After 10 years, it was still there. In the vaults of an old building at Placa Reial. Of course it was, since it’s been there since the 60s. Still as fresh and interesting – and a little freshened up as well.
But this time there was not only baile (dancing) but also cante flamenco, singing. And oh, what singing! It was grief, longing, and despair vocalized. Intense pain and saudade shoved through a microphone into the speakers and making the air in the club vibrate and my hair stand on end.
Before we left, the crying turned into an impromptu party: the stage was invaded by a bunch of visitors, kicking off their shoes and joining the show in jeans with bare feet. It turns out one does not need the step-shoes or the frills-dress to put on the airs of flamenco passion.
(Barcelona, Spain; March 2017)