July 1998. I’m sitting inside the Fox Theater, waiting for Bring in ‘Da Noise, Bring in ‘Da Funk in Atlanta to begin, and I can barely sit still.
I’d been tapping for about a year at this point—a complete adult beginner who’d walked into a studio one day and said, “Teach me.” I’d fallen hard for tap dancing, spent every spare moment in class or practicing, watched every tap video I could find. And I’d seen clips of this show on television, watched Savion and the cast tear up talk show stages with rhythms that felt like they were shaking the foundation of the earth itself.
But seeing it on a TV screen is one thing. Being in the room where it happens? That’s something else entirely.
What I didn’t know then—what I couldn’t have known—was that I wouldn’t just see Bring in ‘Da Noise, Bring in ‘Da Funk once that week. I’d see it twice. And those two performances would teach me something fundamental about tap dancing that I carry with me to this day: the choreography is the structure, but the dancer is the voice.
This is the story of those two nights, and what they revealed about the living, breathing art form I was falling in love with.
The Build-Up: A Tap Fan Far From Broadway
Living in Atlanta in 1998 meant I was far from the epicenter of the tap world. New York had Broadway Dance Center, the tap jams, the masters teaching regular classes. New York had Savion. New York had everything.
But Atlanta had something too: a growing tap community, dedicated teachers, and occasionally, when we were lucky, touring productions that brought the art form to our doorstep.
When the announcement came that Noise/Funk was coming to the Fox Theatre as part of its national tour, I didn’t hesitate. I bought a ticket immediately. This was the show that had won four Tony Awards, that had people talking about tap as a serious art form again, that featured choreography by one of the tap dancers I admire most in the world.
If you want to understand why this show was so revolutionary for tap dance, I wrote about its cultural impact in my previous post about how Bring in ‘Da Noise, Bring in ‘Da Funk changed tap dance forever.
I studied the program before I went. I read everything I could find about the show. I watched the TV appearances again, trying to memorize the rhythms, the patterns, the way the dancers attacked the floor. I wanted to be ready, to understand what I was seeing, to catch every detail.
What I wasn’t prepared for was how visceral the experience would be—or how different it could be from one night to the next.
Night One: Baakari Wilder Takes the Stage
The lights went down at the Fox Theatre. The sound of chains filled the ornate space. And then the tapping began.
If you’ve never seen tap dancing performed live with proper amplification, it’s hard to explain the physical impact of it. It’s not just sound—it’s percussion you feel in your chest, in your bones. Every stomp, every shuffle, every heel drop reverberates through the space. The theatre becomes an instrument, and the dancers’ feet are playing it.
On this first night, Baakari Wilder was performing the lead role that Savion Glover had originated. I knew Baakari’s name from the tap community—he was already recognized as a master of rhythm tap, someone whose clarity and musicality set him apart.
From the moment he started dancing, I understood why.
Baakari’s approach to the material felt deeply soulful. There was an introspective quality to his performance, as if every rhythm was being carefully considered, weighed, and then delivered with absolute precision. His sound quality was extraordinary—each tap had distinct pitch and tone, creating melodies within the rhythms. You could hear the difference between a heel drop and a toe tap, between a brush and a dig, between hitting the ball of the foot versus the full sole.
This might sound technical, but the effect was anything but. What it created was an almost conversational quality to his tapping. You felt like he was speaking to you, telling you stories through rhythm, and every word was perfectly enunciated.
In the section tracing tap’s journey through jazz-era Harlem, Baakari’s rhythms swung with such authenticity that you could practically see the smoky clubs, feel the joy and innovation of that era. In the more somber moments reflecting on slavery and struggle, his tapping carried weight—literally and figuratively. Each sound hit the floor with intention, with the gravity of historical memory.
What struck me most was his intonation. Just as a skilled speaker can convey meaning through the way they emphasize certain words or phrases, Baakari used dynamics—volume, attack, spacing, accent—to shape the emotional content of his rhythms. A single heel drop could feel like a period at the end of a sentence. A rapid-fire series of shuffles could build like a question gaining urgency.
By the time the show ended, I was emotionally exhausted in the best possible way. I’d just witnessed what felt like a masterclass in rhythmic storytelling. The standing ovation lasted forever, and I stood there thinking: This is what tap can be. This is what I want to learn.
I walked out of the theatre convinced I’d just seen the definitive version of this show.
And then, three days later, I went back.
Why I Decided to See It Again
Here’s the thing about being a tap dancer—even a beginner tap dancer: once you see something that moves you, you can’t help but want to study it more closely. After that first performance, I kept replaying rhythms in my head, trying to remember patterns, wanting to understand the structure better.
So when I realized the show was still running and I could afford another ticket, the decision was easy. I’d see it again, catch the things I missed the first time, cement the experience in my memory.
What I didn’t realize was that I wasn’t going to see the same show twice. I was about to discover one of tap dancing’s most beautiful truths: no two performances are ever exactly the same, especially when the choreography leaves room for individual interpretation and improvisation.
