That One Song in the Dark
There’s this moment in every contemporary class. The lights drop. The chatter stops. Someone hits play, and suddenly you’re not thinking about your extensions or whether your turnout sucks. You’re just... there.
I’ve been on both sides of the studio mirror for eight years. I’ve watched dancers fumble through counts they’ll never remember, then nail a phrase because the music grabbed them by the throat. The right track doesn’t just accompany movement—it hijacks it.
So here’s my confession: I keep a secret playlist. These ten songs have bailed me out of creative droughts, carried me through 2 AM rehearsals, and made students ugly-cry in final presentations. No apologies for the tears.
When You Need to Fall Apart Gracefully
Bon Iver’s "Holocene" sneaks up on you. The first time I choreographed to it, I thought I’d build something lyrical and pretty. Instead, I ended up on the floor, rolling through my ribcage like I was trying to crawl out of my own skin. That’s the thing about Justin Vernon’s voice—it doesn’t ask you to perform emotion. It exposes whatever you were hiding when you walked into the studio.
I’ve seen dancers who normally move like they’re apologizing for taking up space suddenly expand. Arms get wider. Breathing gets deeper. The song gives them permission to be messy, and contemporary dance lives in that mess.
The Icelandic Heart Attack
Sigur Rós doesn’t make background music. "Sæglópur" builds like a slow-motion wave that absolutely wrecks the shore. Jónsi’s falsetto kicks in around the three-minute mark, and if you haven’t planned your climax there, you’re wasting the song.
My friend Mara used this for her senior piece. She started center stage, completely still, and by the final crescendo she was sprinting in a circle, hair stuck to her face, barely landing her jumps. The audience didn’t clap right away when it ended. They just sat there, breathing. That’s the silence you chase.
Glass and Grit
FKA twigs’ "Cellophane" is what I play when someone tells me contemporary is "too soft." The piano is fragile. Her voice cracks. But the undercurrent is pure steel. It’s the musical equivalent of dancing on a broken ankle and making it look intentional.
I once watched a fifteen-year-old interpret this song using only her hands and a chair. No leaps, no turns, just fingers tracing invisible scars and gripping wood until her knuckles went white. She didn’t move across the floor once. Didn’t need to.
The Warm-Up That Becomes the Piece
Ólafur Arnalds’ "Near Light" started as my class’s breathing exercise music. You know, that eyes-closed, rolling-through-the-spine stuff everyone does while they’re still half-asleep on Saturday mornings. But somewhere around week three, my students stopped opening their eyes. They kept going. The exercise became an improvisation, then a phrase, then our entire winter show finale.
That’s the sneaky power of neoclassical electronica. It sounds like structure, like safety, but it leaves gaps big enough for your own stories to fall through.
When the Bass Drops in Your Chest
James Blake’s "Retrograde" hits different on a proper sound system. That sub-bass doesn’t just make the mirrors rattle—it makes your sternum vibrate. I tell dancers to stop counting and start listening to their own heartbeat getting hijacked by the track.
There’s a section where his voice chops and stutters. I watched a choreographer friend build an entire sequence of staccato contractions and releases around those glitches. The dancers looked like they were being rewound in real time. Contemporary loves a good technical effect, but only when it serves the feeling.
Björk Doesn’t Let You Play It Safe
"Stonemilker" demands you show up fully. There’s no hiding behind cute arm styling or a well-placed développé. The string arrangement swells like it’s personally offended by half-measures. I save this one for advanced classes because beginners will absolutely try to match the drama and end up looking like they’re fighting a bee.
But when it works? I saw a duet last spring where two dancers never touched until the final thirty seconds. They just orbited each other, mirroring, avoiding, circling back. When they finally collided, the string section was screaming, and the audience actually gasped. You can’t choreograph that moment. You can only set up the conditions and hope the music does its job.
The Track That Makes Stillness Look Loud
Nils Frahm’s "Says" is minimalist on paper but somehow fills the entire room. It’s mostly just piano and this growing, pulsing synth that feels like it’s coming from inside your skull. I use it for improv sessions where the only instruction is "don’t move until you absolutely have to."
The best contemporary dancers I know understand negative space. They know that standing still while that synth builds creates more tension than any triple pirouette. One of my students held a lunge for two full minutes during this song. By the time she moved, everyone was leaning forward in their seats.
The One That Gets Everyone
I’ve never seen "To Build a Home" by The Cinematic Orchestra fail. Never. It’s almost unfair how universal it is. Patrick Watson’s voice sounds like someone reading a letter they know they shouldn’t send. I’ve used it for grief pieces, love pieces, pieces about moving apartments at midnight.
Last year, a guy in my adult beginner class—total accountant type, always wore khakis—chose this for his solo. He just walked in a square pattern, over and over, occasionally reaching for something invisible above him. That was it. Walking and reaching. People were wiping their eyes afterward. Sometimes the simplest container holds the most.
Radiohead at 2 AM
"True Love Waits" is what I put on when I’m alone in the studio and need to exorcise something. The early piano version, specifically. Thom Yorke sounds exhausted, like he’s singing from the bottom of a well, and that’s exactly where some choreography needs to come from.
I don’t teach this one often. It’s too raw, too personal. But when I do, I tell dancers to leave their technique at the door. We’re not interested in pointed feet. We’re interested in the thing you’re not saying to someone.
The Mirror Song
Lorde’s "Liability" is sneaky. It starts like a pop song, something you’ve heard in coffee shops. But listen to the lyrics while you’re staring at your own reflection at 11 PM. Suddenly it’s a different song entirely. I use it for self-portrait exercises where dancers build phrases based on their actual bathroom mirror habits—the way they check their stomach, fix their hair, look away too fast.
Contemporary dance should be a little uncomfortable. It should make you recognize yourself. This track guarantees that reaction every single time.
The Silence After
Here’s what I’ve learned after all these years: the song matters, but so does what happens when it ends. That breath. That stillness. That moment where the dancer and the audience remember they’re both human beings in a room together.
These ten tracks aren’t a formula. They’re just doors. Walk through them, bring your own disaster and your own joy, and see what your body decides to say when the music gives it permission to speak.
That’s the whole point, isn’t it?
