If you like Amarras, there's nothing wrong with standing up next to your computer and moving around. Dancing by yourself is a great way to get in touch with the music. We'll copy the music control here, in case you want to try it:

 

You don't need space or big movements, and you don't need to worry about a partner. A man or a woman can do it, and it doesn't matter at all what it looks like. Do what comes naturally. If you want to swing your arms around a little when Mauré starts to sing, go for it. You can enjoy D'Arienzo's beautiful introduction by simply changing weight back and forth from one foot to the other:

     Step-step...         step-step...         step-quick-step...
        or
     Strong-strong...   strong-strong...   strong-weak-strong...

Try to hit a quick 1-2-3 along with D'Arienzo when he emphasizes something. When Mauré comes in with the first few lines, add something new. Begin to float and turn. Move smoothly, like a shadow in the recova. Let the motion come through your chest, while your upper body drifts and floats. Now, you're a part of the little opera that's taking place—you've become "nothing", like the boatman. Drifting weightlessly, carrying your partner along.

Moving this way is the first step toward having the music inside. Another way to say it is that it adds "musical symmetry" to your dancing. In Chapter 6 we discuss the importance of biomechanical symmetry in tango. You need to stay balanced and centered, so you can step the same way with either leg, and move the same way to either side. One side of your body should mirror the other. In musical symmetry, your whole body mirrors the music. In Chapter 6, there are some good examples of milongueros using "musical symmetry".

We also provide examples of some well-known performers and teachers dancing asymmetrically. Musical asymmetry happens when people try to link patterns and figures together in a milonga. Unless a dance is carefully choreographed and rehearsed with a specific tango, pre-planned steps inevitably get out of synch with the music. For instance in Amarras, there's a place where both the cadence and melody are repeated:

Yo sólo sé que pené...
que caí, y que rode

One-two three… One two three,
One-two three… One two three.

Then, it happens again:

Yo sólo sé que tu adiós,
en la burla del dolor,

One-two three… One two three,
One-two three… One two three.

When dancing to these repeated phrases in a milonga, an accomplished stage couple might move smoothly and acrobatically right through the first phrase, and continue their figure partway into the second. But then, they'd have to pause, and pick up the music again. Most audiences and people new to tango music wouldn't even notice it, but for milongueros this kind of dancing sticks out. It's like an off-key instrument in the orchestra. Or sometimes worse—like chalk screeching on a blackboard.

How about the piano. Do you hear Biaggi? It sounds like him—but it can't be, because D'Arienzo fired him in 1938! (See note.) I'm sure D'Arienzo liked Biaggi's sound, and he may have decided to hire someone to replicate it. But is it the same? Here are two examples of Biaggi playing with his own orchestra after he left D'Arienzo. They're from about the same time that Amarras was recorded:

 

The first part is from Gaucho Sentimiento, and Biaggi's piano has a sharp, silvery sound. Then, the part at the end is from Incendio. In Incendio it sounds like he's attacking the piano. It's like he's driving his fingers down into the keys, and it's so much louder than the rest of the music, that it almost sounds distorted—as if he's about to overload the old recording equipment.

At first, I thought the piano in Amarras sounded like Biaggi, but after listening to these two examples, I can hear a difference. And I'm sure the difference would have been even more dramatic when he was playing live in the milongas. It must have been unforgettable—the sound exploding straight from the piano, undistorted by the old recordings we hear today; his hands flying; attacking the keys—literally bringing audiences to their feet. People were staying on the floor to applaud him after the tandas, until finally, D'Arienzo couldn't take it any more, and got rid of him. That's why his sobre nombre was Manos Brujas. ("Magic Hands"... "Wizard Hands".)

After Biaggi left D'Arienzo, he took rhythmic tango picado to a new level. The opportunities to play with the compás in his tangos are endless, and for a while, some of his valses were my favorite pieces for dancing. But everything changes. I've become a little older, and more contemplative, and I know more. Some of the Castillo valses have moved up to join them... and of course there's Vargas... and Troilo with Fiorentino, and... well, I guess my list is getting top-heavy. Everything we've discussed so far in this chapter is at the top—along with about a hundred other tangos as well. The more I dance, and the more I learn, the better it gets. It's great, isn't it?