Keiko appeared in a series of three videos on Youtube, on how to speak Andaluz. A "class" with a "teacher", and interviews of the "students" were recorded. Of course the whole thing was a joke, but I wasn't sure at first, because it would indeed be quite helpful to be able to understand better, when you first have to deal with it.
They had a list of exotic words like underarms with entirely different words, but here are some regular words that are part of Castellano (Spanish) but pronounced differently here:
Mujer (moo hair) becomes "Mu- HEH" but with the "HEH" quite cut off at the end.
(this is "wife" or "woman", and a woman can be called this in a casual, emphatic way by anyone, as in "come-ON, woman!")
Tio (used as "dude") becomes "ee-YYOh", or actually almost "YYOh", especially when being shouted at someone from a distance, or when they're passing by.
Hasta luego (asta luego - till later) becomes "(d)-LUEgo" or "lue-GO"
esta (is) becomes "e- tah" with something ever so slight in there that cannot be described. Or "et-sah" (backwards, but blending the t and s so they are almost one sound.)
pescado (fish) - "pe- cao"
You just use the same formula for all the rest of the words in the language - for "st" and "ado" and whenever an "s" appears in the middle of a word. (there is more of course.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
I am "La Ana". (The Ana).
There is also El Curro, La Mai, La Concha, La Chiqui, and so on. I suspect this is a flamenco or gitano thing, (maybe even just a Vargas family thing).
Rafael is "niño" and Concha "niña", to each other. (boy, girl - general word for "child" but with gender).
But pretty much in any normal place, Spanish people call each other "hija", "hijo" (literally daughter, son). You don't even have to know the person for them to call you that, nor do you have to be remotely young.
"Tio" and "tia" (uncle, aunt) have dual meanings as "guy" (and whatever the feminine of guy is - we don't have one). It is used in a bit more of a casual/slang way than "guy". Kind of like "chick" and "dude".
Common terms of endearment are "corazon mio" (my heart), "mi vida" (my life), "mi alma" (my soul). Older people will call younger people by these terms, or even just anybody might call each other these, though possibly not men and other men.
I still haven't sorted out whether I should be calling Concha and Rafael "tu" or "Usted", and am erring on the casual side, which might not be good. I don't know.
There is also El Curro, La Mai, La Concha, La Chiqui, and so on. I suspect this is a flamenco or gitano thing, (maybe even just a Vargas family thing).
Rafael is "niño" and Concha "niña", to each other. (boy, girl - general word for "child" but with gender).
But pretty much in any normal place, Spanish people call each other "hija", "hijo" (literally daughter, son). You don't even have to know the person for them to call you that, nor do you have to be remotely young.
"Tio" and "tia" (uncle, aunt) have dual meanings as "guy" (and whatever the feminine of guy is - we don't have one). It is used in a bit more of a casual/slang way than "guy". Kind of like "chick" and "dude".
Common terms of endearment are "corazon mio" (my heart), "mi vida" (my life), "mi alma" (my soul). Older people will call younger people by these terms, or even just anybody might call each other these, though possibly not men and other men.
I still haven't sorted out whether I should be calling Concha and Rafael "tu" or "Usted", and am erring on the casual side, which might not be good. I don't know.
I feel like I made a huge accomplishment today just deciding where to live in September. I got up at ten to 7 with few hours of sleep, and ended up not going because Mai hadn't woken up. We got there in the end, and it was a shockingly cool 22 degrees. I wanted to put my jeans on but it was 35 by the afternoon.
I took Mai straight to Alfonso Chavez, who was happy to see us, called us both guapa, and with great difficulty, sat on the floor to take measurements of Mai's feet. He had a distinguished looking gentleman helping him in the shop, whose work is in human rights, and told me Alfonso was thinking of starting a school there, because shoemaking is a dying art that needs to be preserved. He knew how to pronounce Japanese names; surprising considering most Spanish people don't distinguish between Chinese and Japanese, and I didn't even know the "sh" is a "s".
We had molletes con tomate y aceite and coffee, and then went to Bar Sol. Jose seemed to recognise me, though I've only been there a few times, and twice now, have looked at his rooms as a kind of last resort if I didn't find another apartment. This time though, it seemed perfect and after deciding I would live there in September, I spent a few hours in shock at how relieved I was to have decided something.
We came back to a party of relatives filling the house, and I have to wait till October to see Pati and Manu.
I took Mai straight to Alfonso Chavez, who was happy to see us, called us both guapa, and with great difficulty, sat on the floor to take measurements of Mai's feet. He had a distinguished looking gentleman helping him in the shop, whose work is in human rights, and told me Alfonso was thinking of starting a school there, because shoemaking is a dying art that needs to be preserved. He knew how to pronounce Japanese names; surprising considering most Spanish people don't distinguish between Chinese and Japanese, and I didn't even know the "sh" is a "s".
We had molletes con tomate y aceite and coffee, and then went to Bar Sol. Jose seemed to recognise me, though I've only been there a few times, and twice now, have looked at his rooms as a kind of last resort if I didn't find another apartment. This time though, it seemed perfect and after deciding I would live there in September, I spent a few hours in shock at how relieved I was to have decided something.
We came back to a party of relatives filling the house, and I have to wait till October to see Pati and Manu.
Last week Pati and Manuel joined us for two classes.
Concha started teaching me a bit of singing, which was painful. She kept asking me to sing over and over, meanwhile struggling with hurt pride due to finally understanding that my internalisation of compas is not very good (this is not understood back at home). It started at the lunch table, and while the three of us did the dishes, we continued singing: "Tiro piedras por la calle, y al que yo le de, me perdone. Tengo mi cabeza loca de tantos cabilaciones." (I throw stones in the street, and the person I hit, forgive me/pardon me. My head is crazy with so many doubts.)
We spent time singing at the beginning of our classes this week too, as a kick in the butt for our compas.
I spent a few days in a terrible state about whether to forego the El Torta concert in Jerez, along with staying over at Manu and Pati's, or to risk insulting Concha by not attending a sudden concert organised in Lebrija, at which she would be dancing, the same night. Concha understood because she knew I'd already bought a ticket, and also that I had very few days left in which to see Pati and Manu before they leave for Switzerland.
I believe I am at my limit with the instability and lack of direction in my life, and the inability to make decisions this is giving me. I wanted to see both; also I need time away from the intensity of being here at times, but on the other hand the last Viernes Flamenco concert in Jerez was too big and too loud, and I wanted to hear Torta in different atmosphere, as well as taking the opportunity to see a show in a small town which I never get to do, because of inability to return on the train the same night to wherever I have lived. I ended up trying to contact Manu and Pati the day of the concert, to try to change plans with them. At the train station in line to go to Jerez, 5 minutes before the train, I got ahold of Pati and, still unsure what I actually wanted to do, asked if I could see them the next day. I was still waffling until I left the station.
Something not quite right in my head...!
Yesterday was full of flamenco. Esperanza Fernandez's father (Concha's bro-in law) sang bulerias, and did a few compas of palmas in the middle of eating lunch, pretty much everybody seemed to be rapping their knuckles on tables in 12/8 time various times during the day, and then Curro played guitar in the house for the first time since the fiesta. He was fixing his thumbnail, which has broken, and played between gluings, so I kept coming back downstairs each time he started up.
The concert was in an outdoor movie theatre on top of a hill. I felt important carrying Concha's shoes and makeup bag in my purse, and giving her barrettes and bobby pins to fix her clothing. They called us in to the room below the stage, which felt very special until I realised the entire audience would drift in there during the course of the evening to get sliced baguettes, sausage, cheese and drinks. I was happy to be in a small town in a small-ish audience until it turned out that the sound was just as loud as it has been in all the other concerts recently. Unfortunately, the first set was terrible, which I did not expect, due to it being a chance for local aficionados to show their stuff. There was an announcer who saved things. This man with huge character and a deep, sonorous voice cut through with a terrible rasp probably due to a lifetime of smoking, filled the place with atmosphere with his stories, memories and poems he'd written about certain of the performers. I believe he was Concha's cousin, and introduced Concha with a poem read in the intonation of an ancient storyteller around a fire, about her father, a legendary character.
Curro was there to play for his mother, and for Miguel Funi. Miguel arrived at the venue in an off-white suit, with his characteristic scarf around his neck, and of course Akiko. By the time he got on stage, he was wearing a bright pink shirt with black pants and vest, and his white scarf. Watching him, I felt that the average person who has no idea what bulerias sounds like in general is missing out on one of the ultimately coolest things in the entire world, and pity for those people who love flamenco but have never experienced bulerias here in Andalucia by people who've lived flamenco their whole life.
A woman who came over the other night with her husband and sang in the patio, sang for Concha. Though this lady was a very proficient aficionado worth listening to, she kind of butchered Concha's dancing (the cante has to fit with what's going on and this is the responsibility of the singer, in some respects). I am sure Concha has danced far better, and does every other day in our lessons.
Miguel Funi is different than everyone else. First of all he's tall and thin, and very brown skinned but with fine features that don't look "typically" gitano. More importantly, he has tons of class, the most incredibly relaxed and self-possessed demeanour, but still being normal and humble at the same time. Then there is a very subtle humour that seems to emanate from him, possibly all the time even when he does nothing (oh, except when he was being interviewed by a reporter after the concert and was speaking out about political problems in the world of flamenco). Then, as I may have mentioned before, though he is gray haired and aged 72, his skin has no wrinkles and his fiance is 38. Mai, who is 21, thinks he is something pretty special and very guapo.
