Let me introduce you to Marge.

Marge, Syracuse's biggest music fan, who can be found at Shifty's or Dinosaur Bar-B-Que past midnight most nights of the week. Marge, who takes a taxi downtown because she never learned to drive. Marge, an ardent ambassador of Syracuse artists.

Marge, who despite closing in on nine decades on Earth, still loves to dance.

I met Marge almost two years ago at Dinosaur Bar-B-Que. She sat at the corner of the weathered bar alone, bobbing her head and shoulders to whatever band blared away onstage. She sat attentively—petite but not frail, with eyes blazingly sharp and a cat-that-ate-the-canary smile.

Out of nowhere she struck up a conversation. She asked if I liked the band. We introduced ourselves. We chatted loudly over the music. And she asked if I dance.

Dancing with Marge is a rite of passage in Syracuse. She's "five feet of musical energy," says Irv Lyons Jr., guitarist for the Fabulous Ripcords, one of Marge's favorite bands. "She could be a pro dancer."

So when Marge asked if I dance, I had no choice. I don't dance. At all. It's my worst-kept secret.

That night, however, I lied. I danced with Marge.

• • •

Fast forward two years. Marge and I meet each other at Shifty's at dusk on a lazy summer Wednesday. I'm three minutes late—a detail that doesn't go unnoticed.

"I've been waiting," she tells me patiently after I introduce myself (she doesn't remember that dance from years ago). She's standing on the Burnet Avenues bar's small stoop, content to enjoy the quiet cool of July. "Someone from the newspaper was supposed to come interview me."

That someone is me.

Marge stands at just five feet tall. She's meticulously dressed with golden earrings that match the wispy band of her watch. She sports a cropped bob of auburn hair over thin-framed glasses. She's slight yet sturdy. She's wearing comfortable, gray rubber-soled sneakers.

We duck inside and grab a tall table right up front. She asks bluntly what I'd like to know about her. A sly smile creeps across her face when I make the immediate mistake of asking her age.

"That's none of your business," she scolds. "I don't want people judging me based on how old I am."

And they shouldn't. Marge is vivacious and flirtatious for a woman of any age. She's sociable and friendly with an unabashed love for music. She sings "oldies but goodies" at open mic. She lights up when someone plays a song she likes. And she dances.

I promise Marge I won't print the number. She lived through the Great Depression and refers occasionally to "the war." She fondly recalls seeing Billy Eckstine and Louis Armstrong at Birdland as a young woman. She was a wife and mother by the time the Beatles showed up and forever changed rock and roll.

"I see girls one-eighth Marge's age so uptight and worried about people looking at them," Liz Nowak, director of the Syracuse Area Music Awards, told me recently. "With Marge, it's just pure love for the music. It's unafraid. She's out there shaking her money maker."

Marge and I spend the evening on opposing wobbly stools in front of the shallow stage at Shifty's. It's open mic night, and we take turns leaning in to talk over the music. Marge nurses a scotch and water in a tall pint glass as I sip a Bud Light bottle. She never gets ocified—a word she prefers to "drunk" because it sounds "more sophisticated."

Ike Isenhour shows Marge a picture on his phone at Shifty's open mic on Wednesday, July 30, 2014.

We split a hamburger as she tells me about herself and we spar amicably about love and life. She proudly shows me her tattoo—a heart holding her late husband's initials on her right calf. She got it three years ago.

While the music plays she bops around restlessly and grabs my arm frequently to make conversation. When a song catches her right she bounds off her stool and begins to dance.

"Do you have a wife?" she asks at one point, glancing at my ring finger.

Nope.

"Kids?"

Nope.

"A girlfriend?"

Nope.

Marge pauses a beat and lowers her voice. "Are you gay?"

Nope.

"Well if I were 30 years younger..." she trails off while eyeing me up and down. "Nah, you wouldn't have a shot with me."

Characters come and go onstage for open mic, including Marge, who sings an old Alice Faye tune. Marge has something to say about each musician, mostly commenting on how much she likes one man's voice or another's guitar playing. She hounds me to make conversation with a pretty young woman my age who plays a lovely acoustic set.

