To me, a flamenco show is not a show, per se. It’s a performance in much the same way the catholic mass is a performance, or the Japanese tea ceremony, the Native American Sundance, or the Maori Haka. It’s the execution of a ritual rooted in culture, passion, life and, its Eternal converse, death.

To see and hear Flamenco is to begin to understand Duende, or rather Duende as it is described by Frederico Garcia Lorca, the great Spanish poet. He said something that I had to look up in order to quote him properly,

“The duende, then, is a power, not a work. It is a struggle, not a thought. I have heard an old maestro of the guitar say, ‘The duende is not in the throat; the duende climbs up inside you, from the soles of the feet.’ Meaning this: it is not a question of ability, but of true, living style, of blood, of the most ancient culture, of spontaneous creation.”

And that is what one bears witness to when one bears witness to Flamenco, the artists struggle to sing the deep song, play the deep tune, dance the dance that exacts a price with every measure of music.

In the artsy district of Barcelona, well they’re all pretty artsy, but this one even more so, There is a place where Flamenco happens nightly. The artists who appear together are performing as much for each other as for the audience. They know each other, challenge each other, dare each other to take the moment to the deepest level, because that is where the truth resides.

I watched and listened as the guitarist played the opening piece, Sitting nearby was the singer, a stately looking woman with a spine of iron and blonde hair pulled into a tight shiny bun, and and young man keeping time gently on the cajon. The piece was meditative, dense, mysterious. There was no beginning or end, no common structure. It was as though the volume had been turned up on a tune already in progress, that had begun centuries ago and would continue to sound for centuries to come. It was a song being played in the collective unconscious not just of the Spanish but of everyone who feels longing, endures desire, celebrates life. The Singer, who had been clapping her hands with the music began to intone her lyrics in a voice filled with anguish and defiance. The music took on a fresher more intense rhythm as she told her story. The minor key and the long grace noted melody reminded me of sitar music, and of the Islamic call to prayer. The song crescendoed and as it did three dancers came onto the stage and commenced. At this point the three elements of the ritual began a counterpoint of sound, movement, melody. The dancers we’re as much musicians as physical interpreters their hard shoes playing the stage floor like a drum. The music rose, the tortured voice wailed, the guitar strained for more volume, more notes, the young man on the canon was sweating from the effort, the dancers raised their skirts and we could see their feet pounding out an unsustainable rhythm, and the effort to do so was carved into the brows of each “bailora”.
And the music reached a final crescendo and suddenly it was done.

My eyes were wet. This was something that touched me on such a deep level. This was what I had been searching for every time I walked on a stage, every time I entered a theatre. This is the thing that so many people fear, something primal, deep, dangerous.

My thoughts turned to the character of Cyrano de Bergerac, the consummate Frenchman, the perfect Gascon, who always wore the Spanish ruff around his neck, because it forced him to keep his head high. Who, when he was called a fool for spending his entire monthly stipend to buy out and thus close down a play that offended him, could only reply “What a gesture!”. That was Duende.

I was captivated the entire performance. And when I left was full of all sorts of emotion. And only twenty steps from the place of Flamenco was a 14th century cathedral. I did not know the name. I walked in a d sat down and let then tall cool columns and soaring ceiling draw off the tempest in my heart and mind. I guess that is Spain isn’t it. A deep soul tempered by a powerful faith.