Bulerias Miguel style are only possible in this culture. There is a grand space... nothing is rushed. It is exactly the opposite - it's like there is no such thing as rushing - it does not exist. This is not to say there aren't fast parts. In this space which he creates with his presence and voice as well as his dancing between letras, he puts images, with his cante, that bring you in (if you can understand the words, or maybe even if you can't). He stops and poses in a way that would be typically flamenco, dripping with Andaluz, and yet totally his own. Of course, if you know what bulerias are, you will understand that all this is done to the most compelling, funky rhythm possible, and with shouts and hoots, to spur him on or emphasise his dancing or singing. Not many people dance and sing nearly in equal parts, like him. These people, who nearly always incorporate more humour than others, are called festeros. Miguel also did two serious numbers last night.
Curro's guitar accompanyment fits it perfectly and I think he is going to end up no less of a genius, in his own way, if he isn't one already.
Concha started teaching me a bit of singing, which was painful. She kept asking me to sing over and over, meanwhile struggling with hurt pride due to finally understanding that my internalisation of compas is not very good (this is not understood back at home). It started at the lunch table, and while the three of us did the dishes, we continued singing: "Tiro piedras por la calle, y al que yo le de, me perdone. Tengo mi cabeza loca de tantos cabilaciones." (I throw stones in the street, and the person I hit, forgive me/pardon me. My head is crazy with so many doubts.)
We spent time singing at the beginning of our classes this week too, as a kick in the butt for our compas.
I spent a few days in a terrible state about whether to forego the El Torta concert in Jerez, along with staying over at Manu and Pati's, or to risk insulting Concha by not attending a sudden concert organised in Lebrija, at which she would be dancing, the same night. Concha understood because she knew I'd already bought a ticket, and also that I had very few days left in which to see Pati and Manu before they leave for Switzerland.
I believe I am at my limit with the instability and lack of direction in my life, and the inability to make decisions this is giving me. I wanted to see both; also I need time away from the intensity of being here at times, but on the other hand the last Viernes Flamenco concert in Jerez was too big and too loud, and I wanted to hear Torta in different atmosphere, as well as taking the opportunity to see a show in a small town which I never get to do, because of inability to return on the train the same night to wherever I have lived. I ended up trying to contact Manu and Pati the day of the concert, to try to change plans with them. At the train station in line to go to Jerez, 5 minutes before the train, I got ahold of Pati and, still unsure what I actually wanted to do, asked if I could see them the next day. I was still waffling until I left the station.
Something not quite right in my head...!
Yesterday was full of flamenco. Esperanza Fernandez's father (Concha's bro-in law) sang bulerias, and did a few compas of palmas in the middle of eating lunch, pretty much everybody seemed to be rapping their knuckles on tables in 12/8 time various times during the day, and then Curro played guitar in the house for the first time since the fiesta. He was fixing his thumbnail, which has broken, and played between gluings, so I kept coming back downstairs each time he started up.
The concert was in an outdoor movie theatre on top of a hill. I felt important carrying Concha's shoes and makeup bag in my purse, and giving her barrettes and bobby pins to fix her clothing. They called us in to the room below the stage, which felt very special until I realised the entire audience would drift in there during the course of the evening to get sliced baguettes, sausage, cheese and drinks. I was happy to be in a small town in a small-ish audience until it turned out that the sound was just as loud as it has been in all the other concerts recently. Unfortunately, the first set was terrible, which I did not expect, due to it being a chance for local aficionados to show their stuff. There was an announcer who saved things. This man with huge character and a deep, sonorous voice cut through with a terrible rasp probably due to a lifetime of smoking, filled the place with atmosphere with his stories, memories and poems he'd written about certain of the performers. I believe he was Concha's cousin, and introduced Concha with a poem read in the intonation of an ancient storyteller around a fire, about her father, a legendary character.
Curro was there to play for his mother, and for Miguel Funi. Miguel arrived at the venue in an off-white suit, with his characteristic scarf around his neck, and of course Akiko. By the time he got on stage, he was wearing a bright pink shirt with black pants and vest, and his white scarf. Watching him, I felt that the average person who has no idea what bulerias sounds like in general is missing out on one of the ultimately coolest things in the entire world, and pity for those people who love flamenco but have never experienced bulerias here in Andalucia by people who've lived flamenco their whole life.
A woman who came over the other night with her husband and sang in the patio, sang for Concha. Though this lady was a very proficient aficionado worth listening to, she kind of butchered Concha's dancing (the cante has to fit with what's going on and this is the responsibility of the singer, in some respects). I am sure Concha has danced far better, and does every other day in our lessons.
Miguel Funi is different than everyone else. First of all he's tall and thin, and very brown skinned but with fine features that don't look "typically" gitano. More importantly, he has tons of class, the most incredibly relaxed and self-possessed demeanour, but still being normal and humble at the same time. Then there is a very subtle humour that seems to emanate from him, possibly all the time even when he does nothing (oh, except when he was being interviewed by a reporter after the concert and was speaking out about political problems in the world of flamenco). Then, as I may have mentioned before, though he is gray haired and aged 72, his skin has no wrinkles and his fiance is 38. Mai, who is 21, thinks he is something pretty special and very guapo.
Bulerias Miguel style are only possible in this culture. There is a grand space... nothing is rushed. It is exactly the opposite - it's like there is no such thing as rushing - it does not exist. This is not to say there aren't fast parts. In this space which he creates with his presence and voice as well as his dancing between letras, he puts images, with his cante, that bring you in (if you can understand the words, or maybe even if you can't). He stops and poses in a way that would be typically flamenco, dripping with Andaluz, and yet totally his own. Of course, if you know what bulerias are, you will understand that all this is done to the most compelling, funky rhythm possible, and with shouts and hoots, to spur him on or emphasise his dancing or singing. Not many people dance and sing nearly in equal parts, like him. These people, who nearly always incorporate more humour than others, are called festeros. Miguel also did two serious numbers last night.
Curro's guitar accompanyment fits it perfectly and I think he is going to end up no less of a genius, in his own way, if he isn't one already.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Juan del Gastor is the nephew of one of the greatest flamenco guitarists ever, Diego del Gastor, who died in 1971. Juan has a pony tail and lives in Sevilla. His wife's name is Lucy, who is American, but has lived with the gitanos for many years.
Today I went to see Juan and Lucy for some help with bulerias, which Juan suggested for me to do, back in July.
Juan is well respected by anyone truly serious on the inside of the flamenco world. Unfortunately, most foreigners probably don't know about him because of our lack of resources and connections. Not many people have the interest to delve into flamenco enough to find out about the ones that don't make big splashy shows and lots of money. If Concha and Rafael respect someone, that says something. Andres Marin, a well known dancer and choreographer who does very unusual modern flamenco (which he doesn't think is modern) goes to hang out with Juan.
Today Juan, with Lucy's help, tried desperately and finally succeeded to undo the other bulerias stuff I've learned before (except for Concha's). Juan is a generous person and cares very deeply about his heritage of genuine flamenco. He can be a bit tough, and is less laid back than Concha, but is truly kind. He told me to simplify what I've been doing. I've been wanting to do that for maybe two years, with bulerias. He wasn't quite as bad as the others, because he let me keep some of my current material but he made me simplify it. Then he taught me a different paso, and different marking, which he told me are the really old gitano stuff from times past, that no one will teach any more.
Juan and Lucy are warm, generous, and genuine people that give me a family-ish sense of security, kind of like Concha and Rafael.
Unfortunately I was dumb enough to think that I wouldn't sweat much... one of the most illogical thoughts I've had for a long time, and spent while letting the Sevillan heat dry out my hair and sundress.
I stayed till evening. It was an incredibly romantic one. I found myself sitting, rather tipsy, on the steps of the Archivas de Indias, with a sprawl of horses, carriages and drivers to the side, and the late day sun on the cathedral with a big palm tree right in front. I had had four glasses of wine in the afternoon, and then went to see an apartment. The couple were Romanian tailors, very nice people.
I bought myself an ice cream and caught the train back.
Today I went to see Juan and Lucy for some help with bulerias, which Juan suggested for me to do, back in July.
Juan is well respected by anyone truly serious on the inside of the flamenco world. Unfortunately, most foreigners probably don't know about him because of our lack of resources and connections. Not many people have the interest to delve into flamenco enough to find out about the ones that don't make big splashy shows and lots of money. If Concha and Rafael respect someone, that says something. Andres Marin, a well known dancer and choreographer who does very unusual modern flamenco (which he doesn't think is modern) goes to hang out with Juan.
Today Juan, with Lucy's help, tried desperately and finally succeeded to undo the other bulerias stuff I've learned before (except for Concha's). Juan is a generous person and cares very deeply about his heritage of genuine flamenco. He can be a bit tough, and is less laid back than Concha, but is truly kind. He told me to simplify what I've been doing. I've been wanting to do that for maybe two years, with bulerias. He wasn't quite as bad as the others, because he let me keep some of my current material but he made me simplify it. Then he taught me a different paso, and different marking, which he told me are the really old gitano stuff from times past, that no one will teach any more.
Juan and Lucy are warm, generous, and genuine people that give me a family-ish sense of security, kind of like Concha and Rafael.
