; it mixed medleys with every kind of cowboy and boogie-woogie in the American Night.

The captain of the Lowry tried a new approach. He assembled the destroyer’s jazz band on deck, and told them to play some music. Strains of Yankee Doodle floated across the ocean, followed by a boogie-woogie number. The Americans thought they could see a smile on the face of one of the sailors. They asked if there was any particular tune he would like to hear. The Soviet sailor did not respond. The

Good evening, daddy! I know you’ve heard The boogie-woogie rumble Of a dream deferred Trilling the treble And twining the bass Into midnight ruffles Of cat-gut lace. –"Boogie: 1 A.M." by Langston Hughes

Audience of angels descend in the ambiance reciting praises in your glory, when you wear your dance shoes, when you arrive at the stage and with every step you take beneath your feet heaven moves. That is the power of dance.

... I don't believe in ghosts - not the scary white sheet, boogie-woogie type of ghost anyway. And yet ... I don't disbelieve either. I'm kind of sitting on the ghost fence, dangling my legs on both sides, not sure which way to jump. I think I might be here for a while.

The beatest characters in the country swarmed on the sidewalks—all of it under those soft Southern California stars that are lost in the brown halo of the huge desert encampment LA really is. You could smell tea, weed, I mean marijuana, floating in the air, together with the chili beans and beer. That grand wild sound of bop floated from beer parlors; it mixed medleys with every kind of cowboy and boogie woogie in the American night. Everybody looked like Hassel. Wild Negroes with bop caps and goatees came laughing by; then longhaired brokendown hipsters straight off Route 66 from New York; then old desert rats, carrying packs and heading for a park bench at the Plaza; then Methodist ministers with raveled sleeves, and an occasional Nature Boy saint in beard and sandals.

The bookstore is owned by septuagenarian nudist Paul Winer, who has skin like burnished leather and wanders the aisles in nothing but a knit codpiece. When it’s cold, he dons a sweater. Paul can afford to keep his bookstore going because, technically, it isn’t a permanent structure, and that keeps the taxes down. It has no real walls—just a ramada roof above a concrete slab. Tarps span the space between them. Shipping containers and a trailer are annexes. Trailer Life magazine called it “the ultimate in Quartzsite architecture.” In an earlier career Paul toured as Sweet Pie, a nude boogie-woogie pianist known for his sing-along anthem “Fuck ’Em If They Can’t Take a Joke,” and he still performs spontaneously on a baby grand near the front of the shop, not far from a discreetly covered adult book section. There’s a Christian section, too, but it’s in the back and Paul usually has to help people find it. “They follow my bare ass to the Bible,” he declares.

He moved into a large sitting area, past a sunken bath that could fit ten and through a set of double doors, where he tossed her on the bed. She bounced as she hit and looked up. He didn’t break eye contact as he shed his jacket, tossing it over on a chair. “Strip.” “You first.” Frank toed off his shoes and loosened his tie, pulling it over his head then dropping it to the floor. “Tell you what. Whoever’s naked first, gets to be on top.” He gave her a lecherous grin and was rewarded with a rosy blush, coloring her cheeks. “Okay.” She climbed off the bed. “On the count of three.” “One,” Frank said and lifted his hands to the top of his dress shirt. She did the same, bracing for the count like a racer on the blocks, her hands behind her neck. “Three.” Frank unbuttoned the collar, and tugged the shirt over his head, including the T-shirt underneath. “That’s cheating,” she said, as she fumbled with the hooks down the back of her blouse. “You had a head start. I’m evening the field.” He ripped his belt off and undid his fly and dropped his boxers and pants all at once. She froze and gasped, staring, hunger in her eyes, snapped out of the spell and tossed her blouse and bra to the side, moving fast, but not fast enough. Her skirt puddled around her ankles as Frank stood, as bare as the day he was born. “I win.” She kicked her garment to the side and placed her hands on her hips. Her chest rose and fell, pebbled nipples displayed against gloriously soft skin and full breasts. Her eyes were wild and her soft blonde hair tousled, like she’d already taken a roll in the sack. Man, did he want to make a bigger mess of it.

Jazz has a “lift” (resulting from the rhythm of Jazz syncopations against a steady beat.)

the fifties would remember those songs: “Big Blue Diamond,” “Shirley Jean,” “Lawdy Miss Clawdy,” “I Need Somebody Bad Tonight,” “Mathilda,” “Betty and Dupree,” and “I Got the Rockin’ Pneumonia and the Boogie Woogie

O wayfarer! Yearn finds quench, not in meadows, seashores or altitude of mountain peaks; but when being and dance are one.

O wayfarer! Yearn finds quench, not in meadows, seashores or altitude of mountain peaks; but when being becomes dance.

