Above the Footwork

Years ago, I was producing a theme park production called Tap: The Musical.

We brought in one of the finest tap choreographers in the business and held auditions across the country. We were fortunate to assemble an extraordinary cast—dancers whose technical abilities were unlike anything I had encountered before.

One performer in particular stood out.

Their footwork was remarkable. The clarity of their sounds, the complexity of their rhythms and their ability to execute difficult combinations placed them a step above an already accomplished company.

Technically, they were brilliant.

But something was missing.

I’ve often said that the face is the window through which an audience sees the body. No matter how impressive the footwork was, this performer wasn’t communicating the feeling behind it. All the energy was going into producing the steps and sounds, but very little was reaching the face or the rest of the body.

I spoke about it often and continued encouraging greater engagement, but nothing seemed to break through.

So one day in rehearsal, I tried something unusual.

The company was working on a particularly demanding number—one filled with intricate choreography and astonishing rhythmic sequences. I stopped the rehearsal, took a large tarp and held it in front of this performer, blocking everything below the shoulders.

Then I asked them to perform the number while looking into the mirror.

They stared at me.

“How can I possibly show you what I’m doing if you can’t see my feet?”

That was precisely the point.

I explained that we needed to understand the piece without seeing the footwork. We needed to see its intensity, emotion and personality. We needed to see the story on their face and feel it through their upper body.

The performer didn’t fully understand, but agreed to try.

As the music began, they watched themselves in the mirror—and almost immediately saw what I had been trying to explain. Above the tarp, very little was happening. Their feet may have been performing something extraordinary, but their face wasn’t inviting anyone to experience it.

So we tried it again.

The tarp remained in place, but this time the performer began to think beyond the steps. The eyes became engaged. The face came alive. The upper body responded to the rhythms being created below.

For the first time, we could see the performance without seeing the feet.

Then I removed the tarp.

Over the next several weeks, something began to change. The performer discovered that great tap dancing wasn’t only about producing precise sounds or executing difficult combinations. It required the whole person—the body, the emotions, the heart and the spirit.

The remarkable technique was still there. But now it had meaning.

That performer grew from being an exceptional technician into a complete entertainer. From then on, every number—and every moment within it—was transformed.

That season, Tap: The Musical received IAAPA’s Heartbeat Award—an honor widely regarded as the theme park industry’s Show of the Year and presented to a production that connects with audiences in a particularly powerful and moving way.

The award belonged to an extraordinary company and creative team. But for me, it also affirmed something I had witnessed throughout the rehearsal process: technique can capture an audience’s attention, but only genuine connection can move them.

Technique may show an audience what you can do.

But it’s everything above the footwork that helps them feel it.

The audience shouldn’t have to see your feet to feel you dance.