The Kate Bush song, Wuthering Heights, is 40 years old this month. One could argue that this has momentous import for Bush, female musicians and culture in general. However, for women, particularly those of a certain age, it could hold extra significance – if you’re anything like me, this could be the song you’ve done the most embarrassing dancing to.
This could include anything from swirly armed, pouty dancefloor action in youth to, later, hair-tossing/leg-stretching/eye-widening shenanigans at house parties and, still later, a lot of leaping about in kitchens at dinner parties. Shoes removed first, if you don’t want to stumble headfirst into assorted espresso machines and spiralisers, before you get to the “good bit”, where, to paraphrase the lyrics, Ghost Cathy starts finding it a tad parky on the moors, which is the cue for the dancer to express her “shivering” skills.
Part of the enduring appeal of Wuthering Heights is that it not only sounds good, it moves good too. Down the years, my “interpretative dancing” has been much admired and, even if it hasn’t, I haven’t noticed or cared. I’m far from alone. Other women have seemed just as gripped by the delusion that they’re magical fairy creatures who must dance their little ethereal hearts out, to the general delight of humankind, but especially enthralled, undeserving men.
For a certain breed of women – the great ones, with taste and usually a fair bit of alcohol inside them – Kate Bush interpretative dancing is our equivalent of the air guitar. In that, it doesn’t happen that often and, when it does, it gets a little disturbing, but you’d better pretend that you’re into it or you’ll break our tender hearts.