Unfortunately I was dumb enough to think that I wouldn't sweat much... one of the most illogical thoughts I've had for a long time, and spent while letting the Sevillan heat dry out my hair and sundress.
I stayed till evening. It was an incredibly romantic one. I found myself sitting, rather tipsy, on the steps of the Archivas de Indias, with a sprawl of horses, carriages and drivers to the side, and the late day sun on the cathedral with a big palm tree right in front. I had had four glasses of wine in the afternoon, and then went to see an apartment. The couple were Romanian tailors, very nice people.
I bought myself an ice cream and caught the train back.
Saturday, August 20, 2011
I had everything I needed for the beach in Spain, in summertime. Jeans and jacket, an x-ray of my hand...
Well, I mailed the insurance stuff on the way, and we were going to go to Chipiona and meet Concha and Rafael and Frasci there at night for the second concurso de Fandangos. Tonight though, it was not going to be cool.
We (being Mai and I) took the bus to Sanlucar de la Barrameda. Horses racing on the beach, Manzanilla (the climate is just exactly such that a different kind of yeast thrives there, in what would otherwise be sherry), beautiful houses, an awesome pedestrian area, some of the best tapas around, drugs... what more could you want. (Yes, being a small town and on the coast, it is a major area for that).
I cannot stand much sun. It could be being burnt last week, or having heat stroke and other bad heat experiences before. Or my constitution or blue eyes aren't made for the intense light. I need sunglasses darker than the usual ones. I laid in the shade and had a towel over my head while Mai swam and sunbathed.
I tried a different kind of manzanilla today from the other three I've previously had. Very good. Very cheap. E1.3 on the beach for a glass of manzanilla. People in Canada don't really go to the beach. Maybe once a year, if that. Some people might make it 3 times. Here, they go all the time. On a Saturday evening, a bunch of 50s - 60s average looking people that in Canada would normally being at home, are hanging out in the bar on the beach, relaxing together.
This morning at the post office while the proper looking lady that could have gone to the Tabernacle (church of my childhood) she looked that kind of conservative, while she was processing my envelope, a guy also in his late 50s, early 60s or so came in and they were talking about whether the other employees were in or on holidays. When she mentioned one woman, the man said, "Oh, that big whore, ha ha ha!" in a very jolly and endearing way. "Puta" is most often used in a positive sense. Don't try to understand. Then the man said, "she's pregnant, isn't she," which had absolutely nothing to do with the use of the word puta/whore to describe her, and they continued to discuss this probably very upright, nice young lady that they both were obviously good friends with and fond of.
At Sanlucar beach, a major public beach, the occasional woman was topless, as is the norm at most beaches I've been to. I understand that some are topless and some aren't but it seems like at most, it is acceptable. Very weird for me.
Someone recently told me that in his travels around Europe, in Sweden (or somewhere north), they give you dirty looks if you answer your cell phone on the metro. In France, they have a spot in between the cars, for cell phone use, and in Spain and Italy, people talk all around you on their cell phones. Ideas about basic things are so different that it is impossible to say which ideas are "right" and which are not. I guess that pretty much summed up what I have felt/decided/pushed myself to understand, in my time in other countries.
Well, I mailed the insurance stuff on the way, and we were going to go to Chipiona and meet Concha and Rafael and Frasci there at night for the second concurso de Fandangos. Tonight though, it was not going to be cool.
We (being Mai and I) took the bus to Sanlucar de la Barrameda. Horses racing on the beach, Manzanilla (the climate is just exactly such that a different kind of yeast thrives there, in what would otherwise be sherry), beautiful houses, an awesome pedestrian area, some of the best tapas around, drugs... what more could you want. (Yes, being a small town and on the coast, it is a major area for that).
I cannot stand much sun. It could be being burnt last week, or having heat stroke and other bad heat experiences before. Or my constitution or blue eyes aren't made for the intense light. I need sunglasses darker than the usual ones. I laid in the shade and had a towel over my head while Mai swam and sunbathed.
I tried a different kind of manzanilla today from the other three I've previously had. Very good. Very cheap. E1.3 on the beach for a glass of manzanilla. People in Canada don't really go to the beach. Maybe once a year, if that. Some people might make it 3 times. Here, they go all the time. On a Saturday evening, a bunch of 50s - 60s average looking people that in Canada would normally being at home, are hanging out in the bar on the beach, relaxing together.
This morning at the post office while the proper looking lady that could have gone to the Tabernacle (church of my childhood) she looked that kind of conservative, while she was processing my envelope, a guy also in his late 50s, early 60s or so came in and they were talking about whether the other employees were in or on holidays. When she mentioned one woman, the man said, "Oh, that big whore, ha ha ha!" in a very jolly and endearing way. "Puta" is most often used in a positive sense. Don't try to understand. Then the man said, "she's pregnant, isn't she," which had absolutely nothing to do with the use of the word puta/whore to describe her, and they continued to discuss this probably very upright, nice young lady that they both were obviously good friends with and fond of.
At Sanlucar beach, a major public beach, the occasional woman was topless, as is the norm at most beaches I've been to. I understand that some are topless and some aren't but it seems like at most, it is acceptable. Very weird for me.
Someone recently told me that in his travels around Europe, in Sweden (or somewhere north), they give you dirty looks if you answer your cell phone on the metro. In France, they have a spot in between the cars, for cell phone use, and in Spain and Italy, people talk all around you on their cell phones. Ideas about basic things are so different that it is impossible to say which ideas are "right" and which are not. I guess that pretty much summed up what I have felt/decided/pushed myself to understand, in my time in other countries.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Anda de Luna
I took the train in and then went to Plaza Pelicano to meet Concha, but it was Curro who had driven her in, not Rafael. On the way back I learned about the Jackson Five. From Curro, a 24 year old flamenco guitarist born into a half gitano, flamenco family in an outpost of Andalucia. "Who is this?" I asked. Michael Jackson, when he had "ocho años". Well, and his family of course. Curro said that of course this music is popular in Spain, he is "numero uno en todo el mundo." I am sure that people know Michael Jackson, but from the 60s? Concha said she didn't know much about this music either, but called it a "maravilla", obviously loving it.
I told them I was 12 when Thriller was popular and asked if they knew the "Anda de Luna". They kind of looked blank.
When we got home I asked Mai. We communicate always in Spanish, but her English pronunciation is excellent and her English reading was at one point, prize winning. I asked in Spanish if she knew the kind of walking that Michael Jackson did; a dance move. "The Moonwalk," she said immediately.
Anyways, either the Spanish didn't get the videos or they have a different name for it. Actually I think Frasci knew, but not from the name.
I told them I was 12 when Thriller was popular and asked if they knew the "Anda de Luna". They kind of looked blank.
When we got home I asked Mai. We communicate always in Spanish, but her English pronunciation is excellent and her English reading was at one point, prize winning. I asked in Spanish if she knew the kind of walking that Michael Jackson did; a dance move. "The Moonwalk," she said immediately.
Anyways, either the Spanish didn't get the videos or they have a different name for it. Actually I think Frasci knew, but not from the name.
Anti-sweat math
Sevilla was strikingly cool today. Cool enough to walk on the sunny side of the street. That has not been possible since... early May, perhaps? It was still probably about 30 degrees. Maybe 28 or something.
Normally, as heat loving as I am, I take the absolute shortest route possible to any scrap of shade. Walking along a narrow street, if you want to walk on the other side you would cross diagonally (there is only room for 1 car going slowly, there is no such thing as j-walking, and you have to cross, many times, because the sidewalk - whose width varies - is too narrow for the car to pass safely, besides there are no proper corners from which you would or should make your crossing). So you walk diagonally continuing in roughly the same direction, so you don't needlessly waste steps. If you were intending to go straight, you would not walk at a 90 degree angle for a few steps and then continue straight. Nobody walks in a perfect square or even a backwards diagonal, unnecessarily. What I'm trying to say is that the absolute necessity of getting your body into shade makes me do that here. I never knew what a B-line really meant (I mean from experience. The term seemed kind of useless before).
Fine, I have to cross bridges sometimes in full sun. If you have to do it, you do it. I am used to sweating. Here, it is different. You don't freak out about a little sweat. But you really don't want to end up dripping if you can avoid it, and if 3 steps at a 90 degree angle to your path get you into the shade faster than 5 steps at a 60 degree angle, that is probably half a second difference, but I am going to take advantage of it!
Normally, as heat loving as I am, I take the absolute shortest route possible to any scrap of shade. Walking along a narrow street, if you want to walk on the other side you would cross diagonally (there is only room for 1 car going slowly, there is no such thing as j-walking, and you have to cross, many times, because the sidewalk - whose width varies - is too narrow for the car to pass safely, besides there are no proper corners from which you would or should make your crossing). So you walk diagonally continuing in roughly the same direction, so you don't needlessly waste steps. If you were intending to go straight, you would not walk at a 90 degree angle for a few steps and then continue straight. Nobody walks in a perfect square or even a backwards diagonal, unnecessarily. What I'm trying to say is that the absolute necessity of getting your body into shade makes me do that here. I never knew what a B-line really meant (I mean from experience. The term seemed kind of useless before).
