Gene was new here. Fortunately, he'd always had a good sense of rhythm, and had always felt comfortable on just about any dance floor. But this one was... strange. There were boots and literal spurs, and that abhorrent pop-country music which all blends into an utterly homogenous mash after about 12 minutes.
More than that, there were the lines, the choreographed steps he didn't know. Why? Why take something as beautiful and fluid as dance and reduce it to this, this—travesty?