"Just go start talking to her," she says. "What's so hard about that?"

After all, for Marge, being social is second nature.

Nearly everyone who wanders by stops to exchange a few words with Marge. One woman compliments her brown speckled blouse. A guy named Vinny gives her a big hug. She makes friends with Ike, a shaggy carpenter from North Carolina. The bearded bouncer at the door sneaks her a bit of chocolate as we slip out for a cigarette.

"He gives me a piece of candy every time I come here," she confesses with a smile. "For years he's been giving me candy."

In less than a decade in our small, Rust Belt city she's established herself as a mainstay of local music. Her ear is keen and her wit sharp. Her fervor and mere presence have earned her an unparalleled reputation.

Everyone knows Marge. Everyone has a story about Marge. There's even a Facebook page called "Fans of Marge," where people share photos of Syracuse's biggest little music fan.

"She's the smartest one at the table," says Los Blancos bassist Steve Winston. "Of course I've danced with Marge. Who hasn't?"

• • •

Marge grew up in the borough of Queens. She lived the majority of her life in New York City before moving to Syracuse nine years ago.

When she was 17, she met the man with whom she would spend her life. His name was Phil Nolan, a young officer in the Air Force. The two were introduced at a diner where Marge was having coffee with a friend (Marge rarely frequented bars before moving to Syracuse).

"He turned around to introduce himself and I knew that was it," she says. "He was so handsome."

Phil was on 30-day leave from the Air Force. Marge took a long vacation from her job as a clerk at a hospital. The two of them spent every one of those 30 days together. Several years later, they were married.

Phil had spent time in Syracuse as a young man and liked "being in the country." He wanted to live here with his young wife and raise a family. When they were in their early 30s, then, he and Marge left the bright lights for the Salt City.

But it didn't take. Marge hated Syracuse. She missed the action of the city. Plus, the girls here didn't like her because she was from New York City.

"They thought I believed I was a big deal because I was from the city," she says. "But I'm just friendly. I'm outgoing. I always have been."

After less than two years, Phil and Marge moved back to the city at her request. She had no intention of ever coming back.

Marge dances to the music from a band at open mic night at Shifty's on Wednesday, July 30, 2014.

"He took me home," Marge says. "He loved me like that."

It wasn't until Phil passed away nine years ago that Marge decided to give Syracuse another try. After all, her husband had loved it here. It reminded her of him. The two of them had loved to dance. So she came back. And she stayed.

Marge quickly fell in love with the city her husband had adored. Its people adopted her as one of their own. She started singing—as she had in her youth—at open mic nights. If there was live music, Marge was there.

"She's a benchmark for all Syracuse bands," Lyons told me. "If you see her at your show, you bring your A-game."

Growing up in New York, she never learned to drive. She takes a taxi from Fairmount to downtown four or five nights a week. She'd be out seven nights if she could afford it.

Other days, Peter Haggerty helps her get from A to B. The two met shortly after Marge arrived here. He was leaving Coleman's with a friend and saw Marge in the parking lot alone waiting for a cab. Naturally, he offered a ride.

They became fast friends, despite a hefty age gap. He describes her as a "great dancing partner." They spend holidays together and he checks up on her, not that she needs much checking up on, he says.

"She's out five nights a week and I don't hit the town much any more," Haggerty told me. "I'm the one who's getting old."

• • •

"Tell me something," Marge challenges after an hour of conversation at Shifty's. "Why do you want to write a story about me?"

I didn't have a good answer. Not at the time. Hers is a story I've wanted to tell for months—so long, in fact, that I may have forgotten why. But an evening with Marge jogged my memory.

The truth is that Marge is one-of-a-kind. An inspiration. She isn't defined by her age, but by her attitude. She's a shining example of the benefits of a positive outlook. An ardent supporter of a sometimes downtrodden city. A tribute to the power of a musical soul. And a joyful reminder: You're never too old to dance.