Saturday night

Listening to a pot bellied man in a purple-ish sweater, and still black hair with a style like my dad's... he raised his hands, at times shook them back and forth. I found myself seeing images of desolate places in the hills of the pueblos blancos, a guy singing to a girl on a balcony, “your body that was in my bed,” “no te encontro...” (I can't find you)

I have not found myself caught up in any kind of art, song, music, story such that I have had powerful images in my head, like when you are are in a good story, for a long time. The few words I caught were enough, with the evocative power in this man's voice and manner.

As I sat there listening I felt like all the pain of the last week was worth this, and that my troubles about where I live are moot. I live steps from cultural treasure. The Pena Torre Macarena is on my doorstep. I walked in and without hesitating, Diego, who sang last time, and who I was introduced to, gestured to a seat. Everyone was squeezed into a space between a fireplace and the bar, with the singer and the guitarist sitting among others along a bench running the length of the wall, and people in front of them around 3 round tables. I sat along the adjacent wall, crowded onto a bench. The group gathered this time was especially small, and while people didn't particularly ignore me, they didn't pay particular attention either. I felt perfectly comfortable going there alone. I don't understand penas very well yet. I wondered last time if I needed to pay to join, if I wanted to come regularly. They seemed totally unconcerned that I order anything from the bar. All they were interested in was listening to the singing and chatting among themselves, and I think happy to have any interested new people.

The man who sang had a beautiful voice, which could also be considered so by people not used to flamenco singing. It was a sweet voice – there are all kinds in flamenco. Some of the most respected founding fathers had quiet, sweet voices, just as much as some have the roughest sandpaper in their throats. When I first entered, a woman about my age started to sing. None of these people would look like “flamenco singers” to you. She was blond and very average looking. Her voice was most of the time quite soft which made it all the more surprising how she could have such intensity... What is most real and not put on, obviously comes from within, and so it seemed with her singing – not some showy stuff – nothing in your face, but with depth. She had an unusually fast modulating, and subtle tremolo, which was judiciously used, and she likewise went perfectly off-pitch when it was necessary.

Another guy sang a Farruca. The guy with the purple sweater did a beautiful Granainas among other things, and ended with some pretty amazing bulerias. The guitarist there is obviously good, but had a bit of trouble keeping up with some unusual chord changes in the singer's bulerias. His playing would I believe, as a rule, be just doing whatever was required on the spot. He too, as others do at times, let a string of his guitar go really out of tune for a bit. What would never be acceptable in some kinds of music, and what the guitarist would have to stop for, is used to effect here.