It’s Swing Time!

He’s about 35, starting to bald, a jellyroll taxing the waistband of his chinos as he hops from foot to supinated foot, eyeing the 40 other people gathered at the Derby, waiting for an intermediate Lindy Hop class to begin.

A snap judgment is that he’s out of his league, trying to hang with this crew, guys sporting vintage ‘50s sport-shirts and girls in satin and snoods. And then a record is cued up, Nat “King” Cole crooning “Paper Moon.” He offers his hand to the woman nearest to him, a long-eyed vixen with a black Betty Page bob. He pulls her close, spins her away, dips and flips her, all the while his feet gliding smoothly as butter over a hot griddle.

When the song ends, he thanks his partner and moves on to the next girl; he may be an accountant or a car dealer by day, but by night, he’s a Casanova on the dance floor.

Wait a second: Didn’t we hear enough about swing when the movie “Swingers” came out? Yes, and no. Back in 1996, when the movie was released, every hipster captivated by the high life featured in the film ransacked thrift stores for seamed stockings and two-tone shoes, tried a little jumping and jiving at the Los Feliz club the Derby (where some scenes in “Swingers” were filmed), and then split for the lounges that replaced swing as the incandescent scene of the moment. It was an exodus that, for people who’d been swinging pre-”Swingers,” was a blessing.

What remained was a core group of swing-a-holics who’ve been swinging for years if not decades, and who make weekly if not nightly trips to the clubs around town, many of which, in the words of one club promoter, are “flying under the radar.”

Swing had fallen off the radar for most of the past three decades in part because it requires the man to lead and the woman to follow, a practice that flies in the face of two movements wrought in the ‘60s: equality of the sexes and a “do your own thing” ethos that meant dancers stopped holding one another.

Today, holding is in again, equal doesn’t mean separate and swing’s underground status is changing as the dance is rediscovered. Those who find and try swing, usually fall in love with it.

Yet the current swing craze has managed to escape the clutches of the jeunesse doree/WB set, at least for now. Why should they embrace it? Swing dancing requires perseverance, a discipline that’s the antithesis of hot now and gone tomorrow. Despite hipster apathy, swing clubs are packed, their sheer numbers are swelling as would-be swingers sign up for a simple route back into one another’s arms: free lessons.

Swing nights can be found in Masonic lodges, YMCAs, restaurants, any place that has a wooden dance floor and a stage to spin records. And though the venues are open to anyone--many do not serve alcohol and hence can admit an all-ages crowd--”There’s a hierarchy of people who dance,” says Karen Wilson, a three-night-a-week swinger who hosts Southern California’s premier swing Web site, nocturne.com. “You have the people who were dancing before ‘Swingers,’ then people who started then and left.

And then there was that Gap commercial.” She groans, remembering the havoc the 1998 TV ad caused. “The only thing the people who saw the commercial knew were throwing each other around; people were getting kicked in the head left and right. And they all wore khakis!” she adds, with mock-horror. “But then they all left, or most of them.”

This is how it begins. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the world famous Derby,” says instructor Roscoe Farnsworth, having the men and women line up facing one another. “All you’re gonna do is side, side, rock step.” He’s teaching the basic steps to East Coast swing, a six-count dance; other popular swing dances include the Lindy Hop, done to an eight-count, and West Coast swing, a combination of six- and eight-count steps.

“Good. Again,” says Farnsworth, as his fellow instructor, Molly Shock, demonstrates a turn. “The turns are just so you don’t get bored,” says Shock. “If you learn nothing else from what we’ve taught you, you will not look bad out on the floor.”

In fact, no one looks bad right now, sartorially speaking, with fashions running from zoot suits and cuffed jeans (for guys) and gored crepe dresses and midriff-baring sailor suits (for gals), to just-come-from-the-office casual. “Only die-hards and new people wear vintage anymore,” whispers Wilson, who wears overalls.

“The key to a good turn, gentlemen, is to be very clear in your direction,” says Farnsworth. “Where are you telling her to go? Ladies, be receptive, let him turn you. Guys, you’ve got to protect that lady. Is she gonna hit her head on a ledge? Is the guy dancing next to you drunk? It’s up to you to protect that lady! Remember, guys, you’re in control.”

“That was probably the hardest thing about learning to dance,” says Wilson, who started eight years ago. “The giving up control. The guy leads, he has to lead, and to learn to let him do that, it’s hard, but it’s also great.”

The couples rotate partners every minute or so. Some are smooth as cream, others not, though no one seems to mind, except Wilson, who winces at a couple doing, well, everything wrong: She leads, and though she weighs about 85 pounds, her feet hit the floor like cinderblocks. He, on the other hand, is so spindly and nervous, his dancing has the frantic quality of a bird caught in a net.

