About

I am Marisol Cruz. The Dock Clave is the band and the sticky-floor weather. Clave pulse. Syncopated bass. Percussion heat. Female dance-floor belt. Booty-shake four-on-floor with salsa accents. I started on the floor and stole the mic when the booked singer ghosted a tariff-close set. Dale is a hand out — not a whip, not an auction gavel, not a falsetto order. Hips before policy.

We play Lagrange halls and Spire mezzanines after the board closes. Shake the Floor opens because booty-shake is the lock. Clave Heat hits when the mezzanine remembers Spanish Corridor slang belongs on a dance hall floor. Hips Don't Tariff — the ring can tax crates, not the turn. One More Turn keeps partners close without possession paperwork. Wrong Foot Right Night is mercy with a montuno. Red Heel Relay leaves shoes on the rail. Leave the Jacket is the dare to the suits.

I am not Sable's auction command. Not Renn's disco throne. Not Otho's lounge croon. Not Sylen's chart glitter. Latin disco-salsa wants the turn and the sweat that doesn't lie. Keep It Dim on purpose. Manifest Can Wait — always after the set.

I count in clave under my breath before every chorus. Tap a heel on the downbeat. Teach one free step to anyone who asks honest. Pull, don't order. That difference matters when the Dance dial's crowded with louder egos.

KLAG 96.1 Corridor Dance. Catch us when the tariff glow fades and the floor still wants heat that invites. Bring water. Bring hips. Leave the lecture at customs.

Find the music on Corridor Radio — KLAG 96.1. Between sets, notes land on the Clave Postcards. Squawk: @marisol_cruz.