Fine, I have to cross bridges sometimes in full sun. If you have to do it, you do it. I am used to sweating. Here, it is different. You don't freak out about a little sweat. But you really don't want to end up dripping if you can avoid it, and if 3 steps at a 90 degree angle to your path get you into the shade faster than 5 steps at a 60 degree angle, that is probably half a second difference, but I am going to take advantage of it!
I wish I had someone that could teach me how to live, like Concha teaches dance. You do a move that is pretty dramatic, and she says, "No. Con fuerza!" (force). You thought you were doing it with a lot of force. You try again. She says no. Then she demonstrates. "Tu lo haces asi:" and she plods along. You try again. "No, pareces un robot," she says, frustrated. ("rrrobo", both o's long.)
I was really trying to have force, and I was trying not to look like a robot, but it doesn't work. "No." She says again, and shows you over again how she would do it. One thing I have learned is that if you are actually lost in what you are doing, and you are executing these moves with honest to goodness "fuerza", your face automatically takes on an intense expression that is not superficial. She has taught us this. Finally I do it with "fuerza" and she says, "Bien!! Bien, Ana, Bien!"
It always happens that I think I am doing it but I am not. My mind has decided to try to make it look all forceful or move my body with a certain speed, but something doesn't jibe. I am sacar-ing something from dentro, somehow in the end, though I am not quite aware initially that I am not doing that, and I am not quite aware that it is happening, when it starts to happen. Partly, I am scared of her. But when I practice later, I know my dancing is different, and has never been like this before.
I was really trying to have force, and I was trying not to look like a robot, but it doesn't work. "No." She says again, and shows you over again how she would do it. One thing I have learned is that if you are actually lost in what you are doing, and you are executing these moves with honest to goodness "fuerza", your face automatically takes on an intense expression that is not superficial. She has taught us this. Finally I do it with "fuerza" and she says, "Bien!! Bien, Ana, Bien!"
It always happens that I think I am doing it but I am not. My mind has decided to try to make it look all forceful or move my body with a certain speed, but something doesn't jibe. I am sacar-ing something from dentro, somehow in the end, though I am not quite aware initially that I am not doing that, and I am not quite aware that it is happening, when it starts to happen. Partly, I am scared of her. But when I practice later, I know my dancing is different, and has never been like this before.
Monday, August 15, 2011
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jDcnI4MojkQ&feature=player_embedded#at=21
I want to educate people that flamenco is not about ruffled skirts, and about guitar and dance on a stage. This rivals rap for coolness, and the atmosphere of kids hangin out on the street.
I want to educate people that flamenco is not about ruffled skirts, and about guitar and dance on a stage. This rivals rap for coolness, and the atmosphere of kids hangin out on the street.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
fiesta con que otros fiestas no tienen nada que ver; fiesta de fiestas
flamenco will never be the same for me. i have known about this second hand, but that is not a substitute for experiencing it.
flamenco has morphed into a lot of different things, and has evolved. but the core of it, the heart, is what I saw tonight. this is difficult to find, and difficult for a foreigner to see. a private party with families that have had this art passed down for generations, and for whom it is part of their everyday lives.
there was a bowl of salmorejo and a huge pot of gazpacho, and quite a few kilgrams of meat of all kinds that was barbequed over the course of ... many hours. there were about 20 - 30 people in the patio, and one little girl to entertain Mai and I and Miguel Funi's partner, Yukiko.
The little girl's grandmother is Ines Bacan, a stout lady, with an unusual soul. her art is subtle. I cannot move my eyes from her while she is singing, and the world pretty much stands still. on the outside she seems to react slowly, and be unphased to the point of indifference. there are very few people who i've seen sing like this. it seems like nothing else exists for her, and there is a direct line from the depths of her soul to her vocal chords. she doesn't sing loudly like many flamenco singers. it is one of the most pure things I've ever heard. she appears like a rock on the outside, but there are no walls around this lady's heart. her heart and soul seem like they would be washed clean and fresh as a child's, by the way painful things flow out freely. her "letras" (verses) are from her family, as were the letras of Miguel Funi. they are stories or outpourings of the heart that are personal. without knowing this, I felt during the evening, that their cante was actually alive, something I have never experienced listening to flamenco singers before. you cannot get the same idea from a CD, nor from a performer on a stage. something changes. also, these people don't just sing for anybody, at random parties. they sing in this way when they are in the house of extended family, with whom they are comfortable enough to do this all night, until the next afternoon.
the only reason the party stopped at 5 am was because Curro had to drive his girlfriend and her parents back to Moron. And Curro...Dios mio de mi alma (my new exclamation) It's possible that I might have heard somebody play guitar this well before but I don't think so. The kind of flamenco guitar that is popular (including with those in the flamenco world and its professionals) is beautiful. it is virtuoso often, and impressive, full of feeling, and worthy of solo performances. but the kind of guitar playing i heard last night is rare, and apart from the other. It's aim is not viruosity but "sentido" I don't think the english translation "feeling" comes close to what I have come to understand as sentido. It is an extreme sensitivity, in a split second, at times, to what the singer is singing in the moment. and the way flamenco is sung... this is an art worth more than virtuosity to me.
flamenco singing, dance and guitar consists of contrast. there are sudden stops and outbursts, and sweet, quiet sections, and the most violent, gut wrenching parts. then there is the 12/8 rhythm, which can take on quite a few different patterns of accents. the simplistic way flamenco is often done outside of spain requires accenting in a similar way with every group of 12. the only way that bulerias truly comes alive is that the pattern changes usually with the singing. this can be subtle, if you are trying to listen consciously and understand it mentally. if you simply feel it and respond with your body (clapping for example)... that is what this art is all about. this is not as easy as it sounds if you are from an anglosajone background, as it requires being in touch with yourself, your body, and not being inhibited.
Anyways, the guitar not only has to respond in split seconds to the singer changing the length of the phrase, but to sudden changes in volume, and to the overall but subtle rhythmic feel within the 12/8. Curro plays with the most unbelievable sentido, and seems like the reincarnation of Diego del Gastor, one of the greatest flamenco guitarists ever.
It seems like the best flamenco artists are those without big names. You will only arrive to hear about them when you plant your feet in andalucia and talk to people that have something to do with flamenco in a serious manner. The local festival in Lebrija, something renowned that has existed for decades, has come to be headlined by names that are big here in Andalucia, in the flamenco world. But even these people don't do flamenco like it used to be, living the culture in private family parties, and singing or playing with the kind of sentido I heard last night. That is something the people born inside this art tell me, and i've heard from others who know it well.
Last night I understood flamenco to be a way of life that is nearly lost. it is similar to a folk art form that has existed the world over: telling stories among close friends and extended family, before TV and before the ability to jump in a car and drive across a city in order to escape reality, change scenery or drink a glass of wine in a trendy and impersonal restaurant. that is what their singing is, but in andalucia it is done in an unbelievably compelling, rhythmic way, accompanied by guitar and all the people gathered clapping along as they are moved by the music and song (in a very specific way!) Along with this, what comes out naturally as the story moves them, is movement. in last night's fiesta, it was the singer himself who danced. the kind of dance that happens in fiestas is again not about technique, but sentido. it is a response to the story and rhythm, each movement containing subtlety and often humour.
Miguel Funi is a phenomenon. Concha's godfather, and godfather of her daughter as well, he is about 70. If you would rather partake with other human beings in something deep, but often funny, or even witty, if you would rather take pleasure in tranquility, and enjoying life and others without pressure, such that you could stay up all night just to be with them and joke around, or say what you really mean... if you prefer this to being "entertained" passively, with speed and hype and show of technical prowess, and slickness then you would understand Miguel as a phenomenon.
He uses all the flamenco cante (singing) techniques as though he is just playing with them; they roll out of him. the complaining, voice breaking thing that they do, the sudden changes in volume. he doesn't seem very serious about anything; there is a sly sparkle in his eye or a chuckle. But somehow it is food for the spirit. after a bunch of letras he gets inspired and gets up with his arms moving slowly, while snapping his fingers loudly, off the beat (exactly between main beats). then moves his feet slightly awkwardly but accurately marking the beat, and emphasises some part of his story with a humorous lunge or twist, and a flip of an arm. this isn't mean to look polished like a ballet dancer. it is an average person, but one who has this rhythm built into him, expressing himself freely. THAT is flamenco.
There were two others who sang twice, who were also awesome, and several people who were particularly vocal yelling out when the urge hit them, how "genio" (genuis) something was the guy singing or dancing just did, or yelling their name, or some of the other words or exclamations typical to flamenco, to encourage the singer.
Mai and I didn't know what to do with ourselves. We were practically beside ourselves loving it. She is a 21 year old Japanese girl, one of the cutest, sweetest, most awesome people I've ever met. Unusual in her knowledge of and appreciation for this little known, traditional and very un-showy part of flamenco, which is the only "real" flamenco for her. She understands much of the sentido, what is really going on here, and what is happening to me and her as we learn this, more quickly and profoundly than I do.
flamenco has morphed into a lot of different things, and has evolved. but the core of it, the heart, is what I saw tonight. this is difficult to find, and difficult for a foreigner to see. a private party with families that have had this art passed down for generations, and for whom it is part of their everyday lives.
there was a bowl of salmorejo and a huge pot of gazpacho, and quite a few kilgrams of meat of all kinds that was barbequed over the course of ... many hours. there were about 20 - 30 people in the patio, and one little girl to entertain Mai and I and Miguel Funi's partner, Yukiko.
