Day 20

Flamencos and staying up late

Carol had been hinting at finding a nightclub featuring Flamenco dancing throughout our whole trip. I’d spent the whole trip hoping to avoid just that. I’d had my fill of the art form in Seville during the Feria. It’s a lot of twirling, arm swinging and stomping around with a rose stem in your mouth. The moves reminded me of a matador’s, so that the whole spectacle came off like a bullfight without the bull – a vegan bullfight, if you will.

The thing about Carol is that if she gets a bug in her head to do something, it’s going to get done. Back home, I can sometimes slough those impulses off on other family members. That’s how I got out of having to see Funny Girl as a play, for example. But in Spain, it was just me, and she eventually came across a playbill plastered on a wall advertising an evening of Flamenco singing. “We’re going!” She asked.

I wrote that there was one chair and a guitar. Clearly I was wrong.

So now I’m roped into what exactly? Flamenco singing? I couldn’t imagine what taking a form of dancing and turning it into singing would even look and sound like. It struck me asmodified but cut down, like indoor soccer or arena football. But at least there wouldn’t be a rose stem. You can’t sing with a flower in your mouth.

The singer’s voice was a controlled wail, an artistic cross between a Muslim’s call to prayer and getting your hand caught in a car door. 

It was a very informal venue. An old building with an arched opening into a small stage with scattered tables and chairs. Sort of a nightclub from the set of The Treasure of the Sierra Madre. I liked the look. There was food and wine, and the stage held only a guitar, microphone and a chair, so there was little room,and therefore little chance, that the singing would suddenly break out into dancing.

Spaniards don’t start their nightlife until pretty close to my bedtime. That’s helpful when you sit down to dinner at 7:00 p.m., and there’s nobody in the restaurant. But for a live show not to start until 9:30 p.m. is pushing my nightlife limits. It’s like not starting a play until it’s time for the second act.

Our first Spanish sardines. Yummy

Well, 9:30 came and went, and still the stage was filled with only that same guitar, microphone and chair. It looked like a still life painting. But there was no restlessness within the crowd, and people were still straggling in as if no one really expected to start either on time or as early as 9:30 in the middle of the night.

Finally, at 10:00 p.m. the two performers, both male, casually sauntered out onto the stage as if they were right on time. And then the magic happened. The guitar was strummed like a weapon, the strings struck like reports from a rifle. The singer’s voice was a controlled wail, an artistic cross between a Muslim’s call to prayer and getting your hand caught in a car door. The music filled the room and thrilled the crowd. I had to admit it certainly woke me out of whatever stupor the wine, grilled sardines and it being after 10:00 p.m. at night had created in me.

 Life imitating art

It turned out to be a great night, and our ears were buzzing, and we were both throbbing from the powerful sounds emanating from that stage. Carol was blown away, and I wanted to conquer the Caribbean. 

It wound up making us both a little sad that we had only two days left in this wonderful little city.