La obra de flamenco

The crowd was still, waiting in anticipation for the guitarist to take his seat.  He made his move.  Content with his posture and position of the guitar, he began to tune.

E - E - E - E

A - A- A - A

And so on, until all six strings sounded perfect.  He positioned the capo.  First fret.  Played an E chord.  Well, an F because of the capo..

And the room buzzed with sound.  And not just any sound.

Music.

There are 27 people seated in unstable chairs, crammed into this tiny room, and all have this, this, anticipation about them.  Because yes, now we could begin.  The room had life.

The fingers of the guitarist began dancing on strings, like a harpist.  His nails picking the nylon chords of the simple instrument.  In reality, a guitar is very simple: a piece of hollow wood, connected to a solid piece of sturdy wood, wound with six strings that somehow are precisely adjusted to make beautiful melodies.

Making his way up and down the fretboard, the introduction to the next hour and a half had commenced.  What started as a few simple chords had progressed into fluttering riffs of finger-picking that can only be found here in Spain.

The sound of the South, rather.  The sound of Andalucia.

The guitarist was not alone now.  He was accompanied by two flamenco dancers, who began to make rhythm with their claps.  Their claps progressed into claps and stomps.  At times it seemed a structure-less mix of claps, stomps, and snaps.  But it all worked together to produce the unique sound of flamenco.

Flamenco.

Next, a song about Galacia.  The third dancer, who was relatively inactive for the first song, now took her seat next to the guitarist.  What happened next would catch the unprepared ear quite off-guard.

A guttural wail pierced the air.  A wail so sincere and so sad.  The wail turned into music.  The vocal chords fluctuated the steady notes that advanced from her mouth.

Such passion.  Such sincerity.

And so intimate.  Her one hand clutched the side of her shawl draped over her shoulders.  Her other, extended, reaching toward the imaginary scene that she described right before us.  Her face, contorted in agony and anguish as she longed for the resolution of what was portrayed before our very eyes.

The fact that we were all within meters of the guitarist and dancer made the experience exponentially... intimate. The same experience could not have occurred in the back of an auditorium, or even in the front row.  No, the audience played a part too.  We were part of the scene.

The song commenced.  During the next song began the real dancing.

Flowing dresses.

Clapping.

Snapping.

Stomping.

Hair pins flying.

The dancers, one-by-one showed us what energy and passion looks like when accompanied by Spanish guitar.  On a platform of 10 x 15 feet they performed.

Reaching.

Flailing.

Singing.

Wailing.

The claps and stomps echoed throughout the halls and rooms of the building.  Passerby's in the calle even came to watch.

Round and round the dancers went.  Hands high above their heads.  Earrings dangling, oscillating side to side.  The guitarist strummed furiously.  The strings buzzed and pinged with vibrations that gave depth to the dancing.  Sweat was everywhere.  Foreheads beaded with the stuff.

And so they continued.  Polka-dotted, ruffled, blue and red dresses spun and twirled like a colorful three-dimensional art piece.  Of course, it was art.  But it was moving, changing, reforming.

Olé.

That's the word you use to cheer on the show, cheer on the dancers and guitarist.

Olé.

... because you want the passion to continue...

Olé.

... because you don't want the dancing to end.


Such passion.  Such beauty.


The night ended with variations of singing, dancing, strumming, and clapping.  The guitarist and three dancers all tiredly took their bows on the tiny platform.  Each praising each other with claps and motioning with grateful hands, for it was a combined effort.  Each played his or her part.

Now, I can finally say that I've experienced a true flamenco show.  It was what I expected, and then some.  Well, in truth, my expectations were blown out of the water.  It was an opportunity to see what most people will never have the chance to experience.

And that, I am truly thankful for.