The little girl's grandmother is Ines Bacan, a stout lady, with an unusual soul. her art is subtle. I cannot move my eyes from her while she is singing, and the world pretty much stands still. on the outside she seems to react slowly, and be unphased to the point of indifference. there are very few people who i've seen sing like this. it seems like nothing else exists for her, and there is a direct line from the depths of her soul to her vocal chords. she doesn't sing loudly like many flamenco singers. it is one of the most pure things I've ever heard. she appears like a rock on the outside, but there are no walls around this lady's heart. her heart and soul seem like they would be washed clean and fresh as a child's, by the way painful things flow out freely. her "letras" (verses) are from her family, as were the letras of Miguel Funi. they are stories or outpourings of the heart that are personal. without knowing this, I felt during the evening, that their cante was actually alive, something I have never experienced listening to flamenco singers before. you cannot get the same idea from a CD, nor from a performer on a stage. something changes. also, these people don't just sing for anybody, at random parties. they sing in this way when they are in the house of extended family, with whom they are comfortable enough to do this all night, until the next afternoon.
the only reason the party stopped at 5 am was because Curro had to drive his girlfriend and her parents back to Moron. And Curro...Dios mio de mi alma (my new exclamation) It's possible that I might have heard somebody play guitar this well before but I don't think so. The kind of flamenco guitar that is popular (including with those in the flamenco world and its professionals) is beautiful. it is virtuoso often, and impressive, full of feeling, and worthy of solo performances. but the kind of guitar playing i heard last night is rare, and apart from the other. It's aim is not viruosity but "sentido" I don't think the english translation "feeling" comes close to what I have come to understand as sentido. It is an extreme sensitivity, in a split second, at times, to what the singer is singing in the moment. and the way flamenco is sung... this is an art worth more than virtuosity to me.
flamenco singing, dance and guitar consists of contrast. there are sudden stops and outbursts, and sweet, quiet sections, and the most violent, gut wrenching parts. then there is the 12/8 rhythm, which can take on quite a few different patterns of accents. the simplistic way flamenco is often done outside of spain requires accenting in a similar way with every group of 12. the only way that bulerias truly comes alive is that the pattern changes usually with the singing. this can be subtle, if you are trying to listen consciously and understand it mentally. if you simply feel it and respond with your body (clapping for example)... that is what this art is all about. this is not as easy as it sounds if you are from an anglosajone background, as it requires being in touch with yourself, your body, and not being inhibited.
Anyways, the guitar not only has to respond in split seconds to the singer changing the length of the phrase, but to sudden changes in volume, and to the overall but subtle rhythmic feel within the 12/8. Curro plays with the most unbelievable sentido, and seems like the reincarnation of Diego del Gastor, one of the greatest flamenco guitarists ever.
It seems like the best flamenco artists are those without big names. You will only arrive to hear about them when you plant your feet in andalucia and talk to people that have something to do with flamenco in a serious manner. The local festival in Lebrija, something renowned that has existed for decades, has come to be headlined by names that are big here in Andalucia, in the flamenco world. But even these people don't do flamenco like it used to be, living the culture in private family parties, and singing or playing with the kind of sentido I heard last night. That is something the people born inside this art tell me, and i've heard from others who know it well.
Last night I understood flamenco to be a way of life that is nearly lost. it is similar to a folk art form that has existed the world over: telling stories among close friends and extended family, before TV and before the ability to jump in a car and drive across a city in order to escape reality, change scenery or drink a glass of wine in a trendy and impersonal restaurant. that is what their singing is, but in andalucia it is done in an unbelievably compelling, rhythmic way, accompanied by guitar and all the people gathered clapping along as they are moved by the music and song (in a very specific way!) Along with this, what comes out naturally as the story moves them, is movement. in last night's fiesta, it was the singer himself who danced. the kind of dance that happens in fiestas is again not about technique, but sentido. it is a response to the story and rhythm, each movement containing subtlety and often humour.
Miguel Funi is a phenomenon. Concha's godfather, and godfather of her daughter as well, he is about 70. If you would rather partake with other human beings in something deep, but often funny, or even witty, if you would rather take pleasure in tranquility, and enjoying life and others without pressure, such that you could stay up all night just to be with them and joke around, or say what you really mean... if you prefer this to being "entertained" passively, with speed and hype and show of technical prowess, and slickness then you would understand Miguel as a phenomenon.
He uses all the flamenco cante (singing) techniques as though he is just playing with them; they roll out of him. the complaining, voice breaking thing that they do, the sudden changes in volume. he doesn't seem very serious about anything; there is a sly sparkle in his eye or a chuckle. But somehow it is food for the spirit. after a bunch of letras he gets inspired and gets up with his arms moving slowly, while snapping his fingers loudly, off the beat (exactly between main beats). then moves his feet slightly awkwardly but accurately marking the beat, and emphasises some part of his story with a humorous lunge or twist, and a flip of an arm. this isn't mean to look polished like a ballet dancer. it is an average person, but one who has this rhythm built into him, expressing himself freely. THAT is flamenco.
There were two others who sang twice, who were also awesome, and several people who were particularly vocal yelling out when the urge hit them, how "genio" (genuis) something was the guy singing or dancing just did, or yelling their name, or some of the other words or exclamations typical to flamenco, to encourage the singer.
Mai and I didn't know what to do with ourselves. We were practically beside ourselves loving it. She is a 21 year old Japanese girl, one of the cutest, sweetest, most awesome people I've ever met. Unusual in her knowledge of and appreciation for this little known, traditional and very un-showy part of flamenco, which is the only "real" flamenco for her. She understands much of the sentido, what is really going on here, and what is happening to me and her as we learn this, more quickly and profoundly than I do.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Jerez last night. I met Manu y Pati at their casa and a French friend I met last summer, Brice, came along with us to the Alcazar for "Viernes Flamenco", a series of Friday night concerts Jerez has every August.
In the world of flamenco you are liable to run into people. I wouldn't say it's small community but if feels like it once you get to know a few people. Whether fellow students or artists, they show up places, or they are friends of other friends. This time it was Hiro. When you are in a foreign place, which it still is here, and still feel insecure, it is good to know someone you can run up to and give a hug, and be excited to see. Granada is pretty far away, and I haven't gotten back there since February to see Hiro. I would love to see him dance, after a year of studying with a renowned, older teacher from times past, and practicing 6 hours a day.
I have met so many awesome French guys in Andalucia. Genuinely nice, very cool ones. Last night I met two, and even got to dance with one, and the other made it clear he would have if he knew how. Manu and Pati's Argentine Tango skills, which were pretty top notch to start with, have improved even more. They danced on the balcony, where we were having the party, Manu in bare feet and Pati in Japanese socks that fit around her toes like a pair of gloves. I also had a rather humorous turn around the balcony with a local Jerezano, who was more used to flamenco. We also had a great talk about studying flamenco, and as I have not spent a lot of time talking to local gitanos, and expect that they might not always want to listen to what a foreigner thinks or feels about studying flamenco, it was a pleasant surprise.
There were several girls I also spent some time talking to, who are new to flamenco and completely sucked in by Jerez, like everyone who visits.
We only managed to get in a bit of guitar by Manuel and a bit of cante by Brice, before a neighbour started yelling at us to shut up. He and Arneau both play guitar but are really taken by cante and studying it as well. Arneau wants to relocate to Jerez, as did Anna, and Clara. Really anyone that has eyes to see and ears to hear what is really there can't resist it.
Ah, Jerez... I have not spent many evenings like this in Sevilla. I have not managed to end up at parties and meet a whole bunch of awesome people, like I do when I go to Jerez.
In the world of flamenco you are liable to run into people. I wouldn't say it's small community but if feels like it once you get to know a few people. Whether fellow students or artists, they show up places, or they are friends of other friends. This time it was Hiro. When you are in a foreign place, which it still is here, and still feel insecure, it is good to know someone you can run up to and give a hug, and be excited to see. Granada is pretty far away, and I haven't gotten back there since February to see Hiro. I would love to see him dance, after a year of studying with a renowned, older teacher from times past, and practicing 6 hours a day.
I have met so many awesome French guys in Andalucia. Genuinely nice, very cool ones. Last night I met two, and even got to dance with one, and the other made it clear he would have if he knew how. Manu and Pati's Argentine Tango skills, which were pretty top notch to start with, have improved even more. They danced on the balcony, where we were having the party, Manu in bare feet and Pati in Japanese socks that fit around her toes like a pair of gloves. I also had a rather humorous turn around the balcony with a local Jerezano, who was more used to flamenco. We also had a great talk about studying flamenco, and as I have not spent a lot of time talking to local gitanos, and expect that they might not always want to listen to what a foreigner thinks or feels about studying flamenco, it was a pleasant surprise.
There were several girls I also spent some time talking to, who are new to flamenco and completely sucked in by Jerez, like everyone who visits.
We only managed to get in a bit of guitar by Manuel and a bit of cante by Brice, before a neighbour started yelling at us to shut up. He and Arneau both play guitar but are really taken by cante and studying it as well. Arneau wants to relocate to Jerez, as did Anna, and Clara. Really anyone that has eyes to see and ears to hear what is really there can't resist it.
Ah, Jerez... I have not spent many evenings like this in Sevilla. I have not managed to end up at parties and meet a whole bunch of awesome people, like I do when I go to Jerez.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Tonight I learned about Quintin.
