The Northwest Folklife Festival

Hooray! I've finally had a performance at the Seattle Center that wasn't in the food court! Granted this means I had to walk farther for my corn-dog, but they're for purely research purposes only, so no harm done.

But enough about American haute-cuisine, there are show details to be had. And have them you will: This particular engagement was with La Peña Flamenca de Seattle and ran about 30 minutes. We played a fandangos, a bulería, a garrotín, a set of sevillanas, and a rumba. This particular show didn't include the full Peña compliment of dancers, but there were still a good twelve or fifteen of them (in addition to the musicians and singers, that is).

For those of you not in the know, Folklife is a very large and obnoxious affair, featuring hundreds of local and touring music and performance acts and a higher hippie to yuppie ratio than is even legal north of the Ship Canal. The Peña performed on the International Dance stage and was the first in a series of four flamenco acts from the Seattle area. (Incidentally, I've browsed around for some video from the other groups, but with no luck. There is a video of the Seattle Ukulele Society doing a rousing rendition of "I Will Survive," but you won't get the link from me!)

But enough chatter! How about some video? Here is the Fandangos, our opening number:

This was actually my own personal first "falseta" with the Peña, though you have to listen pretty hard to hear it. The other guitarist, Markus, and I were mic'd, but for some some reason that baffles me still, the sound guy never seems to have turned our mics up over about "one." (I don't want to venture any guesses as to why this might have been--and even if I did, those guesses surely wouldn't include any speculations regarding a pre-show visit to the "Hempfest" promo tent.)

Speaking of pre-show rituals, by the way, I had earlier (on this blog) speculated on the potentially deleterious effects of a very deliberate shot of good Irish whiskey before going on stage. Though I didn't bring out the flask until post-show this time around, the Zamani dancers and I did have lunch (and a couple hefeweizens) before strolling over to the Center for Folklife. As I was actually fairly relaxed and able to enjoy myself on stage, I'm beginning to sense a connection. For the moment I don't want to draw any rash conclusions; I will, however, keep you posted on further "tests."

In the meantime, how about another video? This was the last number we did, a rumba:

There were, of course, other dances in between, but in the interest of not creating yet another gratuitously long blog post, I'll let you check those out on your own on the Peña Flamenca de Seattle YouTube channel.

My overall impression of the show as a whole? All in all I am quite happy with how it went: no major train wrecks, no decomposing produce thrown. That counts as good in my book. But this was far from the end of the evening. After Folklife about ten of us wandered back to our regular watering (i.e. beering) hole, The Two Bells. And we made a shocking discovery: through a series of cleverly concealed doors lies the Two Bells' terrace! As in outdoors, center of the city, beer garden-esqe paradise. Zanbaka and I have been coming to this place for months and have only just now discovered this outdoor enclave. In true flamenco form, we quickly took it over (not that there were more than two other people who had made the same discovery). The pitchers flowed, food was had, and right about the time it was getting too dark (there were no lights) and blurry (you get the idea) to see, out comes the guitar and the fiesta was on.

From a guitar player's perspective, here is the strongest argument yet for being solid on lo básico: there's no way, after two (or three or four) beers that I can pull of Almoriama or Aires Choqueros (eh, who am I kidding--I can hardly play those stone sober), but the basic sevillanas, tangos, and bulería rhythms, no sweat. And rhythm is key--at this point, not a soul could have cared less what sort of fancy falsetas I could pull out, but falling out of compás could have brought the whole works to a grinding halt. Granted, I like to think that this particular group was kind enough to let a few gaffs slide (as they might have done), but one doesn't like to test kindness, if you know what I mean.

And speaking of testing kindness, I can see that I have indeed again created a gratuitously long blog post. And you, poor soul, have read the whole thing (or skipped ahead, but whatever). In any case, thanks for your indulgence!

Now stop indulging and go play!

~A

Wayward Flamencos

Zamani Flamenco made--of all the odd things--a brief appearance at The Wayward Coffee House's open mic night the other night (i.e. Sunday night). This was an evening I had spotted during my Greenwood Art Walk perambulations and it struck me as a fine occasion to test out flamenco on some unwitting locals--not to mention on the cafe in question.

Although I suspect we were among the least expected "open mic-ers," this particular evening at the Wayward was a quirky affair all the same--and not by accident I'm sure. There were a couple poetry readers and folk-singer-y singers up before us, but following us was a veritable smörgåsbord of beat-style poetry--complete with bongos and an indoors-sunglasses-wearing muted trumpet player. (Which all made me feel a bit Jack Kerouac-esque. Minus the head full of pills and the ruined liver, that is . . . . Which I guess isn't very much like Kerouac at all.)

