Pasion

            It was hot. Not yet dusk, the sun burned us softly with its last rays as it fought a losing battle with the horizon. It was a good Spanish sun, and its passion would lead us to the hurly burly of another heat - a night in Madrid. We were worn by the sun, and the crowd we came upon seemed out of a dream. I stood among the crowd of people, people different than me, people of note, dressed in clothes that showed they were ready for the cameras. Not ready myself I wore only a plan shirt it was a good shirt, a favorite shirt but plain, and it was not to be noticed among the flash of the crowd, this crowd of somebodies. I asked her who these people were and why so dressed.

“Important People” she said

“What kind of important”

“People that want to be seen at an opening night”.

My head was hurting as I had only some chorizo and coffee in my stomach, and the flashbulbs seem to weigh on my head.

“Passion” she said “tonight was about su pasion”,

“What”

“The passion of flamenco tonight you will see” she whispered

            We stepped through the crowd to the bar, a drink seem the only medicine for my confused and painful stomach. We stood at the sleek white bar; the bar seemed of the future, and I pondered if we were at a theatre or a shuttle launch as more camera lights flashed. The silent bartender gave us our drinks cold and fast; it calmed me and brought a smile to her face and we laughed at the dressed up somebodyies. The sun was still fighting as light poured in through the window and as it crossed her face she told me about the Pasion of flamenco.

“Flamenco is alive in Spain” she said “look at these people, those two are toreros”

“Matadors?”

“Si, and those people are on television and that person writes for a newspaper”

“Oh” I said feeling out of place in my plain shirt. “Why tonight”

“It’s September” she said “We came to the first night of a new Flamenco”

We drank our drinks and waited for the doors to open. We finished then fought back through the crowd; we came to the doors of theatre I noticed the building we were in. It was an impressive place new and streamlined like a boat waiting for its first sail.

“Its Teatro del Canal” she told me “One of the newest venues in Madrid if you like it we will see more shows as this is the beginning of the season”

“Good I would like that, only Flamenco?”

“No a whole season plays and concerts”

I liked Madrid; it was an old city but fresh. Art, food, and politics were the constant chanter of the locals as they stayed awake all hours in the street. People like to enjoy life in the center of this complicated country, and this theatre was another reason to enjoy the hot nights in Madrid. It was a temple to live performance.

We found our seats, they were good, better than the toreros, and we laughed as the people of note were hobnobbing around the theatre and taking seats behind us.

“Remember the Goya painting at the Prado the one of the Duchess” she said

“No” I said

“I knew you were not really looking”

“I was, but not at art”

“The Duchess of Alba” she told me “there is a painting by Goya of her and that is what this Flamenco is about”

            We stopped talking the theatre grew dark and the people of note began to quite as well when the curtain opened. It was a nice curtain I always loved curtains because every time one opened something different was behind waiting to get out. With the lights dimming the sound system cranked up. Spain as it seemed loved the technical end of performance, and hearing every pin drop on stage was common. I would be a sound engineer in Spain if I were smarter then I would always work.

The Flamenco began two dancers, three singers, and a collection of Spanish guitars began this traditional yet provocative performance. My body seemed attacked by the raw voice of the Flamenco singer, it was a strong voice, and it wailed with the feeling of a Middle Eastern prayer. The voice sang not for the purest of western classical music, but for the lovers of passion, a passion beyond the body. In it one could hear not one culture but the blend that is Spain. While the voice churned with the support of Spanish guitars the dance began.

A large man and a woman held each other tight and danced. It was not a furry of movements but a lover’s discourse as the stage lights flared. The two danced to the wails of the flamenco singer and guitar while the rhythm began to fill the air. It was the heels of these dancers that worked for the love of the crowd, and I was drawn in by the hypnotic rhythm of the heels. A smiled pour across my face as heard and saw the rhythm; it was a simple but pleased smile. The rhythm brought me around the world as it was a familiar rhythm a rhythm of local dances of the common people. I thought of my hot Georgia sun and it legions local cloggers, or the streets of New York with tap dancers trying to earn your change. My grandmother’s Irish step dances and I new this dance this Flamenco was not for the elites that sat around us, but rather it was a dance for the common man the workers. The passion I was seeing before me was for the stage but also for the local hangouts throughout Spain.

The dance evolved and others joined more dancers and singers came and they were all nice and performed well and deserved the applause we gave them. They danced again after our applause; Flamenco feeds off the crowd, the more we clapped the more they danced. The two of us headed out to eat and enjoy another drink. Walking away from the theatre away from people of note and their cameras we missed the sun. We stopped at a decent restaurant with a small terraza, and the waiter with a thick bead but little hair made us two Claras. A beer mixed with lemonade that helps take the poor taste out of Spanish beer.

“She lacked passion he had it” she declared “She tried to make the show about her and forgot why you dance Flamenco”

The woman of the performance was the virtuoso, the dance was about her. She was the primary dancer, choreographer, and director and he was a famous flamenco dancer much older and openly bisexual.

“I thought she was ok, but he was better”

 “All her passion was a fake smile, but did you see Antonio Canales that is flamenco.”

We ate and talked for two hours. We discussed flamenco and Spain; I mentioned movies and plays she talked about politics and novels. She told me the current duchess of Alba was very old and is marrying a man half her age, and it was a scandal. Flamenco it was decided was about the passion of the moment, one could dance it but if they did not feel it than it was not Flamenco. The moon was high now a moon of taste and glowing brightly, and we walked home under its glow. With the rhythm and passion controlling our thoughts.

PS
I have seen the bulls, and i'm in the thrust if my internship i will write on both soon.