I could go live with him in Sevilla in September if I wanted.
Yesterday they showed me their apartment on the outskirts of the city, and we all hung out while Concha taught class. Quintin was sleeping, as he does during the day.
This evening Jose came over for dinner. He is typically gitano looking: really thin, curly hair slightly long, very bright eyes, brown skin, sparkling earring in one ear. He sings, "Ayyy..." and then echa-s a bunch of palmaditas in a quick bulerias rhythm, slapping thighs, stamping feet and clapping, all effortlessly as it rolls out of him. He's really personable and a genuinely nice person. Another sobrino (nephew) of Concha.
After we all eat outside, including Curro, we watch a TV show which is a rundown of a ton of people in flamenco these days, all the way from Agujetas, who is one of the purest of the pure, to stuff Concha calls barbarism, because it is cheesy fusion. Then we discuss Quintin, for about an hour. I should say they discuss Quintin, and while they are discussing and arguing among themselves, they turn to me quite often and emphasise certain situations or things he's done, so I understand for sure. (This has nothing to do with them offering to rent me a room in the apartment, it's just that they are so excited about what they are saying about him, they have to make sure whoever is sitting nearby knows).
I believe that Concha treats her sons quite specially, as I've heard a lot of Andalucians do, but I thought it was a bit overboard, when they brought all his clothes from the apartment to do them for him, and a new sheets to put on his bed, and Concha explained that she brings him home cooked food once a week or he wouldn't eat.
Normally Concha is a person that seems quite out of the ordinary, but seeing her talk about her sons brings her into the realm of a normal person.
I know already that he works in the evenings at a hotel where he speaks English, and that he works all the time on his music and just stays in his room with his computer, probably mixing or engineering or whatever. He loves the Beatles and dresses and has his hair like them. He lived in London where he had a second hand, long jacket like the kind the band Oasis wears, apparently also like a police jacket (I have no idea what this is like), but his was red.
Quite a bit of time was spent trying to figure out why he wouldn't, and how to make him go see Raimundo Amador, a very famous Spanish rock guitarist, one of the best in the world, apparently, who probably would help set him on the road to grand success. Jose knows Raimundo, who has repeatedly asked to meet Quintin. Quintin doesn't care one whit about important people, or about money. He once took his guitar and sat on the street for a week busking just to try to understand what it would be like to be poor. They say that for sure he will "arrive"; anyone quite as crazy and intent on what he is doing, has got to. Concha described how when the whole family went to Japan, they all did flamenco and he played his rock music. To hear a flamenco person like Concha, a woman who knew some of the greatest people in the recent history of flamenco, be surprised and impressed by intensity in a musician is something to take note of. She says he shakes with the intensity of what he is trying to get across. She showed us pictures which were impresionante (can't think of English descriptive words right now...) She describes how her and Frasci went to see him in concert once and how he jumped really high off the stage, landed on the floor and was laying there with his body curled around his guitar playing it still. She described her own reaction which seemed to me how most mothers would react to a son carrying out such antics - slightly traumatised. Jose spent some time trying to convince Concha to get Quintin into the car and just take him to Raimundo's place, without telling him where they were going, while Concha shook her head.
What is clear to everybody is that he is really fuera de normal (out of the norm), and has quite a heavy dose of genius. The way they describe him, none of this seems like an act, or a marketing thing. He seems like a sweet person, not like a frightening 70s or 80s rock musician. He doesn't seem to care what people think, he can stay in his room for days just working. He doesn't want to work for or maybe even with anyone else, he refuses to play what other people want, because he wants to do what comes from him. The first time I heard his music was tonight when Curro handed Jose his phone, which was playing a song of Quintin's. I could hear it well enough to know it was no amateur stuff. Pretty "duro" - hard rock.
They all talk about him with a sort of awe and wonderment. This is from a mother who has been famous in her youth and has half the famous flamenco artists in Spain listed on her cell phone (I saw the names rolling past over her shoulder yesterday), a brother who plays on stage all the time, and with known people. They don't understand how he plays hard rock and sings in English, when he comes from a family steeped in traditional flamenco. They shake their heads to think how phenomenal he would be if he did flamenco.
Rafael gets up every once in a while to help narrate some anecdote about him. Like the time they were in Japan and some girl asked him to take her bracelet off, and then asked him to breathe on it. Then she took it back and said she was the happiest girl in the world.
Anyways, it seems like more than just laziness and rebellion that he doesn't wash his clothes, change his sheets, or even eat properly unless someone helps him.
Maybe not the greatest idea to live in the same apartment - lol! Though it might be fascinating.
I could go live with him in Sevilla in September if I wanted.
Yesterday they showed me their apartment on the outskirts of the city, and we all hung out while Concha taught class. Quintin was sleeping, as he does during the day.
This evening Jose came over for dinner. He is typically gitano looking: really thin, curly hair slightly long, very bright eyes, brown skin, sparkling earring in one ear. He sings, "Ayyy..." and then echa-s a bunch of palmaditas in a quick bulerias rhythm, slapping thighs, stamping feet and clapping, all effortlessly as it rolls out of him. He's really personable and a genuinely nice person. Another sobrino (nephew) of Concha.
After we all eat outside, including Curro, we watch a TV show which is a rundown of a ton of people in flamenco these days, all the way from Agujetas, who is one of the purest of the pure, to stuff Concha calls barbarism, because it is cheesy fusion. Then we discuss Quintin, for about an hour. I should say they discuss Quintin, and while they are discussing and arguing among themselves, they turn to me quite often and emphasise certain situations or things he's done, so I understand for sure. (This has nothing to do with them offering to rent me a room in the apartment, it's just that they are so excited about what they are saying about him, they have to make sure whoever is sitting nearby knows).
I believe that Concha treats her sons quite specially, as I've heard a lot of Andalucians do, but I thought it was a bit overboard, when they brought all his clothes from the apartment to do them for him, and a new sheets to put on his bed, and Concha explained that she brings him home cooked food once a week or he wouldn't eat.
Normally Concha is a person that seems quite out of the ordinary, but seeing her talk about her sons brings her into the realm of a normal person.
I know already that he works in the evenings at a hotel where he speaks English, and that he works all the time on his music and just stays in his room with his computer, probably mixing or engineering or whatever. He loves the Beatles and dresses and has his hair like them. He lived in London where he had a second hand, long jacket like the kind the band Oasis wears, apparently also like a police jacket (I have no idea what this is like), but his was red.
Quite a bit of time was spent trying to figure out why he wouldn't, and how to make him go see Raimundo Amador, a very famous Spanish rock guitarist, one of the best in the world, apparently, who probably would help set him on the road to grand success. Jose knows Raimundo, who has repeatedly asked to meet Quintin. Quintin doesn't care one whit about important people, or about money. He once took his guitar and sat on the street for a week busking just to try to understand what it would be like to be poor. They say that for sure he will "arrive"; anyone quite as crazy and intent on what he is doing, has got to. Concha described how when the whole family went to Japan, they all did flamenco and he played his rock music. To hear a flamenco person like Concha, a woman who knew some of the greatest people in the recent history of flamenco, be surprised and impressed by intensity in a musician is something to take note of. She says he shakes with the intensity of what he is trying to get across. She showed us pictures which were impresionante (can't think of English descriptive words right now...) She describes how her and Frasci went to see him in concert once and how he jumped really high off the stage, landed on the floor and was laying there with his body curled around his guitar playing it still. She described her own reaction which seemed to me how most mothers would react to a son carrying out such antics - slightly traumatised. Jose spent some time trying to convince Concha to get Quintin into the car and just take him to Raimundo's place, without telling him where they were going, while Concha shook her head.
What is clear to everybody is that he is really fuera de normal (out of the norm), and has quite a heavy dose of genius. The way they describe him, none of this seems like an act, or a marketing thing. He seems like a sweet person, not like a frightening 70s or 80s rock musician. He doesn't seem to care what people think, he can stay in his room for days just working. He doesn't want to work for or maybe even with anyone else, he refuses to play what other people want, because he wants to do what comes from him. The first time I heard his music was tonight when Curro handed Jose his phone, which was playing a song of Quintin's. I could hear it well enough to know it was no amateur stuff. Pretty "duro" - hard rock.
They all talk about him with a sort of awe and wonderment. This is from a mother who has been famous in her youth and has half the famous flamenco artists in Spain listed on her cell phone (I saw the names rolling past over her shoulder yesterday), a brother who plays on stage all the time, and with known people. They don't understand how he plays hard rock and sings in English, when he comes from a family steeped in traditional flamenco. They shake their heads to think how phenomenal he would be if he did flamenco.
Rafael gets up every once in a while to help narrate some anecdote about him. Like the time they were in Japan and some girl asked him to take her bracelet off, and then asked him to breathe on it. Then she took it back and said she was the happiest girl in the world.
Anyways, it seems like more than just laziness and rebellion that he doesn't wash his clothes, change his sheets, or even eat properly unless someone helps him.
Maybe not the greatest idea to live in the same apartment - lol! Though it might be fascinating.
Yesterday Moraito died.
He is one of the first important names I learned when I started flamenco. Having guitarist friends, you hear about Moraito. Then you realise he is on CDs with all the greatest cantaores.
Last year in Jerez, going to Antonio's class with Keiko and Yoshimi, he waved to us from the other side of the street. Of course he only did that because we were recognisably flamenco people: the girls were Japanese.
