She did not find this comforting and was anxiously waiting in the car while I did the prom drive-by. On the way to the show, she and Daddy kept trying to talk to me, and I kept saying, “Please! Just be quiet and let me listen to this music. I have to memorize this drum solo.”
I love a good drum solo, by the way. Nothing is choreographed, but when I know the drums, I have a basic plan. Nothing excites me more than a live drummer. Not knowing what the other person is going to do creates a tense energy between dancer and drummer, and I love that. I didn’t know it then, but this was exactly what would happen when I was onstage with Prince, particularly during his famous after-concert shows, when he’d leave a huge stadium performance and head for some small club where we would all jam our butts off for two hours or more. One night in London, he slayed an extended version of “Peach” for over half an hour while I danced around him like a Turkish darvesh on steroids. When it was over, he spiked his guitar like a football, grabbed my hand, strutted backstage, and just fell out flat, spread-eagled on the floor. He was in ecstasy.
Getting into my costume for the showcase, I trusted the drums to take me where I needed to go, but I was worried about a strained muscle in my foot. One of the male Egyptian belly dancers saw me backstage trying to stretch my feet by stepping on a bottle and asked me what was wrong.
“I’ve been preparing for a ballet exam,” I told him, “doing a lot en pointe.”
He said, “I’m Ali. I’m a massage therapist. Let me take a look at it. Maybe I can help.”
At first I said no, because I never liked to be touched like that, especially by a man. Even now, a friend will try to gift me a massage—not happening. (But thank you!) In this case, I was desperate, so I sat down, and he took my foot between his hands. Within minutes, the pain was gone. I don’t know what he did, but I’ve never forgotten the experience. It was such a relief, and as the pain disappeared, a fresh infusion of energy replaced the tension I’d been feeling. I finished preparing, putting my hair up and drawing a bold curl on my face. Mama took one look and was more scared than ever, but I laughed and told her, “Go sit down already. It’ll be fine.”
The moment that music kicked in, I was lost in that energy, and a passion that can’t be choreographed took over my body. There was a moment when I caught my mother’s eye just as I did a deep backbend and released that updo she was worried about, letting my long hair flow down as I came up. I smiled, because her face was priceless—complete awe at what she was seeing. To this day, she says it’s her favorite performance of mine. People loved it and wanted to know who’d choreographed it. I had to tell them, “No one. And I couldn’t repeat it if my life depended on it.” It was something that came out in that moment and only that moment. If I tried to replicate it, it would never be the same.
But there was no time to revel in it. I had to get to my regular gig at a local restaurant. After that, I went home exhausted and ate a huge plate of spaghetti, knowing I’d need the carbs to get through the exam the next day.
Along with about fifty other girls in tutus and pointe shoes, I registered for a master class, which was grueling but doable because my ballet teacher was strict and had prepared me well. I warmed up and waited my turn to perform my classical piece. When I finally walked into the room, I had to laugh. It was exactly like Flashdance, right down to the long table of grim-looking judges and an old-school turntable off to the side. I put a cassette into the tape player instead, but my finger was trembling just like the girl’s was in the movie when I pushed Play.