Rhythm in my soul

I imagine there are few experiences comparable to one’s first encounter with a live performance of flamenco. For me, the experience was life-giving. Two days later, I can still feel the rhythm of the music throbbing through my veins.

Should you ever find yourself in Southern Spain, promise me this: that you will go to the caves of Sacromonte to see a performance of flamenco music and dance.

Tucked deep in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada are the caves of Sacromonte (“Holy Mountain” – so named for the relics of Spanish martyrs who are buried here). The whitewashed caves and houses that cover these hills are home to the gitanos – the gypsy people who call Spain home.

The world owes a great debt to the gitanos – an incredibly marginalized people who have contributed a quintessential element of culture to this country. Thanks to the gitanos, the music readily identified with Spain is flamenco.

I knew coming to Granada that seeing a flamenco show was of paramount importance. Since taking a class on the intersection of literature and music in Spanish-speaking culture, the emotion and passion of this art form have captivated me, even though I was only watching videos on YouTube. (Check out this video from Estrella Morente, one of the greatest flamenco singers of all time).

I consulted with a guy who works at the cafeteria at my colegio to find out the best place in the city to catch a flamenco show.

The caves of Sacromonte, he told me. Definitely.

And then, as a seemingly unimportant afterthought, he added,

I have a friend who has a cave.

“What?!” I thought. “OK, we just arrived at a whole new level of awesome.”

He gave me his friend’s name and him down online. After a few phone calls (and a bit of haggling over the price), my friends and I were set to see a performance of zambra (a style of music and dance created by the gitanos that is similar to flamenco).

A few hours later, we found ourselves in a small-whitewashed cave called La Canestera. (I didn’t realize it at the time, but apparently this cave has played host to many famous visitors including Henry Fonda, Debbie Reynolds and Ernest Hemingway). The walls were covered in photographs from past artists and visitors, and from the ceiling hung copper pots and pans of a myriad of shapes and sizes. The rustic decorations stood in contrast to bright light bulbs (housed in antique lanterns), whose light bounced off the metal objects, making the room sparkle.

The audience was small – some 35 people – and the setting was incredibly intimate. We were seated in chairs that lined the inside walls of the cave, with the “stage” running its length and the artists seated at one end.

And then it began.

One man began to tap his foot on the tile floor. He was quickly joined by the woman next to him, who began to stomp, and then to clap. Soon, the artists were all stomping, clapping, punctuating the silence of the cavern with their sharp, complicated rhythm.

It seemed as though every artist contributed a different beat, and yet every single sound was woven together seamlessly into an intricate tapestry by the sweet melody of a guitar.

I was drawn into the music, my heartbeat reverberating through my body. My body was involuntarily participating in this divine song, as if it had always known how, but I had never presented the opportunity.

Then the voices – oh! The voices!

A middle-aged woman began to sing in a low murmur – a kind of deep, soulful groaning. And then she grew louder, her rich alto voice resonating throughout the room, soaked in longing and steeped in sorrow.

The clapping and stomping continued, as one voice after another joined in, adding complex layers of melody and harmony. Every voice was distinct – their owners were young and old, male and female – but they came together in a chorus that swelled into peaks of joy and subsided into aching sadness.

The energy was positively infectious.

The dancing began: Swirling skirts, pounding heels and clicking castanets added beauty and intricacy to the music.

Each movement had its purpose. Every gesture told a story.

The emotion of zambra is incredibly intense. Everything is done with intentionality. The dance is sad and seductive, jubilant and full of agony.

The performers ranged in age from a young teenage girl to an old woman. Watching the woman at these two extremes as they performed solos was fascinating. The younger was exacting, performing each movement with vivacity and with a suppressed smile that occasionally made its way to her lips for a fleeting moment. The older woman had a confidence and a grace that must come with years of learning to take oneself less seriously. I wouldn’t have thought it possible in a dance that requires so much downward movement, but she floated across the dance floor. It was remarkable.

The passion of the artists and the life they brought to their art was overwhelming. On multiple occasions I found myself short of breath.

Wide-eyed and enraptured, I had forgotten to breathe.

…

When have you found yourself completely caught up in the moment? I’d love to hear your story!