For the Depression-era hopefuls who competed in the original dance marathons – endurance charleston sessions with cash prizes at the end – there was a financial imperative to keep their feet moving for hours, even days, at a time. For an apprehensive Edinburgh Fringe audience in numbered bibs, it's all about the boasting rights, the immersive experience and doing the conga to "Murder on the Dance Floor".
From the Traverse we are taken to a nearby gym hall. At our allocated spots we meet our partners for the first time. A glamorous MC orders us around. We learn the Texas two-step and do our worst to "That's The Way (I Like It)". As the moves get more complex, it transpires that at least 20 of the "audience" are planted dancers. Several are eliminated in a Derby dance-race, or for answering a random question incorrectly. The referee, wearing a Dunfermline Athletic strip with legwarmers, whirls around on roller skates waving his red flag.
So far, so jolly. Where Canadian company Bluemouth come adrift is when they impose a narrative on the party. After the blindfold waltz and the Iggy Popov contest for men, no one cares that the ref has always wanted to go to Hawaii. Even if he does a tremendous hoola.
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