Open Arms — Journey

Back in the eighties, Journey was it. Everybody had their favorites, but when the slow jams came on, the whole room seemed to agree.

And “Open Arms”? That was your cue.

You could spend half the night laughing with your friends, pretending you weren’t watching somebody across the room. Then those piano notes started, and suddenly you had a decision to make. Walk over and ask, or stand there and watch somebody else find the courage.

There was something about dancing to Journey that made the awkwardness worth it. You didn’t need great moves. A little rhythm helped, but mostly you just needed someone willing to stand close and sway with you.

Steve Perry handled the rest.

Those songs gave a voice to feelings we were still learning how to say. Attraction, uncertainty, longing, the hope that somebody might feel the same way about you. For a few minutes, a crowded dance floor could feel surprisingly private.

Looking back, I smile at how much importance we could put into one dance. Who asked whom. Who said yes. Whether you stayed together for the next song. We could turn three minutes of music into an entire weekend of conversation.

But that was part of being young. Everything felt possible, and a song could make you brave enough to take one small chance.

Journey could get everybody singing, but the slow songs had their own kind of power. They brought people together with an arm around a waist, a hand on a shoulder, and probably a few nervous steps on somebody’s shoes.

Hearing this now brings back that feeling: the anticipation, the butterflies, the simple happiness of being asked to dance.

We’ve all lived a lot of life since those days. Still, those opening notes can take us right back.

Who remembers dancing to this in the eighties?

Who remembers hoping the DJ would play just one more slow song before the lights came on?

Journey was it, especially when it was time to hold somebody close.