Concha got a call from her sister, and then she told us. I went on Facebook, as one does for everything important (lol!) and sure enough, Adela had already posted her shock, and people had responded with an online news article, that he had indeed passed away, and was just about to turn 55 next month.
I would have liked to go to the funeral, and thought at first that we were all going to go, but Rafael and Concha decided to go early without us. I can't imagine the size of the funeral, and the number of distinguished flamencos that will be there.
Moraito comes from a dynasty of flamencos. His uncle Manuel Morao was one of the most important figures in decades past. His son Diego del Morao is already well respected. Moraito is from Jerez and from the barrio Santiago, well known for the way people live (or lived) a flamenco lifestyle, gathering in their patios or in the streets to sing, play guitar and dance.
Moraito
He is one of the first important names I learned when I started flamenco. Having guitarist friends, you hear about Moraito. Then you realise he is on CDs with all the greatest cantaores.
Last year in Jerez, going to Antonio's class with Keiko and Yoshimi, he waved to us from the other side of the street. Of course he only did that because we were recognisably flamenco people: the girls were Japanese.
Concha got a call from her sister, and then she told us. I went on Facebook, as one does for everything important (lol!) and sure enough, Adela had already posted her shock, and people had responded with an online news article, that he had indeed passed away, and was just about to turn 55 next month.
I would have liked to go to the funeral, and thought at first that we were all going to go, but Rafael and Concha decided to go early without us. I can't imagine the size of the funeral, and the number of distinguished flamencos that will be there.
Moraito comes from a dynasty of flamencos. His uncle Manuel Morao was one of the most important figures in decades past. His son Diego del Morao is already well respected. Moraito is from Jerez and from the barrio Santiago, well known for the way people live (or lived) a flamenco lifestyle, gathering in their patios or in the streets to sing, play guitar and dance.
Moraito
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Mai is invited to Miguel Funi's place today for lunch. She is there most of the day, and so I end up practicing almost alone in the house morning and evening, except for Curro who is rattling around somewhere. I start around 6:30 so Mai can have a chance to practice when she gets back around 7 or 8. I'm pretty overheated by the end. Miguel has a Japanese pre-wife. He still has to get divorced from the first wife and things move very slowly and with great difficulty here, so Mai explained. Miguel is a dancer of some renown.
Concha and Rafael get home late from Sevilla and we all sit down for dinner outside, which is unusual. Rafael always eats by the TV, and the ladies outside. Breakfast is eaten at the coffee table, lunch at the official dinner table inside, and cena on the plastic table in the patio. Rafael starts cutting sausage and cheese and we hear the neighbours next door (whom we never hear) doing palmas, and someone making singing noises (in flamenco there is the singing and there are noises that they make before starting, or while encouraging someone else along). There is half a sentence of song, and Concha and Rafael say something to each other, Rafael yells out, "Chimenea, cantame por bulerias!! Ayyyy... Ole!" They know him strictly by his voice because the walls separating the patios are basically the walls of a house without a roof.
When this family is not in front of the TV and are sitting around a table for a little while, it seems that someone normally starts rapping knuckles or slapping hands on the table in bulerias rhythm. Curro started it after dinner and him and his mom were accompanying each other, almost competing. Curro showing his mom a complicated rhythm he'd gotten going, and trying to see if she could do it.
Concha is planning a party for Saturday. All I know so far is that Ines Bacan and Miguel Funi will be there, some friends of Curros, and Juan Diego, Concha's nephew with the Italian wife. Diego is a butcher, and sings good siguiriyas. He drops over unannounced pretty regularly, as do Concha's sister Pepa and her husband.
Concha and Rafael get home late from Sevilla and we all sit down for dinner outside, which is unusual. Rafael always eats by the TV, and the ladies outside. Breakfast is eaten at the coffee table, lunch at the official dinner table inside, and cena on the plastic table in the patio. Rafael starts cutting sausage and cheese and we hear the neighbours next door (whom we never hear) doing palmas, and someone making singing noises (in flamenco there is the singing and there are noises that they make before starting, or while encouraging someone else along). There is half a sentence of song, and Concha and Rafael say something to each other, Rafael yells out, "Chimenea, cantame por bulerias!! Ayyyy... Ole!" They know him strictly by his voice because the walls separating the patios are basically the walls of a house without a roof.
When this family is not in front of the TV and are sitting around a table for a little while, it seems that someone normally starts rapping knuckles or slapping hands on the table in bulerias rhythm. Curro started it after dinner and him and his mom were accompanying each other, almost competing. Curro showing his mom a complicated rhythm he'd gotten going, and trying to see if she could do it.
Concha is planning a party for Saturday. All I know so far is that Ines Bacan and Miguel Funi will be there, some friends of Curros, and Juan Diego, Concha's nephew with the Italian wife. Diego is a butcher, and sings good siguiriyas. He drops over unannounced pretty regularly, as do Concha's sister Pepa and her husband.
Monday, August 8, 2011
Estos cabrones! ¿Que, coño, voy a hacer? - Mel Gibson speaking Spanish. Earlier, James Bond was also doing so.
Ate, had class, ate, read, slept, read, practiced, ate, watched movie.
Monday, Wednesday and Friday Mai and I have class. This week it is in the morning because Concha goes to Sevilla every night to give a class to a student who has requested private lessons there. We take turns practicing and we do palmas for each other. Mai also teaches me the choreography. Then Concha teaches me how to dance. This is the absolutely ideal way to learn to dance flamenco, including having someone to practice with.
I realised in 2007 that copying choreography the best I could was not dancing. That is when I quit taking classes, for the most part. Mai has only been dancing 3 years, but she is capable of teaching me, a day beforehand, the basic coordination I need for the different pasos. Then Concha corrects things, and teaches the real stuff.
Ate, had class, ate, read, slept, read, practiced, ate, watched movie.
Monday, Wednesday and Friday Mai and I have class. This week it is in the morning because Concha goes to Sevilla every night to give a class to a student who has requested private lessons there. We take turns practicing and we do palmas for each other. Mai also teaches me the choreography. Then Concha teaches me how to dance. This is the absolutely ideal way to learn to dance flamenco, including having someone to practice with.
I realised in 2007 that copying choreography the best I could was not dancing. That is when I quit taking classes, for the most part. Mai has only been dancing 3 years, but she is capable of teaching me, a day beforehand, the basic coordination I need for the different pasos. Then Concha corrects things, and teaches the real stuff.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Andalucian TV: show on toros. Everything about toros. Herds of toros (they only castrate a few here) being driven by very Andalucian prancing horses through the mountains, fake toro heads on wheels that new toreros can practice with, clips of bullfights, discussion of personalities of the toreros...
An old movie from the 60s or 70s, with the protagonist a bullfighter and all the drama of him getting injured and his sweetheart and so on.
Then trash: reality shows trashier than American ones, I'd bet. Women fighting and screaming grabbing their own bottoms and telling the audience what a great "culo" they have. Weird clash with how traditional society normally seems.
3pm and everyone is sleeping and since I got out of bed around 1 pm, I am sitting here watching the news about protests everywhere.
An old movie from the 60s or 70s, with the protagonist a bullfighter and all the drama of him getting injured and his sweetheart and so on.
Then trash: reality shows trashier than American ones, I'd bet. Women fighting and screaming grabbing their own bottoms and telling the audience what a great "culo" they have. Weird clash with how traditional society normally seems.
3pm and everyone is sleeping and since I got out of bed around 1 pm, I am sitting here watching the news about protests everywhere.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
5 people packed into tiny car, too much cigarette smoke, but I am happy to travel with anyone who listens to Fernanda de Utrera and Diego del Gastor during the entire trip, and breaks out into Ole! when the singing strikes them particularly. This was probably privately tape-recorded at a house party sometime before 1971, and possibly isn't even available anywhere.
Concurso de Fandangos. The judges are 3 little old guys in striped, short sleeved shirts. It is a hole in the wall place. At intermission the bar owner uses a deck of cards as raffle tickets for a leg of Iberian ham. People are spilling out onto the sidewalk, watching. A pot bellied grandfather that fits right into this seaside pueblo evidently full of motley fishermen and marinero types, is the most moving singer, with beautiful Fandangos. Another Curro Vargas, who has come from Lebrija and who is a friend of Concha (not her son), sings and is also very good. A young muscular guy with earrings does a very intense and skilled job of his set of Fandangos. Jesus, one of the gang from the gitano bar in Lebrija is the last to sing. During intermission he asks if I like Camaron and tells me he will dedicate the first one to me, and the second one to his friend who is there to film him. Jesus is a decent singer, but he appears really nervous and I guess he is either on drugs or medication. He seems like a really sweet soul, but isn't quite alright. I sit there fanning Mai and myself, while taking in all kinds of crazy letras. I wish I could remember them to tell. "I abandoned my mother for you. Then you didn't love me any more and I ended up with neither to love me, alone."
Afterwards, we waited while Rafael drove Jesus and Sebastian somewhere... I didn't quite understand. 3 km distant from town, they walked in, something about someone driving them disappearing or maybe not finding their car, something about the police, and one officer related to somebody. We had the motley marineros (guy with a baseball cap, rough beard, and tank top, long haired dude in a striking red shirt of the kind that only Spanish men wear, old codger in a shirt and tie, and so on) to entertain while we waited. They were sitting around outside drinking and breaking out into flamenco cante and arguing about Agujetas versus Morente (very trad. vs. very cutting edge).
