Carpet Wars Part III: Berber Strikes Back

As we're all painfully aware, while sequels can sometimes be good, "Parts III" are generally little short of outstandingly bad (with the exception of Indiana Jones--and who would have guessed that?). This said, it is with anxious dread that I plunge our fun-loving little blog here into that murky abyss of sequels to sequels. But what is to be done? Another blow has been struck in what can now only be called "The Carpet Wars" and it must be documented.

I can't help but feel, in some senses, personally responsible. Was I flip in my last post? Did I unjustly rub the anthropomorphological nose of "carpet" in what I perceived to be its defeat? Or maybe I just underestimated the tenacity of this formidable foe. In any case, you have by now, I'm sure, guessed what I'm getting at: last Saturday's gig at the University of Washington Bothell featured: a carpeted stage. And Zamani Flamenco's portable dance platform (much to my smug little chagrin) was: left at the studio.

How could I have made such an error, you ask? Aside from the multiple assurances I had from the (again, very nice) organizer that the stage would be, "yes, wood," and "no, definitely not carpeted"? Well, I don't know. I guess I just let my guard down for a minute (which, evidently, when you're toe-to-toe with carpet is all it takes).

In addition to the above unconditional assurances, part of the rationale for not dragging our dance platform along was rooted in the fact that this was a thirty minute set, not an hour long set or a whole show (i.e. two sets). Furthermore, since we were one act among several, setup and tear down would have slowed down the whole program. My thinking was, even if there is carpet, we would survive.

And survive we did.

And the show was still a success. The footwork, of course, was in more of the "thudding boom" range than the "sharp crack" range, but the dancers still looked the way they were supposed to and the sound was--if at times a bit intermittent--otherwise good. We also had Erin Lau helping us out on vocals, which made for a great addition to the set in general.

So what have I learned from this latest skirmish with the floor-dressing fiend? I guess time will tell. A reasonable man would never again leave home without "the platforms," but I seem to be a bit slow on the uptake these days, so we'll have to see.

All I can say for sure right now is that I hope not to have to write a "Part IV" of this saga--those are never good!

Now go play!

~A

Take That, Carpeted Stage! (Or: "Carpet: The Revenge")

Okay, I know that this post title probably doesn't make much sense to most of you, but I promise that it will in short order. First, a little update: I mention (in the post below) that I had a show coming up for which I've been building a set with two new dancers (as Dani and Rachel are still lollygagging in Spain). That show was, in fact, today: it was an awards/recognition luncheon for VA Medical Center volunteers. And there were a lot of them--by the organizers' count, about 400.

To put things briefly (though I know this is not my usual modus operandi): our set went well, the audience had a good time, and we went out for afternoon margaritas in triumph. But what's this about carpet, you ask? Well, if you haven't read the original "carpet post," the history is this: Zanbaka and I played a gig last year where, beforehand, we had been assured that the stage was wood, only to find out upon arriving that every square inch was covered in industrial-grade berber.

Tragedy ensued.

Armed with this experience, I now never book a gig before asking--usually two or three times--that the organizer verify that the stage is indeed made of wood and is indeed not carpeted. I suspect that this makes organizers wonder if I've got some sort of OCD issue (and have perchance forgotten to take my medication). After today, however, never again will I doubt the deep-seated and irrepressible villainy of carpet: the stage at the VA gig--yes, you guessed it: carpeted.

I want to make it clear, however, that I don't think there was any maliciousness or subterfuge going on here; the organizer with whom I arranged this event was a paragon helpfulness and attention. I suspect simply that "the carpeted stage question" is just beyond the purview of the non-flamenco.

It's the only conclusion I can come up with.

But you'll notice (again, referring to my nebulous title), that this is not a tale of defeat. Despite multiple assurances that "yes, the stage is made of wood--get over it already, crazy-man," I decided to hedge our bets by bringing our portable dance floor with us--just in case. And happy about that we all were.

In fact, carpet aside (which, yes, I realize, is probably much more dramatic to me than it is to any of you), this gig was very much a "just in case" kind of gig--by which I mean that it went over well, I suspect, in large part because we were flexible.