Night Two: Jimmy Tate Brings a Different Energy
The second performance began the same way—chains, darkness, the opening rhythms establishing the show’s themes. But the moment the lead dancer stepped into the spotlight, everything felt different.
Jimmy Tate was performing the role that night, and his energy was electric from the first measure.
Where Baakari’s performance had felt introspective and carefully articulated, Jimmy’s felt explosive. There was a joy in his tapping that was infectious, a sense of play even in the more serious material. He attacked the choreography with an almost athletic intensity, making the stage feel barely large enough to contain all that energy.
His musicality came from a different place. If Baakari made you think of a skilled orator carefully choosing each word, Jimmy felt like a jazz musician riffing—spontaneous, in the moment, riding the edge of the beat with confidence and flair. His rhythms had swing and bounce, a lightness of touch even when hitting hard.
The same choreography that had felt meditative with Baakari now felt celebratory. The jazz section didn’t just swing—it soared. Jimmy’s charisma lit up the theatre. He seemed to be enjoying every second, and that joy was contagious. The audience responded differently too, more vocal, more immediately enthusiastic.
And here’s what fascinated me most: both interpretations worked perfectly. Neither felt wrong or less authentic than the other. They were simply different voices speaking the same language, telling the same story through their own distinct rhythmic accents.
In the section dealing with contemporary urban experience, Jimmy’s high-energy approach gave the material a different emotional resonance. Where Baakari had made it feel like testimony—serious, weighty, important—Jimmy made it feel like celebration despite adversity, like resilience expressed through joy rather than solemnity.
His technique was impeccable, but what stayed with me was how effortless he made it look. Complex rhythms flew out of his feet like they were the most natural thing in the world. He made difficult material feel accessible, made virtuosity look like play.
What Two Performances Taught Me About Tap
Sitting in that theatre for the second time, watching the same show feel so completely different, I had an epiphany about tap dancing that has shaped everything I’ve done since.
Tap isn’t just about executing steps correctly. It’s not about replicating choreography exactly as it was originally performed. Tap is a language, and like any language, the same words can be spoken with different accents, different emphasis, different emotional shading—and still communicate powerfully.
The choreography of Bring in ‘Da Noise, Bring in ‘Da Funk provided structure, sequence, and narrative arc. But within that structure, there was room for individual interpretation, for personal rhythmic voice, for the dancer to bring their own musicality and energy to the material.
This was revolutionary for me to witness as a beginning tap dancer. I’d been approaching tap the way many beginners do—trying to copy exactly what I saw, measuring my success by how closely I could replicate what my teacher demonstrated. But watching Baakari and Jimmy perform the same role so differently showed me that tap mastery isn’t about perfect imitation. It’s about developing your own voice within the form.
Both dancers had extraordinary technical skills. Both understood the choreography deeply. Both honored the material’s emotional and historical content. But they expressed it differently because they were different people with different rhythmic personalities.
Baakari’s clarity and intonation reflected his particular genius—the ability to make every sound distinct and meaningful, to craft rhythms with the precision of a master craftsman. Jimmy’s joy and energy reflected his genius—the ability to make difficulty look easy, to communicate through pure enthusiasm and athletic musicality.
Neither approach was superior. They were complementary, two different but equally valid ways of inhabiting the same choreographic material.
The Improvisation Factor
One element that contributed to the differences between the two performances was improvisation. While Noise/Funk had set choreography, it also featured moments where dancers could improvise, inserting their own rhythms within the structure.
This is a core principle of rhythm tap: the form values individual expression and in-the-moment creativity. The greatest tap dancers aren’t just technicians executing steps—they’re musicians composing in real time, responding to what they hear, what they feel, what the moment calls for.
Watching the show twice let me identify where those improvisational moments occurred. Sometimes it was in transitional sections, where a dancer might throw in extra rhythms between choreographed phrases. Sometimes it was in the way they approached certain breaks—adding personal flair, changing the dynamics, inserting a signature rhythm pattern.
These moments of improvisation meant that even if you saw the same dancer perform the role multiple nights, you’d never see exactly the same show twice. The choreography provided the map, but each performance was a unique journey through that territory.
For someone like me, barely a year into tap dancing, this was both inspiring and slightly intimidating. Inspiring because it showed that tap had room for personal creativity, that I wouldn’t just be copying patterns forever. Intimidating because developing that kind of improvisational fluency seemed impossibly far away.
But it also gave me a goal. I wanted to get good enough that I could do that—take choreography and make it my own, speak with my own rhythmic accent, bring my own musicality to the form.
How the Theatre Space Enhanced Everything
One practical element that made both performances so powerful was the amplification. Bring in ‘Da Noise, Bring in ‘Da Funk treated tap sound as a central musical element, using microphones strategically placed to capture and amplify every nuance.
This meant you could hear everything—not just the obvious stomps and heel drops, but the subtle brushes, the quiet shuffles, the textural differences between sounds. You could hear the musicality in ways that wouldn’t have been possible in an unamplified performance.
