The Redneck's Guide to Dancing

7 November, 13

One of the most popular images that comes to mind when people think of Spain is a flamenco dancer, twirling her long dress. The other is a bull-fighter. I think the images are really just two sides to the same coin.

Flamenco is one of the most sensual and sexy dances in the world. The only thing missing is the pole. It's not that they are doing anything particularly crude. It is the eyes. The dancers shift seamlessly from passion to anger to trance and back to passion again. You are forced to bend your will to theirs. They will have you. Resistance is futile.

Andalucia, and especially Granada, is the home of some of the best flamenco around. I have a theory about it that is purely anecdotal, but it sounds right to me, so it must be right, right? Granada was dominated by Muslim and arab culture for 1,000 years. Every day, five times a day, somebody would stand at the top of a minaret and call everyone to prayer. We have all heard that haunting sound, a song to be sure, but almost screaming at the same time. That is what a flamenco singer sounds like. I believe that flamenco is the quintessential blending of three cultures--Spanish, arab and gypsy.

(Well, I just read a Wiki article that said the dance originated with gypsies in the Andalusian region, so boo-yah, I nailed it.)

There are three major elements to flamenco. The dance, the guitar and the clap. You can also add a vocalist, but not always. I am a drummer wannabe, so the clapping is fascinating to me. Two or three people will start clapping, often with the dancer accompanying. They are all clapping out a different rhythm and tone. One will clap with hollowed out hands, making a bass tone, and finish by rubbing the hands together as they separate, which makes a swish, sort of like a brush on a high hat. Another will clap with flat hands, which makes that sharp, loud sound, a crack. The guitarist will add taps on his guitar as he strums out a melody. Each percussion is unique from the other ones in tempo and rhythm, but they all blend.

The guitarist plays with all five fingers over the hole, something like a banjo player. Quite often he is the singer as well, almost screaming out a song of deep passion. I remember Antonio taking us to our first flamenco. He translated the lyrics as they were being sung:

"I love you so much, I can drink your blood for wine. I will have you, or nobody will have you."

Now that is passion.

The intensity of the music and lyrics is matched, or maybe surpassed, by the dancer. Both men and women dance flamenco, usually in a round of solos. They command the stage and whip the audience with their eyes, forcing you to watch, to live, to die this moment of unequalled love. The blood drains from your body as she sucks the life out of your very soul.

The woman took her dress in her hands and wielded it like a machete, chopping up the air, as if to say, "Come and get it, if you dare." When she stomped the ground, your soul shook. When she clapped, the thunder reverberated in your spine. Several times in the performance, the woman locked her eyes with mine. I was thrilled and scared at the same time. If she had opened her mouth to expose fangs, I would have left my wife and daughter and run out of the cave, screaming like a little girl. I felt like I was riding a roller coaster without a seat belt, which as many of you know, is one of my favorite things to do.

When the man got up to dance, I couldn't help thinking of John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. He was wearing a shark skin suit, silky looking shirt, opened to show his little bird chest and long stringy, sweat-soaked hair whirling about him like a wrung out mop head. I'm sorry, but I just didn't get the same blood-sucking vibe from the guy. Maybe that's a good thing. He was a great dancer, though. Where the woman was passionate and commanding with her eyes and presence, the man was powerful with his movements and steps. It was a mix of tap dancing and stomp.

The next morning, we were driving around, looking for a place to eat breakfast. Coming around a corner, I almost hit a guy in the crosswalk. He looked up at us with intense disdain. Then I recognized him. It was the dancer. He was outside the cave. In the light. They can move around freely in the daytime! When he was safely on the sidewalk, and we had a clear path of escape, I rolled down the window and called out to him. "Hey, amigo! Baila flamenco, no? Estaba en el restaurane anoche. Muy bien!" I think I told him he was a good dancer, but I might have asked him about his bathroom habits. My Spanish is still pretty lacking. He smiled and said, "Gracias!"

We took off in our car and tried not to hit anybody else. Perhaps the only thing more dangerous than an impassioned flamenco dancer is me driving in a foreign country.