When the class ends at 9:30, Shock throws on a few records to tide over the dancers before the band comes on. “I’ve been teaching here for five years, though I’ve been coming to the Derby for seven,” she says. “My first partner was Jon Favreau--this was two years before he made ‘Swingers.’ After the film came out, the classes went from having about 12 people per class to 150; now we get about 20 to 40 people per class, though we’re starting to see another resurgence.”

“There are a lot of deejay [swing] clubs these days,” adds Shock, whose day job is a video editor for A&E;’s “Biography.” “There’s a younger crowd at those places, whereas the Derby is mostly 30-plus. It’s just about the only place where there’s still live music and dance every night.... Everybody can listen to this stuff.”

Though there is no more gorgeous swing club in L.A. than the Derby, with its massive room swagged in crimson velvet, lighting as low as a cathedral, and gigantic oval bar patterned after the one in the film “Mildred Pierce,” the reason the swing-hounds are out in force tonight is Royal Crown Revue, a home-grown big band with a rabidly loyal following.

The place is standing-room-only by 10:30, when the seven-piece RCR takes the stage, the players in pinstripes and white ties. Frontman Eddie Nichols, who looks like a cross between Popeye and Hyde on “That 70’s Show,” smirks at the audience. “You all having a good time?” he asks; the crowd hoots in response.

Though the dance floor in front of the stage can comfortably accommodate about 12 swinging couples, there are twice as many out there: girls with platinum hair and silk roses tucked behind their ears, guys in porkpie hats and peg-leg pants, all backed by a blazing horn section that makes the room look like a D-day celebration. And yet there’s also a chap in a black cowboy hat and leather duster ensemble, a woman in a gold sequin halter that looks as though it fell out of Liza Minnelli’s closet and a couple of kids in slacker-chic. As Nichols segues into a triple-time version of “Lover, Where Can You Be?” it’s clear all these people have earned a right to be on the floor; that the fervor and sweet release is available to anyone, so long as they put in the time it takes to be a real swinger.

Tucked into a Tarzana mini-mall, and next door to a fluff-and-fold that perfumes the parking lot with fabric softener, Paladino’s looks like an everyman’s bar, which it is, except on Tuesdays, when the swing crowd converges. The place resembles an Elks lodge, circa 1970, with turquoise and fuchsia velour captain’s chair and a bare-bones stage.

After a small 8-9 p.m. class led by instructors Kim Clever (who appeared in the opening swing scene of David Lynch’s “Mulholland Drive”) and David Frutos, the room quickly fills. Dressed mostly in jeans and Nike separates, ages 21 to 75, the dancers evince not one scintilla of hipster gloss; in fact, they look like any group of folks one might see walking around the Glendale Galleria, until Frutos mans the deejay booth and starts spinning ‘50s tunes. Immediately, there are 60 people on the floor, switching partners after each song, chatting with friends, bragging to one another about their kids.

“She’s taking the bar exam next week,” says Bernie Dovbish, 70, pointing to his daughter Tevaya. “I taught her to dance when she was 3; I’ve been dancing and teaching since 1951. We’re known as the dancing family,” he says, gathering his wife, Eileen, in his arms.

Clearly, the scene is ageless, open to anyone, a triumph of aptitude over attitude. What is it about swing that makes it so egalitarian? “It’s the music,” says Chip Hornick, 39, a computer programmer at UCLA, who began dancing two years ago and who says his first experience with swing was at Baskin-Robbins, when he heard “Big Bad Voodoo Daddy.” “I just got into the music so much. This stuff, you listen to it and you just have to swing. Plus, I love the social aspect.... You can go up to a stranger and you’re basically speaking the same physical language; you get out there and do a little performance together. It’s cool.”

The coolest people on the floor tonight are Allen and Rudy Hall. He’s tall and lanky, in a Kanga cap and tennis shoes; she’s a petite brunet in a sailor outfit, and their dancing is exuberant and theatrical: He plants his finger in the top of her head, “spinning” her as though she were his puppet, then stands looking sheepish as she shakes a mock-scolding finger at him. A 20-something girl in red cargo pants looks on in awe, and jumps off her stool when Allen holds out his hand to her, offering her a dance.

“We live in Minnesota but travel by motor home six months a year,” says Rudy, taking a rare break. “We go south of the ice; we travel until we hit liquid water, and then we go left or right. But we always spend several months in the Los Angeles area, going from club to club.”

Rudy’s been dancing for 39 years but says she had “the hardest time” getting Allen to. “He finally started when he retired, 13 years ago. I think he took to it,” she says, laughing, as she watches Allen and the girl do a belly-to-belly shimmy.

