In a small room to the side of a tapas bar, bathed in red and yellow light and curtained from floor to ceiling, a calm, hypnotic voice starts us on a journey through the history of flamenco as it traveled from North India all the way to Spain. Transported from rainy Edinburgh to a flamenco bar in Andalusia, I sat transfixed and listened to the story, and the storied music.
We are accompanied on our journey by three dancers and a musician, performing with unbelievable grace and passion. We notice how similar the sitar sounds to the flamenco guitar, and how the wrist and hip movements changed but retained an essential similarity. Swirling in their gorgeous fabrics, the dancers possess their space entirely, effortlessly responding to each change in the beat. And one of their musicians, Danielo Olivera, sings with such a powerful, raw, throaty voice, so reflective of the pain and yearning of the nomads that the mainly Spanish-speaking and highly vocal audience was moved to tears and murmurs of ‘estupendo.’
The dancers improvise with such heat and intensity that they draw shouts of ‘¡Olé!' from the audience, the musicians, and each other. Nothing seems planned; instead, it all springs from pure spontaneous emotion. They have an innate rhythm, as though they were born knowing the steps and the music. Their facial expressions, fervent and proud, and the way they openly admire each other, show they live and breathe the performance. I felt like I’d been privileged to a private viewing, a love affair between the musicians and the dancers, between all of them and the music.
