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By Wendy Perron
That’s a misnomer (ormis-title) since I already fell in love with New York City Center’s Fall for Dance in 2004 when it started. But I do sort of swoon over the variety each year. And it’s only partly because I am now an artistic advisor. It’s pretty thrilling to be fully absorb one piece and then after a silence (or rather the excited buzz of an audience that has paid only $10 to see excellent work) you get pulled into an entirely different piece. What typified this kind of shift for me was seeing Merce Cunningham’s Sounddance (1975), in which David Tudor filled our ears with cricket noises and lots else that went into the wall of sound accompanying an urban forest of dancers in constant motion, bristling with spiky energy. You're just on Planet Merce for those 20 or so minutes. After the audience buzz died down and the lights dimmed, you heard the slow beat of an African drum for Asadata Dafora’s Awassa Astrige/Ostrich (1932)—and you’re transported half way round the world. Dayton Contemporary Dance Company’s G. D. Harris, with his undulating arms, thrusting chest, and proud head, took us to an African grassland. Totally satisfying.