No hair gel, no high heels, no booze. It’s opening night of the Lindy Binge Exchange, being held at Lindy Groove, a Thursday night club located in a Masonic temple in Pasadena. “Exchange” is just what it sounds like: a swapping, in this case of space and scene. People drive and fly in from all over the country to check out what’s swinging in L.A., and bring information about what’s happening in their part of the world. Brandy, a budding journalist, and Nick, a dance instructor, both in their early 20s, just got in from Vegas. Where will they be staying?

“Not really sure yet,” says Nick, laying a bunch of fliers for the Sin City exchange he’s organizing on a receiving table. “Have bag, will travel.” Nat “King” Cole’s “Welcome to the Club” is playing in the dance hall, and though it’s early by club standards--8 p.m.--there are already 30 couples on the floor, gently easing into an evening that will last until at least 4 a.m. Lindy Groove can stay open late because it serves no booze, the only libations a large cold-water dispenser.

When “Be Careful if You Can’t Be Good” comes on, a few couples stake out spots close to the music, sometimes called the “cat’s corner,” where the best dancers hold sway. Rusty, who teaches swing classes at the Neptunian Woman’s Club in Playa del Rey, begins leading three people in a group dance called the Shim Sham Shimmy, while a dozen high school kids in jeans and sneakers, including a tall, gangly boy with legs loose as cooked spaghetti, toss each other in the air and squeal. Which is when one realizes: These kids could be home watching a rerun of “The Simpsons,” but instead, they’re dancing, and not only with each another.

“Do you want to dance?” a 19-year-old blond boy asks a 40-plus woman. “OK, but I don’t really know what I’m doing,” she says.

And she doesn’t. He’s got to manhandle her into position, visibly tug to get her to turn under and shake off her apologies when she mashes his feet. And yet when the song ends, he doesn’t run for the exit, but speaks to her for a few minutes, giving her tips on how she might learn this or that maneuver. Where else does one see a 19-year-old young man willing to hold and gently tutor a woman old enough to be his mother?

It’s clear that swing is not for those night-lifers who crave being seen on the scene, and there’s a reason: Dancing takes time and deliberation; you have to listen and learn, to be in it for the long haul, which is diametrically opposed to showing up at the club-of-the-week with a little cologne and cleavage.

“We’re sort of underground,” says Lance Powell, a software developer by day who started Lindy Groove last year. “It’s about a year commitment to get to the point where you can get out there and actually dance.” His eyes wander to a raven-haired girl doing a goosey move with her neck. “Taylor’s a great follow,” he says, “as you can see.” How long has Taylor been dancing? “Four years,” says Taylor Mathews, a 19-year-old student at UCLA. “I love it; it’s so fun. With every person, you have a different connection.”

“We just opened in January. We wanted to have a place where people of all ages could dance and have a good time,” says Holly Dumaux, one of the Swing Pit’s promoters. “We used to do it in a bar, Delmonico’s, in Pasadena, but we really don’t drink--we’re dancers, we’re out there doing something. So the bars don’t really like us, because we don’t pull in a bar.” Hence, the current space, in the Glendale YMCA.

It’s 5 p.m., the third day of the Lindy Binge Exchange, and people have been dancing since 2. The large room is packed, the air thick and humid. Everybody seems to know everyone else, and even to an interloper, there are plenty of familiar faces: there’s Karen Wilson, incorporating some hyperactive Charleston moves into her routine; and the Dovbish family; and Taylor Mathews, dancing with Lance Powell; and the Halls, Allen in a pair of navy wool sailor pants with “Boogie Britches” embroidered on the right flank, Rudy in clam-diggers and saddle shoes.

The deejay has been flown in from Vegas, there are swing dance clips from the ‘40s and ‘50s being beamed onto the ceiling, and the place is a riot of activity, literally no place to sit or stand, which means ducking arms and feet and twirling skirts in an effort to check out the scene. It looks like nothing so much as a photo out of an old Life magazine.

“I went on a Web site for swing, and there was a shot of all these people enjoying the music and dancing,” says Chip Hornick. “I was looking at it closely, to see if I recognized anyone, when I realized it was a picture from the 1940s. But it looks the same.” Between 6 and 7 p.m., there’s a discernable migration for the door, as people head for Swing Heaven in Plummer Park, or KC’s in Whittier, or the Pasadena Ballroom. Allen Hall’s got out his Thomas Guide, showing out-of-towners how to get where they’re going on a night that undoubtedly will not end until morning.

“One cautionary note,” says Allen, with a wry smile, “if you don’t want to be doing this when you’re my age, stop now; it’s worse than dope. Seriously, once you’re hooked, you’re hooked.”

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Nancy Rommelmann is a Los Angeles-based freelance writer. She last wrote about the coffeehouse culture for Calendar Weekend.