The amplification also meant that differences in individual dancers’ sound quality became more apparent. Baakari’s crystal-clear articulation came through with stunning precision. Jimmy’s driving rhythms hit with powerful impact. The technical choices each dancer made—how hard to hit, where to place accents, how to space rhythms—were all audible.
For someone trying to learn tap, this was invaluable. I could hear what good tap technique sounded like, could understand what teachers meant when they talked about clarity, about attack, about making every tap count. I was getting an education in tap musicality just by listening.
Years later, when I started teaching tap myself—first in studios, then eventually through my online tap program at eTapDance.com—I’d think back to these performances whenever I taught sound quality and dynamics. The lessons I absorbed at the Fox Theatre still inform how I help students develop their own rhythmic voice.
The Emotional Journey of Both Nights
Both performances took the audience through an emotional journey, but the arc felt different each time.
With Baakari’s more introspective approach, the show built like a meditation on history—acknowledging pain, celebrating creativity, grappling with complex legacies. The emotional peak felt earned, cathartic, like we’d traveled through something difficult and emerged with deeper understanding.
With Jimmy’s higher-energy approach, the show felt more like a celebration—acknowledging the struggles but emphasizing resilience, joy, and the unconquerable spirit that tap embodies. The emotional peak felt exhilarating, like victory despite the odds.
Both were valid interpretations of the material. Both honored the show’s themes and historical content. But they arrived at similar emotional destinations via different routes, and that made each performance feel complete in its own way.
What I Took Home That Week
After that second performance, I drove home through Atlanta’s summer night carrying more than just memories of an incredible show. I carried new understanding about what tap dancing could be.
I understood that tap is a conversation, not a monologue. Different voices can speak the same text and create different meaning.
I understood that developing your own rhythmic voice isn’t optional—it’s essential. The goal isn’t to tap exactly like Savion or Baakari or Jimmy, but to tap like yourself, with your own musicality and expression.
I understood that improvisation and personal interpretation aren’t departures from tradition—they are the tradition. Tap has always valued individual creativity within the form.
And I understood that seeing live tap performance is irreplaceable. No video can capture the physical impact of tap sound in a theatre, the way rhythms reverberate through space, the electricity of watching someone create music with their feet in real time.
Those two nights in Atlanta gave me a more sophisticated understanding of what I was trying to learn. They raised the bar for what I aspired to. They showed me that tap mastery includes technical excellence but goes far beyond it—it’s about developing your own voice, your own musicality, your own way of speaking through rhythm.
One practical challenge I faced as a tap student was finding places to practice. Not everyone has access to a studio space with proper flooring. That’s why, years later, I started offering portable tap floors at PortableTapFloor.com—so tap dancers could practice anywhere with good sound and shock absorption. Those Atlanta performances taught me what quality tap sound should be, and I wanted to help other dancers access that anywhere they practiced.
The Dancers Who Would Later Become My Teachers
At the time, I didn’t know that years later, I’d have the opportunity to study with all three of these dancers—Savion Glover, Baakari Wilder, and Jimmy Tate. I couldn’t have predicted that they would each influence my development as a tap dancer and teacher.
But looking back now, I can see how watching Baakari and Jimmy perform that week planted seeds. I was studying them before I ever took class with them, absorbing their different approaches to rhythm, their different ways of inhabiting the same choreographic material.
When I eventually did study with them, I could hear echoes of those Atlanta performances in their teaching. Baakari’s emphasis on clarity and sound quality. Jimmy’s focus on groove and musicality. The way both of them encouraged students to find their own voice within the form rather than simply copying what they demonstrated.
Those two nights in 1998 were the beginning of an education that continues to this day.
Why You Should See Tap Live Whenever Possible
If you’re a tap dancer or someone interested in tap, my advice is simple: see live tap performance whenever you can. Watch different dancers, different styles, different approaches to the form. See the same show multiple times if you get the chance.
Every performance teaches you something. Every dancer shows you a different possibility. And there’s something about being in the room—feeling the sound, experiencing the energy, watching rhythm created in real time—that can’t be replicated any other way.
Bring in ‘Da Noise, Bring in ‘Da Funk isn’t touring anymore, and you might not be able to see it live. But there are tap dancers performing everywhere, in theatres and studios and festivals and competitions. Each one has something to teach you about what tap can be.
If you’re looking for tap performances in Texas, I bring tap dance shows and workshops to schools and libraries across the state. You can find more information about booking a tap performance or workshop at my booking page.
Go see live tap whenever you can. Take notes. Let yourself be moved. And then take what you learned back to your own practice.
That’s what I did in July 1998, and those two performances changed everything.
In the next post in this series, I’ll share how I started tap dancing in the first place—the film that sparked my obsession, the decision to walk into a studio as a complete adult beginner, and what happened when I finally said, “Teach me.”
See more articles in my tap dance history series.
