In Memoriam: Dancin’ Andy Leaves the Community with Fond Memories of Mirthful Nights

“Ayy, I run these streets.”

I thought the man was talking to me, but turns out, he was talking to himself. He wore a glittering barbershop quartet vest, skin-tight white pants, black sunglasses, and a gold medallion around his neck, and he smoothed back his Elvis-like hair before pointing with purpose at a high-top chair.

I was 22 years old and had just discovered the Grog basement. A band was playing a rock version of “Eleanor Rigby” on a stage alight with blues and yellows, but the rest of the basement was dark. I thought I wasn’t seeing clearly (or was too drunk) when the man effortlessly rested his foot on the chair at a perfect 90-degree angle, then pumped his fist and pointed at the chair again, as though celebrating his own flexibility.

“Andy, off the chair,” a waitress snapped, probably for the 12^th time that night.

“You don’t run these streets, I run these streets,” was the reply. And like unsheathing a sword to do battle, he produced a pair of dice and rolled them on the table. The waitress left with a dispassionate sigh.

“Hey,” he said, catching my eye. “If you’re not havin’ a good time, get the f*ck out. Am I right?”

“Sure,” I said. “That’s right.”

It didn’t take long for me to realize Dancin’ Andy was a staple of the Newburyport bar scene. In the 10 years that followed I encountered him regularly anywhere there was music ripe for the dancing. Always dressed in the flashiest fashion, he turned even the most prosaic of floors into poetry, gyrating, leg-kicking, pointing, shimmying, and rolling his dice until others inevitably joined in.

The beautiful thing about poetry is that it doesn’t always make sense. At least, not at first. As a newly-minted college graduate, I’d been led to believe that the adult world makes sense. Children can experiment with ridiculous outfits, play silly games, dance where they’re not supposed to dance, but adults must be realistic and rational.

When I think about what matters most to me in this town, it’s not the stately historic homes, scenic boardwalk, beach dunes, or selection of restaurants. It’s the stuff that doesn’t make sense.

More than my elementary school teachers or even some childhood friends, I vividly remember The Weeper smoking a cigar on the corner of Broad Street. I remember Pete Pollard standing like a sentry outside Richdales, rolled-up newspaper under his arm. I remember Running Jesus jogging down High Street, hair buoyed by the wind. I remember Denise’s Flower Shop selling an unlikely combination of socks and flowers, and Fowles’ eclectic inventory of cigars, comics, and breakfast food. I even remember, with confusing fondness, the free-for-all intersection by Mosely Woods, with no traffic lights or signs.

Navigating Newburyport as an “adult” in my 20s and 30s, I noticed the patina of nonsense gradually being scrubbed away. Fowle’s and Denise’s closed down (replaced by more traditional businesses), the Weeper and Pete Pollard passed away, and that free-for-all by Mosely is now a sensible traffic circle. Just as I was being dragged into responsible adulthood, forced to leave behind youth’s eccentric diversions, Newburyport was also being frog marched down the path of maturity.

Then I met Dancin’ Andy, a grown man who made no sense. We didn’t pay attention to him because he was a riveting conversationalist, or even a particularly good dancer, but because he was an adult with the spirit of a child, who dressed and danced how he wanted, without fear of judgement. Because there was no rhyme or reason to his dice. If someone had tried to assign them a meaning, the dice would’ve lost their delicious absurdity. If Dancin’ Andy made sense, we wouldn’t have danced along with him.

When I learned that Dancin’ Andy had passed away last weekend, I was editing an article for The Townie about local housing development. Suddenly, the article seemed trivial. Local politics seemed trivial. The subtle differences of opinion that drive large wedges between neighbors, the petty gripes we have with our friends – all felt silly and hollow. Because the real fabric of our community isn’t the stuff we take seriously; it’s the Weepers, Running Jesuses, Pete Pollards, and Dancin’ Andys. When they fade, so does the color and character around us, and we begin to grow up against our will.

But just like no one could force Dancin’ Andy to abandon his flashy vests and trusty dice, no one can force us to abandon our soft spot for nonsense. In a world that constantly pushes us toward coherence and logic, we need a little incoherence to stay sane.

So if you’ve ever watched Dancin’ Andy rest his foot on an unlikely bar surface, tried to imitate his signature leg-crouch-and-point, rolled the dice, or listened to his quirky maxims outside the Thirsty Whale at 1am, remember: the magic of Dancin’ Andy wasn’t entertainment, it was his spirit of nonsense. And we don’t need to dress like Elvis to keep that spirit alive.

Rest in peace, Dancin’ Andy. And don’t worry. Even though you’re gone, you still “run these streets.”

Eben Diskin
Editor, The Townie