Flamenco
In addition to the previous post of ramblings from the AbHarm Tour of Valencia, this piece describes the fantastic flamenco performance we were privileged to see during our visit.
27th June 2013 – Flamenco
A fifty metre wide park circles around the main part of central Valencia, once a large river, it has since been converted into a nature reserve full of trees and play parks, all the original bridges crossing along the way and two wide boulevards running along each bank. We followed this late at night, passing small triangular plazas and churches embedded between the high apartments, and huge disconnected gate houses surrounded by a small moat, once part of a defending wall around medieval Valencia.
Skirting the edge of the centre, it was empty of people, with just a few couples strolling along the river garden or sat on a bench under cover of orange orchard, and the occasional car cruising down the centre lane of the boulevard with windows open, enjoying the mild night air. A few homeless lay huddled in blankets in the plazas, watching us with weary, weathered eyes as we passed. We turned onto an alley cutting back into the town and found the Café del Duende. The street was thin, thinned more by the two rows of parked cars, and held mostly shuttered shop fronts and dark wooden doors. The café was broken on the outside, with a tiny sign above the door and no windows looking in. The paint on the windows and balconies above had splintered in the day’s sun.
We went in to an atmosphere heavy with rich incense. Along the left wall, a bar sat a few early customers. On the wall behind, four staggered bookshelves held a plethora of liquors and wines, all adorned with labels that looked as if they had been soaked in coffee: sepia-toned and old. On the right, as the focus point for the cluster of tables and chairs, was a raised wooden platform four inches off the ground and jutting out from the right hand wall—the tablas. Three chairs sat side by side against the wall on the stage, and draping of fairy lights like a curtain on the wall behind.
A group of young ladies held the centre table in the café and laughed at each other as they clapped their hands and swirled their arms, imitating the palmas altas and braceo of flamenco, and acting as if they were dressed in luscious dark ballroom dresses. I ordered a small glass of red wine and sat down to the side of the platform and waited…
At eleven-thirty the main lights of the café dropped and the fairy lights lit up, glowing at the back of the stage. A few minutes later a man dressed in black suit trousers and shirt walked through the growing crowd and onto the stage. He had curly black hair and moustache to match and a face that oozed stories from eyebrows and wrinkles. He stood before his audience, arms relaxed at his sides. A brief applause rose and fell, silenced by a slight nod from the man, the cantaor. He smiled a tight grin. He began.
His voice started smooth and mellow, rising and falling through luxurious melody. As he sung, his hands crept up, gripping the air, grabbing at the power of the lyrics and showing it to us. His voice reached higher and he shut his eyes, squinting from the effort of filling the room with powerful melody and lyric. He stood firm like a mountain, singing with his entire face with arms and hands to assist. He had a voice like a bull, strong in its charge through the melody, like an eagle in its soar and swoop, like an old man in its wisdom, like a tango dancer in its passion.
His voice cracked at the edges, straining, stretching, weeping, creaking, like a great glacier pushing through solid rock. He sung of terrible hardships and tragic moments, re-living them and releasing his anger, remembering his heartbreak, his sorrow, his love, all of this pouring out of his throat like a waterfall of emotion. His voice rubbed raw, bursting with garra, but it continued to swell, rising in a melisma, stretching the syllable along a ribbon of melody. As he reached the heart of the song, the siguiriyas, his voice had such power that would have filled a concert hall; it almost overwhelmed the small café we sat in. He was unstoppable for over five minutes until, suddenly, silence.
Sweat glistened on his forehead and cheeks. The room was silent for a moment, the cante echoing inside our minds, the weight of his emotion holding us in awe before a smattering of applause ruptured into whistles and cheers. The man smiled a grim smile, still affected by his love and lament, and went to sit in the middle chair against the wall.
A large man threaded through the tables and chairs holding a guitar to his chest. Another ripple of applause followed him across the stage. He sat to the right of the singer and settled onto his guitar footstool. He began a quick melody mixed with strummed chords, achieving the main part and the accompaniment by himself. His pace quickened and the music thickened, the elaborate lines of the tune making his fingers blur on the frets and strings.
He finished his piece to another round of applause and then a woman, the bailaora, wove through the crowd to take her place on the final chair. She wore a flowing scarlet dress, flaring out after the waist to layers of fabric that rippled with her movement. She had solid black heels on. She sat on the edge of her chair, poised. The singer and guitarist began a piece together, the rhythmic melody and chords triple-timing against the once-again rich sound of the man’s voice. A passage from the guitarist, thick with trills and thrills, followed a line from the singer, shouting the lyrics, but with such elegance as to transform it into a song tearing with desgarro, lament and heartbreak.
The bailaora stared at the hands of the guitarist, intent, enveloped in his melodies and speed. She began to tap her feet and flex her hands. Small circles and taps turned to flowing motions. Her eyes closed for a moment, her head lifted, her chest rose, her arms froze, hovering, alert like snakes. She rose from the chair as if in a trance, possessed by del Duende—the spirit of the demon, the sorrow of the flamenco song. With her head still tilted back, she began sweeping motions with her arms and body, the momentum pulling her around in quick pirouettes.
She was joined by a cry from the cantaor. His voice leapt up in lilting melodies as he voiced more deep-seated suffering and affection. Her movements accelerated. She strode in small, hard steps across the tablas, each footfall jolting her strong jawline and the hard leather heels of her shoes hammering the floor. Each sweep of hands matched an ornamentation from the guitarist and a rise from the cantaor, each collision of heel on floor hit syncopated rhythms with the beat of attacked notes on the guitar. A grave expression held her face, locked in half frown, half scowl.
All at once, her legs erupted in a frenzy of blood-red fabric and a staccato thunder of mudanzas exploded from the blur. The guitarist replied with a rasgueado, hitting the stings of the guitar with percussive repetition like a drum roll. The zapateado began, a style of tap unique to flamenco. The woman stormed across the wood with powerful stamps of her feet. As her legs and heels moved like a woodpecker on the stage, her arms and upper-body remained still and firm. She swept her hands around her, like dual tails of an angry lion, as she twisted her head to stare across the crowd.
The dance led the performance. The guitarist and the cantaor took direction from the hand claps and foot falls and the whirlwind of her movements. Her strength shook the floor and her rapping feet combined with the picking of the guitarist in cross-rhythms and syncopation.
Their heart-wrenching performance ended with a remate: the bailaora increased her pace, matched by fervent hammering from the guitarist and a final storm of torment and despair from the singer. Perspiration glimmered on all their faces. The singer’s face froze, contorted in the passion of his final utterance. The guitarist’s hand wavered below the strings after its final strum. The woman stood poised, one arm raised high, her gaze following her hand, her legs planted wide. Her rich red skirt settled around her legs.
For a moment, there was silence. Their mourning and their despair and their tragedies hung as echoes in the small room of the café. I could hear the heavy breathing of the cantaor and the bailaora as they reeled in the ecstatic finale. The quiet was fractured by applause and cheering. The performers opened their eyes and relaxed. Relief spread over their faces as if now they were freed of their heartache. They bowed and smiled cautious smiles, now immersed in the appreciation. The woman led the cuadro off-stage and the fairy lights flicked off.