Concurso de Fandangos. The judges are 3 little old guys in striped, short sleeved shirts. It is a hole in the wall place. At intermission the bar owner uses a deck of cards as raffle tickets for a leg of Iberian ham. People are spilling out onto the sidewalk, watching. A pot bellied grandfather that fits right into this seaside pueblo evidently full of motley fishermen and marinero types, is the most moving singer, with beautiful Fandangos. Another Curro Vargas, who has come from Lebrija and who is a friend of Concha (not her son), sings and is also very good. A young muscular guy with earrings does a very intense and skilled job of his set of Fandangos. Jesus, one of the gang from the gitano bar in Lebrija is the last to sing. During intermission he asks if I like Camaron and tells me he will dedicate the first one to me, and the second one to his friend who is there to film him. Jesus is a decent singer, but he appears really nervous and I guess he is either on drugs or medication. He seems like a really sweet soul, but isn't quite alright. I sit there fanning Mai and myself, while taking in all kinds of crazy letras. I wish I could remember them to tell. "I abandoned my mother for you. Then you didn't love me any more and I ended up with neither to love me, alone."
Afterwards, we waited while Rafael drove Jesus and Sebastian somewhere... I didn't quite understand. 3 km distant from town, they walked in, something about someone driving them disappearing or maybe not finding their car, something about the police, and one officer related to somebody. We had the motley marineros (guy with a baseball cap, rough beard, and tank top, long haired dude in a striking red shirt of the kind that only Spanish men wear, old codger in a shirt and tie, and so on) to entertain while we waited. They were sitting around outside drinking and breaking out into flamenco cante and arguing about Agujetas versus Morente (very trad. vs. very cutting edge).
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Up walking to the train at 7 am. Lebrija is one of the first normal towns I've been in. I mean gotten out of a car and looked around. It seems like a working place. It's not about tourism, though it is pretty enough. There are places that make industrial stuff, though they are small. The walk through the city at dawn was an encanto. There is one narrow street with its whitewash walls, birds flying above, and the occasional plant growing out of the eaves, but for a couple blocks, every few feet there are red terracotta plant pots hanging on the walls, high up. The best thing is, they are stamped "Lebrija". Now tell me where you are ever going to get terracotta pots being used that are actually made in the same place!
I went to my appointment in Sevilla and spent time hanging around in the heat, then shortly after I got back in the evening, we all went to "the Gitano bar". A lady called Chiqui (common nickname here) was with us. She is a "personaje" (character).
Today I can't believe I am living in the most flamenco possible town, in one of the most flamenco possible families. As I was rushing to get dressed, Chiqui and Concha broke out into bulerias in the living room, one singing and the other doing palmas, joined by Mai.
The gitano bar was run by a family with two grown daughters with their own tiny children: two little girl cousins about a year old, that everyone was looking after, while their mothers and grandparents served the customers. There wasn't a soul there that didn't know each other and the owners, except for Mai and I. We were both amazed by the whole community atmosphere as well as the flamenco being absorbed from birth. No actual singing or dancing happened, but one guy was trying to teach one of the tiny girls how to rap her knuckles on the table, with a flicking of the finger between rapping, to get bulerias compas with contras.
A lot of stories were told, especially by Chiqui, and Mai and I were kind of lost for a lot of the time. Curro finally joined us, and there was a big discussion about his upcoming trip to Brazil to teach guitar for three months and about visa issues and the trustworthiness of the flamenco academy that is hiring him. It was interesting to see Concha all worried about him and looking very disapproving of what he might be getting into, and everybody telling him to be careful and what to ask for or verify in the contract. I guess mothers are mothers, whether they are little mothers of timid children, or big strong, gutsy ladies, with a strapping, confident and accomplished sons.
Concha's youtube videos don't do her justice. She is quite a glamourous lady with a very pretty face, despite her extra pounds. Mostly importantly she is really nice. Her and Rafael both cook really well. She told us she just peeled and pureed 5 kilos of tomatoes today. They make their own salmorejo (which is then turned into gazpacho by adding water).
I like living in a house full of people.
There is a rubber sheet in the patio (area inside the house with 4 walls but no roof), where classes and practicing are done. Mai practices first in the evening and I've been practicing twice while Concha starts to make dinner. She is right there through the open kitchen door, at the stove while I am doing the stuff she taught me.
I went to my appointment in Sevilla and spent time hanging around in the heat, then shortly after I got back in the evening, we all went to "the Gitano bar". A lady called Chiqui (common nickname here) was with us. She is a "personaje" (character).
Today I can't believe I am living in the most flamenco possible town, in one of the most flamenco possible families. As I was rushing to get dressed, Chiqui and Concha broke out into bulerias in the living room, one singing and the other doing palmas, joined by Mai.
The gitano bar was run by a family with two grown daughters with their own tiny children: two little girl cousins about a year old, that everyone was looking after, while their mothers and grandparents served the customers. There wasn't a soul there that didn't know each other and the owners, except for Mai and I. We were both amazed by the whole community atmosphere as well as the flamenco being absorbed from birth. No actual singing or dancing happened, but one guy was trying to teach one of the tiny girls how to rap her knuckles on the table, with a flicking of the finger between rapping, to get bulerias compas with contras.
A lot of stories were told, especially by Chiqui, and Mai and I were kind of lost for a lot of the time. Curro finally joined us, and there was a big discussion about his upcoming trip to Brazil to teach guitar for three months and about visa issues and the trustworthiness of the flamenco academy that is hiring him. It was interesting to see Concha all worried about him and looking very disapproving of what he might be getting into, and everybody telling him to be careful and what to ask for or verify in the contract. I guess mothers are mothers, whether they are little mothers of timid children, or big strong, gutsy ladies, with a strapping, confident and accomplished sons.
Concha's youtube videos don't do her justice. She is quite a glamourous lady with a very pretty face, despite her extra pounds. Mostly importantly she is really nice. Her and Rafael both cook really well. She told us she just peeled and pureed 5 kilos of tomatoes today. They make their own salmorejo (which is then turned into gazpacho by adding water).
I like living in a house full of people.
There is a rubber sheet in the patio (area inside the house with 4 walls but no roof), where classes and practicing are done. Mai practices first in the evening and I've been practicing twice while Concha starts to make dinner. She is right there through the open kitchen door, at the stove while I am doing the stuff she taught me.
I live in a house with six other people, including Mai, the Japanese girl who gave me the idea of living here or studying in Lebrija with Concha in the first place. When people are not siesta-ing they are often found on the couch in the living room watching TV. At times just about everyone is there. Curro doesn't think much of TV and is usually on his computer but brings it to sit with everyone else near mealtime. He is here less often than the rest, as he is a young guy with stuff to do. Frasci is Concha's sister in law, whose husband has passed away, so Frasci lives here with them. She is my age. Concha is 55.
Curro, who must be anywhere from 23 to 26, is a flamenco guitarist already sharing stages with the greats. I live in Carmen's room. Carmen is 20 and sings flamenco. She is away on holidays in Almeria during August, and that is the reason Concha said yes, when I asked to come and live here. The oldest son, who is 29, has a rock band and sings in English; the black sheep of the family! Not really; they don't seem unpleased with what he does. He lives in Sevilla, and has changed his name from Quintin (“keenteen”) to Quentin, and his surname shortened to “Gas”.
The entire family travelled to Japan together last year to perform together. Rafael, Concha's husband, sings flamenco as well, though not professionally.
Yesterday as we were starting our lesson, at quarter to 8, Pepa (concha's sister) and her husband arrived, with Esperanza Fernandez, Pepa's daughter! Esperanza is a flamenco star; rather famous. I had no clue about the connection before that.
After siesta I came down and sat on the couch with Concha, Rafael and Frasci, while Mai practiced in the patio. Concha has been carrying around some cookbooks, discussing how she was thinking of making baked eggplant. I picked one up to take a look and inside the front cover were some typed pages – her biography. I've known for a while that she is renowned and of a certain greatness, but don't remember reading about her specific accomplishments or connections. Way to intimidate yourself – go live in someone's house and then read about them in detail: she is about as connected and accomplished as it gets. Grew up in a cradle of flamenco, with all the great names visiting her house as a child, started performing at a young age, I believe was self taught. Got grabbed up by Mario Maya (all the greatest dancers in Spain now once studied and performed with him), and performed with El Guito in Madrid. She has danced for Indira Ghandi and for the Pope. There really are very few people who dance with the same combination of gravity, flavour, intensity, gusto as she. She is a person that is not afraid to be honest about what she believes she is good at. She never talks about her dancing accomplishments or connections, but about her teaching; and for good reason – she's seen too many frustrated students like me, who have been taking lessons for years but still can't “dance”. Despite being a very strong personality, she seems to love people and is a good listener, not just to your words but to what else is there.
There are crickets humming continually outside my window, and it is way cooler than Sevilla. I had to put jeans and a jacket on sitting on the patio in the evening. We are on the very edge of town. There are fields nearby, but it is pretty flat here. I wouldn't call it pretty. The neighborhood looks like the outskirts of any small town on the edge of fields. Stark modern rowhouses, streetlights, and vacant lots with grass, a brick skeleton of a building without the outer whitewash on it yet.
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