One night I was layin' down, I heard Papa talkin' to Mama. I heard Papa say, to let that boy boogie-woogie. ‘Cause it's in him and it's got to come out. —John Lee Hooker, “Boogie Chillen

Boogie Woogie to the Superbowl New Country, Rock and roll August 18, 2024 at 9:00 AM (Verse 1) We’re gearing up on game day, Kansas City Chiefs, ready to fight. With Mahomes and Kelce, we’re on a roll, Boogie woogie to the Super Bowl. (Chorus) We’re gonna boogie woogie to the Super Bowl, Twist and shout, we’re on a roll. Three in a row, we’re gonna show, Kansas City Chiefs, let’s go, let’s go! (Verse 2) The crowd’s on fire, the lights are bright, Arrowhead’s rocking, what a sight. With every pass and every throw, Boogie woogie to the Superbowl. (Chorus) We’re gonna boogie woogie to the Super Bowl, Twist and shout, we’re on a roll. Three in a row, we’re gonna show, Kansas City Chiefs, let’s go, let’s go! (Bridge) From the first down to the final play, We’re bringing the heat, come what may. With Mahomes leading, and Kelce too, There’s nothing this team can’t do. (Chorus) We’re gonna boogie woogie to the Super Bowl, Twist and shout, we’re on a roll. Three in a row, we’re gonna show, Kansas City Chiefs, let’s go, let’s go! (Outro) So raise your voices, let 'em hear, Kansas City Chiefs, this is our year. With every cheer and every goal, Boogie woogie to the Superbowl.

Boogie Woogie to the Superbowl August 18, 2024 at 9:00 AM (Verse 1) We’re gearing up on game day, Kansas City Chiefs, ready to fight. With Mahomes and Kelce, we’re on a roll, Boogie woogie to the Super Bowl. (Chorus) We’re gonna boogie woogie to the Super Bowl, Twist and shout, we’re on a roll. Three in a row, we’re gonna show, Kansas City Chiefs, let’s go, let’s go! (Verse 2) The crowd’s on fire, the lights are bright, Arrowhead’s rocking, what a sight. With every pass and every throw, Boogie woogie to the Superbowl. (Chorus) We’re gonna boogie woogie to the Super Bowl, Twist and shout, we’re on a roll. Three in a row, we’re gonna show, Kansas City Chiefs, let’s go, let’s go! (Bridge) From the first down to the final play, We’re bringing the heat, come what may. With Mahomes leading, and Kelce too, There’s nothing this team can’t do. (Chorus) We’re gonna boogie woogie to the Super Bowl, Twist and shout, we’re on a roll. Three in a row, we’re gonna show, Kansas City Chiefs, let’s go, let’s go! (Outro) So raise your voices, let 'em hear, Kansas City Chiefs, this is our year. With every cheer and every goal, Boogie woogie to the Superbowl.

(Verse 1) We’re gearing up, on game day, Kansas City Chiefs, ready to fight. With Mahomes and Kelce, we’re on a roll, Boogie woogie to the Super Bowl. (Chorus) We’re gonna boogie woogie to the Super Bowl, Twist and shout, we’re on a roll. Three in a row, we’re gonna show, Kansas City Chiefs, let’s go, let’s go! (Verse 2) The crowd’s on fire, the lights are bright, Arrowhead’s rocking, what a sight. With every pass and every throw, Boogie woogie to the Superbowl. (Chorus) We’re gonna boogie woogie to the Super Bowl, Twist and shout, we’re on a roll. Three in a row, we’re gonna show, Kansas City Chiefs, let’s go, let’s go! (Bridge) From the first down to the final play, We’re bringing the heat, come what may. With Mahomes leading, and Kelce too, There’s nothing this team can’t do. (Chorus) We’re gonna boogie woogie to the Super Bowl, Twist and shout, we’re on a roll. Three in a row, we’re gonna show, Kansas City Chiefs, let’s go, let’s go! (Outro) So raise your voices, let 'em hear, Kansas City Chiefs, this is our year. With every cheer and every goal, Boogie woogie to the Superbowl.

Boogie Woogie to the Superbowl” (Verse 1) We’re gearing up, on game day, Kansas City Chiefs, ready to fight. With Mahomes and Kelce, we’re on a roll, Boogie woogie to the Super Bowl. (Chorus) We’re gonna boogie woogie to the Super Bowl, Twist and shout, we’re on a roll. Three in a row, we’re gonna show, Kansas City Chiefs, let’s go, let’s go! (Verse 2) The crowd’s on fire, the lights are bright, Arrowhead’s rocking, what a sight. With every pass and every throw, Boogie woogie to the Superbowl. (Chorus) We’re gonna boogie woogie to the Super Bowl, Twist and shout, we’re on a roll. Three in a row, we’re gonna show, Kansas City Chiefs, let’s go, let’s go! (Bridge) From the first down to the final play, We’re bringing the heat, come what may. With Mahomes leading, and Kelce too, There’s nothing this team can’t do. (Chorus) We’re gonna boogie woogie to the Super Bowl, Twist and shout, we’re on a roll. Three in a row, we’re gonna show, Kansas City Chiefs, let’s go, let’s go! (Outro) So raise your voices, let 'em hear, Kansas City Chiefs, this is our year. With every cheer and every goal, Boogie woogie to the Superbowl.

You’re probably familiar with Broadway Boogie Woogie—that’s one of his most famous

The shabbiness, even embarrassment, of Hazel Scott playing 'concert boogie woogie' before thousands of white middle-class music lovers, who all assumed that this music was Miss Scott's invention, is finally no more hideous than the spectacle of an urban, college-trained Negro musician pretending, perhaps in all sincerity, that he has the same field of emotional reference as his great-grandfather. the Mississippi slave

Comments: Surprisingly Marlin Hurt’s first appearance as a woman speaking in dialect does not get as much of a reaction from the audience as it will in weeks to come. Alice’s weekly rent has apparently increased from $12 in November to $15 in January. Molly delivers one of the most vivid descriptions of boogie woogie: “The kind of piano playing that sounds like rain on the roof with the left hand and somebody playing the flute in the attic with the right hand.