Delight #3

The car singalong / private dance

Sometimes you’re waiting at the lights when unexpectedly — delight. The cause is the next car over, windows down, where a man, fortyish, periodically sipping from an energy drink in a can, wearing wraparound sunglasses even though it’s not really sunny, is singing along to Beyoncé’s “Texas Hold ’Em”, slapping with one hand on the side of his car. Eventually, he puts down the drink and starts keeping time with actual small toots of his horn, nodding his head with caffeinated emphasis. I mean, this is a bit dangerous in traffic terms and after a minute he has to stop tooting because it’s obnoxious before 8am, but wow, what a cheering interlude — the shameless pitchiness of the singing; the enthusiastic CHUs; the fact that Wellington couldn’t be further from Texas, hence the brazen replacement of cowboy attire with an orange bucket hat and Tui singlet.

We are in the presence of two distinct but related delights here: the Car Singalong and the Private Dance. The Car Singalong, potent alone or in a group, is distinguished by its earnestness even when the choice of song is ironic. The windows may be down or up, but the music should be loud. Perhaps it takes place on a busy road (see: a car full of poets screaming Lorde on the Auckland motorway) or perhaps the only witness is a stretch of open-ended ocean (see: a car full of poets half-whispering Sufjan Stevens on the backroads of the Coromandel). The Private Dance — which may be performed out in the world or in secrecy; its privacy is not to do with how few people can see it, but how little its existence depends on the presence of other people — is quieter. The girl crossing the road with her headphones on, making near-invisible waves with her shoulders, for instance. M, riding her hand on the wind out the car window. The drummer at the very back of the six-piece band, performing one irresistible groove to the opening of “Part-Time Punk” (I mean, listen to it; how could you not).

In combination, the Car Singalong and the Private Dance offer something rare and precious: a high without negative physical consequences, an associated moralising discourse, or exorbitant cost. A high to partake of, yes. But also a high to witness — as when Beyoncé gets to the part of the song with all the whistling, and the man in the next car looks over and nods. Whistles a little. Raises his can in salute. And even when the light changes and he careens round the corner to meet the main road, he doesn’t quite disappear.

This series is inspired by the essayettes in Ross Gay’s collection The Book of Delights.