Thirsty Cowboys feels more like a Texas honky-tonk adorned with cowboy hats, dusty string lights and American flags that flutter in the wind of ceiling fans. Over the hum of conversation, darts thud as they hit their targets, and pool balls clink across green felt. At the heart of it all, what brings this space to life, is a live music stage and a wooden dance floor, polished by years of boots shuffling across its surface.
It’s a warm Wednesday night in June when my friend and I first step into the country bar, curious and ready to try something new. We’d never tried line dancing before, but we’re always up for an adventure. Music pumps, boots stomp in sync and the massive space fills with dancers.
As people gather around, the scattered sound comes to a halt. At the front of the dance floor, line dance instructor Patti Pisoni commands attention — and not just because of her platinum pixie cut or fringe top that follows her every move. Her enthusiastic steps are infectious, sending energy out to the crowd that oscillates to the opening beat. She isn’t just leading a class; she’s setting the tone for an entire room of eager dancers, from seasoned regulars to first-timers like us, nervously lingering along the edges.
Line dancing has seen a resurgence in popularity, partly due to TikTok, but in Ohio, it has long been a staple of the country bar scene. In the Cleveland area, Thirsty Cowboys is one of the few venues offering a dedicated line dancing experience, alongside Dusty Armadillo in Rootstown and Upper Deck in Akron.
Pisoni says line dancing is more prevalent here than in other states, where partner-style dances like country swing dominate in places like Texas. Line dancing also extends to R&B music, bringing the same energy to a different genre. While some spots focus exclusively on country line dances, Thirsty Cowboys stands out for its more diverse approach to the dance floor.
What makes line dancing distinct from follow-along dances like the “Cha Cha Slide” or “Cupid Shuffle” is that it requires learning a specific routine rather than simply following commands in real time. While follow-along dances are guided with verbal cues, line dances must be memorized and performed without a caller. Because of this, each song can have its own unique choreography, and learning them can feel like the ultimate achievement.
“What’s up you sexy bitches,” Pisoni addresses the crowd. I carefully start to mirror her moves, glancing cautiously to the people next to me, careful not to step on any toes. Scott, the DJ, spins tracks straightoff the request list. There’s no freestyle here; it’s all about knowing the steps.
Classics like “American Kids,” “Country Girl (Shake It for Me)” and even a Nickelback track or two keep the floor moving. I hadn’t learned a dance since high school, but the veil of the crowd kept me afloat. They laughed, not at my mistakes, but in the joy of shared experience. It didn’t take long for me to feel like I belonged.
Pisoni had a history of line dance experience, but rekindled her passion during the pandemic by learning new dances on YouTube. Since taking over Thirsty Cowboys’s Wednesday night line dancing lessons in 2021, she has turned them into something more. What began as a modest group of 50 has now grown into a vibrant crowd of over 200, with some driving an hour each week to participate.
It’s easy to see why. Her instruction gets straight to the point, but she won’t move on until the whole room gets it. If that means repeating the first eight counts over and over again, so be it. The movements typically include a mix of step touches, grapevines, coaster steps, scuffs, kicks and turns. While teaching, Pisoni makes her own mistakes, laughs them off and keeps going. She’s blunt, honest and motivating, aiming to create a space where people feel comfortable pushing past their hesitations.
“[When teaching] I try to make it very fast, and I try to make it fun. I’m here to teach. I want you to walk away learning a dance,” Pisoni says. “I don’t want you to come and pay to get in for my lesson and not know a dance when you leave.”
Thirsty Cowboys takes a simple approach, and attendees can wear what makes them comfortable. But some veteran dancers show out in flare-brimmed cowboy hats with a feather tucked just above the band and high-end cowboy boots. A solid pair of snakeskin Laredos or snip-toe Durangos can cost anywhere from $50 to more than $1,000. But the boots aren’t just for show. Their smooth soles make them more durable and functional for line dancing than sneakers, allowing dancers to slide, stomp and pivot with ease.
“It’ll be the best time you ever had. That’s what I tell people. Just get out there and do it,” Pisoni says. “You can wear whatever you want. We have all shapes and sizes.”
Since that first visit, I’ve come back week after week. The faces are now just as familiar as the routines. The bartenders greet me with genuine smiles, as they say, “the usual?” It feels like a kind of magic — that old-school, hometown feeling where people look out for each other. It’s a place where you can leave your coat on a chair, wander off to dance, and know it’ll still be there when you return. Smiles are exchanged across the room; a wave feels like a silent promise of friendship.
Over time, this bar becomes more than just a place to spend an evening. It’s my midweek escape, a reprieve from the chaos of life. When I step through those doors, the weight on my shoulders lightens. I know I’ll take my spot on the dance floor and find a space where I can just be.
So while every step is a little victory, each routine a badge of honor, it’s the community that keeps me dancing.
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