Flamenco

Two chairs, rustic, woven-seated, blue painted, stood side by side, angled together in a conspiratorial huddle upon the stage, which loomed a sparse two inches above the floor. On one chair, a guitar reclined. The other was vacant. Chairs such as Van Gogh would have revelled in, vibrant, expectant, actors on the stage, not mere props.

Before the stage, a crowd. Open, honest, sun-leathered faces cracked with smiles and cameraderie, glowing with the warmth of slapped backs, beer and the open fire. Smoke curled into the gaping chimney, logs crackling with tension.

A silence fell as two men mounted the low-slung stage. Inattentive chatterers at the rear of the crowd were shushed, for flamenco is not entertainment, but culture, the crowd not spectators, but participants. The anguished strumming, soundboard rapping, and melodic picking of the guitar combined with the plaintive voices, and were picked up in counterpoint by the clapping of hands. Songs of love and pain, starry nights and war, Moorish roots showing through echoes of the muezzin’s call.

It was not performance, but dialogue, a long tradition played out across the stage-floor divide that was no divide. A hundred years ago, the same scene could have been played out, or a hundred years hence. Traditional words, known by all, were savoured, and topical variations, knowing takes on the day’s gossip were applauded with a shouted ‘¡olé!’ and some old boy would receive a dig in the ribs and a wink or two.

Occasionally someone would dance, tracing on the floor the toreador’s footsteps, or a lover’s swoon. More than music, it was community in action, particular yet inclusive, for the community here also includes the transient tourists that pass, and the foreigners who have settled. All that is required is presence. We may not all understand the Andaluz singing, but rhythm is universal, and passion is passion in any tongue.

By day the bar is quiet. The chairs wait in their huddle, and the stage is not quite empty. Flamenco echoes between these whitewashed walls permanently.

Then I wonder whether I am in receipt of something special, a chance to join, however transiently, this unique event; or should I hang my head on realising that the highlight of my week is to clap along to the wailing of two old men with a guitar?