EXCERPT FROM SARA’S JOURNALFebruary 25, 1999
Calle Conde de Barajas, Seville
Flamenco I
There’s a dusty parking lot, small, just at the outskirts of the
busy part of town. It’s part of the Old Public Library. The lot holds maybe twenty
cars. Beyond the cars is a wall, and in that wall, yet another hole.
We step into a bar not unlike any other…rather makeshift, with
bottles on shelves, a few wooden tables, and a man standing behind the counter pounding churisco…yet
another cut of pork. There is a door, and behind the door is a very small room holding a
casual Flamenco session.
It looks like a bar one would set up in a garage—little
atmosphere, save the varied crowd that has shown up tonight. Thursdays are the night for
the get-together, and on any Thursday there is a mixture of locals, old guys, Flamenco
students and any tourismos that might find out about the place somehow. In the
little room there are rules: No talking, No drinking, No eating, No smoking. Tonight none
are obeyed, except for the first rule.
The room is a cloud of smoke, with a ribbon of classical guitar making
its way to the listeners. There are twenty or so of us, sitting in small chairs, close
together. The walls are covered with photographs—guitarists, stages with dancers in
costume, drawings of people’s faces, and hands, and nothing else.
A man, past his prime, holds a battered guitar up to his ear, his
fretting arm poised as if to waltz. As he plays, others clap the distinctive
"cupped" clap, making a popping sound, all syncopated. No one here is
professional, but some are professors, and some are students. There’s a young man
beside the guitarist. He is eager and takes the guitar when it is offered, and tries
something complex. There are chuckles and he stops, and another, older gentleman soothes
the crowd with, "It’s alright, he will learn."
There is a tall man in between the ages and primes of the others. He
takes the instrument next, and effortlessly moves from minor to minor seventh, intricate
chord progressions, and all the while flicking his strumming hand, picking, strumming
softly then loudly, and hitting the guitar’s wood, popping a rhythm. He’s
casual. The music is accompanied by the old gentleman’s voice. This man is frail and
benign-looking, he sings with melancholy concentration, mostly directed at the woman
sitting next to him. She has the face of a pretty clown—wrinkly, dark eyes, perky
nose, and red lips. She compliments her expression with a scarlet sweater.
The passing and playing and random singing goes on for a while. One
man, toothless in the front, sings loudly and passionately, like life is rough and love is
rougher. He holds his hands up to the guitarist as he sings, and they direct each other
with their eyes. The guitarist is gracious, patient and accommodating. The singer purges
himself with wails and long, held E minors.
It is asked that anyone in the room who can sing or dance should do so.
The toothless man looks at Rich and says, "You. You look like a singer…why
don’t you sing next?" Rich feels robbed because of his still working knowledge
of Spanish. He wants to buy a CD, learn a song, and come back next week.
Here we experience one-third of Flamenco—the music is
comprehendible, but we cannot understand the words…they are jumbled together, mumbled
and held. And tonight there are no dancers in the room.
As we are leaving the bar, we bump into the elderly gentleman who was
singing to the woman in the red sweater. We thank him and tell him how well he sang. He
replies with some long sentences in Spanish and double-cheek-kisses for me and Mariam.
Mariam, laughing, translates, "Thank-you, you two beautiful women, and I would be
pleased to attend to your needs for a night or two, or three." So fooled by his
innocent demeanor, I then ask Mariam what he had been singing about. She tells me,
"Oh, mostly about love and the beautiful body of the woman sitting next to him."
