Ed. Note: For several years in the mid-'90s, line dancing became a national fad in America. As hard as it is to believe today, the concept of synchronized team dancing to country pop music was considered really, really cool. Of course, at the time, country music was hitting an all-time high in popularity with booming record sales and huge media attention. Line dancing–which was really nothing new–was seen as a fun offshoot, fancied up with glitzy outfits and aerobic moves. Club Dance, which aired on The Nashville Network before it became The National Network, was the American Bandstand of this craze. Millions of people actually tuned into every episode just to see the romantic dramas of the regular dancers unfold. This story profiles those dancers as well as the fans who traveled thousands of miles to dance with them, capturing a small moment in time of a now-forgotten fad. While the show and line-dancing mania have both died out, the dancing continues as it always has, in nightclubs and VFW halls, carried on by those who are truly obsessed with its rituals and its fun.

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Ron Long, native of Moscow, Idaho, has his arms folded and his jaw set. The 51-year-old heavy equipment operator has traveled some 2,600 miles to be here this bright Saturday morning, waiting in line in Knoxville, Tennessee. He stands like an Easter Island artifact, his gaze not wavering from the door that is scheduled to open at precisely 11:30 a.m. Ignoring the chattering housewives from Arkansas, the elbow-jabbing buddies from Nebraska, and most especially the slick-haired bolo-wearing disco dudes from Kentucky, he is resolute: get in the door. He had to wait six months for his tickets, and now he's finally here–today's the day.

"Didn't come all the way from Idaho for nothin', okay?" He's got a graying buzz-cut up top, blue eyes that flash behind rough-hewn features, and a thick build in well-worn jeans and a white shirt–Chuck Yeager without the sales pitch. He's watched the show since it started in '91; been country dancing now for more than 20 years.

"We were ahead of our time," he growls. "Finally caught up with us." He ponders the question of whether or not the current mania for country music and dancing might not be a fad: "No, this has been around for a long time," Long says carefully. "You know, that reggae stuff didn't last too long."

Further down the line, his friend Mark Hemingway of Garfield, Washington ("That's Warshington state, son."), tries to explain the widespread appeal of country dancing, why people of all ages are suddenly two-stepping, line dancing, and, yes, schottisching.

"It keeps your mind active because you're trying to learn new dances and how the steps go," explains the 47-year-old wheat farmer, scratching his chin. "You're thinking all the time instead of just sittin' and lettin' your mind go to mush."

His wife Charlotte nods knowingly.

As zero-hour approaches, the line starts to bleed out into the parking lot of Cinetel Productions. More than 200 lucky people from a few dozen states stand and chat, telling their stories, laughing over friendly jokes.

Some come in full regalia: giant Stetson hats; sparkling Western shirts with hot rod flames; cowboy boots made of scaly exotic skins. Other couples approach with shoulder-slung day bags protecting expensive matching outfits. And they're all here for one special privilege: to appear on their favorite TV show of all time, the center of all country dancing that is and ever will be–The Nashville Network's Club Dance.

What's going on? Sociologists might say it's a vast yearning for sincerity. Country music–amazing as it may seem in this age of Garth Brooks stadium extravaganzas, Country Music Television, and Nashville, for God's sake–is the last bastion of forthrightness left in pop culture. Post-modern irony is out, heartland earnestness is in–even well-practiced earnestness.

Next: Sidle Up to the Bar

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