chasing the real thing

Que me gusta Cádiz...

Turqoise water, against dark blue sky, beautiful sandy beaches. Sitting on the breakwater/wall with rain coming down, listening to “Cadiz tenia una perla, perla de la mar salada...” Camaron singing por bulerias about the place where I am.

They serve me a montadito with jamon asado (roasted ham – the leg is roasting on a spit), and a beer, with Estrella Morente singing in the background.

The taxi asks what number of Calle Canasteros, but they don't have a number. Just drive down that street and I'll look. Pine trees stick up out of the road, I don't think it's paved. The lots are large and all are gated, occasional Mercedes' are parked. I go into a huge concrete patio lit by flourescent spotlights. There's a huge fire burning with chairs set around it. A no frills bar is at the far side. My red wine is poured into a tall glass with icecube. Because there is no other choice but to be bold, I ask a woman in front of me where the concert will be held. Victoria and Victor turn out to be “socios” (members of the club) – newly minted – and she grabs my hand and drags me in with them amongst the crush of people. I get a seat three rows back from the stage, about 3 meters away from Paco Cepero, the reason I roused myself from the hostel with drousy eyes and got the bus from Cadiz to Chiclana. There must be more than 200 people squeezed in, those who are “invitados” (not members), standing at the back. The few that couldn't be stuffed in watch from a video screen outside at the bar. This is a family home that opens once a month as a peña. They point out Rancapino sitting on the far side, whom some consider to be the last remaining maestro of pure flamenco the way it used to be.

Antonio Reyes' voice reminds me of Camarón. His and Paco's sense of timing, their use of tempo rubato is exquisite. Paco plays with his phrases – one moment strumming with all the force he has and the next, finishing it off with a delicate line of single notes, placed exactly where he wants them. Everyone in the audience yells at the remates (ending of phrases). Victoria reminds me to call the taxi at 11:40, but I can't turn on my phone and start talking, and there's a crush of people I don't feel I can squeeze by. After the siguiriyas, I have forgotten to try calling. He finishes with a Zambra, something I've rarely heard. It's over at just after 12:00 but that was when the last bus left. It's more than worth it to pay E33 to take a taxi back.