A Night of Flamenco

GRANADA, Spain — No one should ever leave Andalucia without watching flamenco, the quintessential dance of southern Spain, at least once. Admittedly, I had my doubts when I signed up for what appeared to be some kind of packaged “deal” (it included transportation to and from the performance, with a free drink thrown in). I was prepared for a cheesy evening, ready to encounter the clichéd España of American films and guidebooks. But, once I entered the darkened flamenco club and the guitarist struck the first note, I was completely entranced.

Three women, wearing long skirts of cascading ruffles and scarlet flowers in their black hair, sat in chairs in front of the guitarist, a flutist, and a singer. Reflecting the highly improvisatory nature of this art form, the dancers and musicians each took turns initiating pieces. Each performer remained seated until the music motivated her to begin. Once she took the stage, the others concentrated on her movements and kept time according to her lead, with a complex rhythmic pattern emerging from the clapping, finger snapping, and lighting quick clicking of their heels. Interwoven through it all, the lone female singer called plaintively.

Each artist alternated between relatively slow movements—centered on the dancer’s upper body, facial expressions, and graceful hand motions—and fierce, explosive sequences that involved extremely complicated footwork, chest slaps, and fiery heel strikes, As a performer whirled, she received shouts of encouragement—“olé!” and “huzzah!” from her fellow artists, especially when preparing for a particularly difficult and exhausting section of the piece.

It was only after the dancers had left the stage and the lights had gone up that I was able to appreciate how deeply flamenco sucks in the audience. My pulse was racing and my throat was dry, almost as if I had been up there on the stage myself.


Adrienne Y. Lee ’12 is a Crimson editorial writer in Quincy House.