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Alejandro Postigo on queering Spanish cabaret

Richard Beck Richard Beck
27 Jul 2025

We talked to Alejandro Postigo about his Spanish show at this year’s Edinburgh Fringe.

Sometimes the best way to resist invisibility is to step into the light and sing


Alejandro, you’re bringing Copla: A Spanish Cabaret to the Fringe this year. Let’s start with an explanation of copla.

Copla is a popular song tradition that emerged in Spain in the early 20th century. It’s often compared to torch songs or chanson because it blends folk roots with theatrical flair. At heart, copla is storytelling set to music. Each song is a miniature drama about love, shame, defiance or heartbreak. For many Spaniards, these songs are part of our collective memory, echoing from our grandparents’ radios and oral tradition. However, despite its Spanish relevance, copla is practically unknown outside Spain – which is something I’m trying to redress with this show.

What is the emotional range of copla?

It’s vast. A copla can be gloriously over-the-top or heartbreakingly restrained. One song might be a bawdy celebration of forbidden passion, the next a lament for a lost homeland. What I love is that copla never apologises for being emotional; nothing is understated. That directness is something I think audiences today really crave.

How does it relate to the more well-known Spanish flamenco?

Flamenco and copla are often mentioned together because both thrived in Andalusian culture and share Romani and Arabic influences. But they are quite distinct forms. Flamenco is built around improvisation, rhythm and virtuosic expression; you feel the raw passion in the dancer’s footwork or the singer’s wail. Copla, on the other hand, is structured and narrative-driven. It’s much closer to musical theatre: the lyrics tell a clear story, complete with characters and plot. While flamenco can be abstract, copla is about painting a picture in words. Also, although copla is often associated with Andalusia, it really became the popular music of the entire country.

It was appropriated by Fascists under the Franco regime, but does that mean it just went underground?

Not exactly – more like it split into two faces. Under Franco, certain “acceptable” versions of copla were promoted as official folklore, scrubbed of any challenging content. But for ordinary people, the songs still carried double meanings. They were sung in kitchens, in bars, and sometimes in secret gatherings. Drag performers, for example, kept the more subversive side of copla alive, but they often had to do it behind closed doors.

After the dictatorship ended, there was an explosion of reclaiming copla from a queer perspective. In a way, the return to democracy let people say publicly what they’d always been whispering – that these songs belonged to everyone, especially the marginalised.

And traditionally, that included the illegitimacy of relationships outside heterosexual marriage and of love gone wrong. Has it changed over the years?

Those themes remain at the heart of copla, but now they’re celebrated rather than hidden in coded language. Historically, copla gave voice to women who were judged or shamed – to single mothers, adulteresses, women who refused to conform. In my work, I build on that tradition by reinterpreting these songs through a queer and migrant lens. When I sing about exile or forbidden love, it resonates both with the old stories and my own experience of living between cultures. I think that’s why copla still feels urgent. It’s a way to transform stigma into pride.

What’s the story in your show, and what can people expect in your cabaret production in terms of the balance between narrative, characters, music and dance?

Copla: A Spanish Cabaret is part musical performance, part confession. The show starts with my arrival in England as a young migrant, carrying these songs in my suitcase, and follows how I’ve learned to reinterpret them in my own voice. Each copla is a chapter: there are tragic heroines, defiant outcasts and moments of absurd humour. I sing in Spanish and English, so audiences don’t need to understand Spanish to feel the story. There’s live music, video projections with archival material, and an atmosphere that swings between camp cabaret and intimate sharing. You can expect laughter, tears and maybe even a singalong.

The show blends the personal with the political. Was that always your intention with this project?

Yes – copla is inherently political because it’s about who gets to tell their story. As a queer person and a migrant, I’ve always felt the tension between longing for home and wanting to break free of its expectations. By performing these songs, I’m both honouring the past and queering it. It’s a way to claim space for people like me within Spanish cultural memory.

What would you like the audience to take away from the show?

First, that you don’t have to be Spanish to connect with this material. These songs are about universal feelings: longing, shame, joy, the hunger to belong. I hope people leave understanding that folklore isn’t a dusty relic – it’s something alive you can reshape to tell your own story. And that sometimes the best way to resist invisibility is to step into the light and sing.

Richard Beck

Richard Beck

A graduate in theology and education, Richard acted and contributed to dance, drama and music productions throughout his teaching career. He joined Broadway Baby in 2014 and is now our Editor-in-Chief. He usually disappears to warmer climes for the winter to pursue his passion for travel.

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