Anyway, moving on . . . .

Since the audience (about 20 people is my guess) was largely composed of flamenco "civilians," we opted for a set of Sevillanas. Something gloomy or dramatic would have been fun, but it seemed unwise to test the patience of a highly caffeinated congregation of coffee-house poets with something like a siguiriyas. (I wouldn't want to be responsible for what happens.)

So Sevillanas it was. We had to peel back a bit of throw rug and displace some chess players (really!) to make enough room for the dancers, but it turned out to be a decent space. Rubina's frequent exhortations to "learn how to dance on a postage stamp" served everyone well, methinks. Though "remain vigilant for small semi-ambulatory humanoids" might also have been a good warning: just as we were getting ready to start, a young child crawled out from under the chess table and made a beeline for Daniela's path of travel. As in very nearly got stepped on by a pair of very well nailed flamenco shoes. I'm happy to report, however, that tragedy was narrowly averted and the number went on as planned. The dancers were golden, of course. As I also didn't massively (or even minorly, really) tank any of my falsetas--and as the applause was palpably beyond "courtesy"--I'm counting the outing as a success.

I've since been back to this spot to investigate whether this might be an apt location for a longer flamenco show. And I'm not sure what to think: on a Friday night there is a folk/prog/rock quartet (with bongos--am I sensing a theme here?) and a handful of student-y looking types all intimately involved with their laptops, regaling in the free WiFi. I'm trying to imagine something as imposing as a flamenco dancer (let alone two) in this tableau. It's a strange fit.

And this is one of the perennial oddities of working in a flamenco ensemble: it's hard to know here (as in perhaps most places outside of Spain) just exactly how to place a flamenco group. Despite the affinity many people feel for flamenco (or at last for the concept of flamenco), it's still very much a foreign form. And I don't mean foreign as in "well duh, it comes from Spain," I mean foreign in its rhythms, in its movement and pacing, in its apprehension of musical significance. And in it's aggressiveness. I mean, how could one possibly continue catching up on online episodes of "Lost" with a very loud and imposing subida demanding every ounce of said one's consumer-culture-stooge attention? There's such a peculiar battle between art--and, well, everything else, really--going on here.

And I'm not sure who's winning. But if it's WalMart and Fox, I'm happy to be on the losing team.

There--end of rant.

Now go play!

~A

Artwalk!

The American Dance Institute (where yours truly accompanies dance classes on Monday and Thursday nights) is located in the heart of Seattle's outstandingly hip and as yet still relatively unspoiled Greenwood neighborhood. As testament to this enduring quintessential hipness, every year about this time the masterminds at Greenwood Central orchestrate an art walk. But this is no "have a mind-numbing stroll through my effete rented loft space while sipping chardonnay from a paper cup" kind of art walk, mind you: this is twenty-seven bad-ass city blocks of chianti powered art excursion. I mean, what other neighborhood in Seattle can lay claim to a Space Travel Supply Store, more fair trade, employee owned coffee shops than "starbuckses," and an ample supply of white, dark, and milk chocolate Jesuses on a stick (Jesi? Jesum? I really don't know . . .) ?

And let's not forget the flamenco show (um--that being the point of this blog post, after all). Actually, it was really more of a "demo" of the Thursday night class's "works in progress," but you wouldn't know it from the turnout: not only was all of ADI's available sitting/leaning/milling space full, but there was a veritable throng of wine-fed onlookers spilling/wobbling out onto the sidewalk.

And the show/exposition, I think, came off pretty well, all in all. The pieces weren't perfect (come on--they're not even entirely choreographed yet), but there was certainly enough energy to make up for the lack of polish. (I'm told, for example, that Rubina's jaleo could be heard as far as Maple Leaf.)

But enough of my yammering: no videos this time around, but how about some pictures? (For which thanks Andrew Shinn):














































Looking back over the photos, I feel compelled to note that, yes, the dancers did occasionally put their arms down. This was, however, evidently discouraged. (Which thought, I must further admit, evokes the megalomaniacal joy felt by guitarists between subida and silencio when dancers are suspended in some such state as depicted above, wholly dependent on the initiative of said guitarist to start playing again so she can move. Oh, how those seconds tick by! (Look for a Freudian Post-Marxist Anarcho-Patriarchy reading of this phenomenon in posts to come!))

But in the meantime: go play!

~A