And this wasn't just in terms of the stage, either. I knew beforehand that there were going to be a lot of people in attendance. I also know that, particularly for large events, the unexpected is the only thing you can really count on. So we brought the stage. And we left ourselves twice as much travel time as we thought we needed (we ended up using about 3/4 of that--and the rest of the extra time was a boon when our sound check got hung up by outside logistics).

We also worked up more material than we needed for the hour long set for which we had been hired. My original thinking here was, "what if they ask for another song at the end of the set--we should have one!" As it turns out, speeches and announcements went late, which meant that we went on late--and consequently played a shorter set. It could have gone the other way (i.e. "can you all start early?"). In either case, it takes a lot of stress off knowing we're covered either way.

I did do some "on the fly" rearranging of our set, however. A shorter show meant that we were better off keeping the energy up instead of mellowing out a bit in the middle and then finishing strong. I guess this is my whole point--and the point of the last post: I'm beginning to find that flexibility--in working with musicians and dancers, in making on the spot adjustments, in being the "accommodating link" (versus the "diva link")--all this is part and parcel of "working" as a musician. Perhaps the guitar and dance prodigys out there can demand that their every whim be met without exception, but this doesn't sound to me like someone I'd hire again if I had an event to put on.

But then, I do have a lot to learn about this business, yet--perhaps I'm just being un-diva-ishly naïve!

And perhaps I should just stop whinging and go play. You too! Right now!

~A

Juerga!

I had always thought the Spanish word "juerga" translated more or less to "party" in English. This isn't strictly wrong . . . but, as with most things in flamenco, it's more complicated than that. The venerable D.E. Pohren defines "juerga" as "a flamenco jam session." Robin Totton says it's "a get-together of flamencos among themselves" ( . . . and "also may mean a lively party"--vindication is mine!).

This all jives pretty well with the general impression I've had. It may be from the interwebs, however, that we get the unvarnished truth: according to babylon.com, a juerga is a "binge, spree, period of excessive indulgence . . . A festive binge of drinking and merrymaking." Oh my!

Whatever the truth, I think all of these descriptions effectively sum up the all-night bout of flamenco-steeped mirthery that Savannah Fuentes hosted at her house last Saturday. I knew this night would at least be blog-worthy before I ever stepped foot inside the house: as I was looking for a place to park, I stumbled upon my friend Rachel Sprague--who happened to be standing in the middle of the street, holding her truck's side-view mirror in her hand. ("It just fell off!" claimed she.)

After assuring that Sprague had the situation under control (the mirror "fell off," evidently, while she was trying to park next to--or perhaps in--a rather large oak), I got myself situated and found Savannah's house. I'll spare you the mingling minutia; let it suffice to say that there was plenty of wine (it never did run out) and lots of open space for dancing.

And were there musicians! My god! I expected there to be a few guitar players, perhaps a cajon player or two, some singers. But then the violin player showed up (Sallah--who is awesome). And the oud player (Yousef--also awesome). And the cello player (again: awesome (I am wearing this word out, I know--but it's the only word that fits!)).

To be honest, I was totally intimidated. I remember thinking, holy crap, these guys are going to be awesome and I'm going to feel like a tool, fumbling at my poor guitar with ten thumbs or flippers or something. As it turns out, they were totally awesome (okay fine, I'll find another word)--but they were also all about collaborating. And I think that's finally what made the whole thing really take off: no one was trying to impress anyone, or put on a show; everyone was there just to make music, sing, and dance.

I know, this sounds obvious. Like, why else would a bunch of musicians get together? Unfortunately, musicians tend to be egotistical (I'm no exception) and they generally want to sound good. Which means they (I) don't like to take risks in public. Which means that trying out new musical ideas is generally strained at best.

But behind closed doors (and undoubtedly helped along with no trivial amount of wine), it's easier to set aside the musical inhibitions and try something new. When it's just me and a cellist, say, it can be hard to find a groove. Inspired collaboration can happen, but there would have to be some rare chemistry (and genius) to turn such an outing into an all night party. But when there are musicians and palmistas and dancers all into a tangos or buleria one gets carried on the current of it. The energy draws you in. (Hmmm--this is starting to sound like nudist colony propaganda--but that comes later . . . ). Anyway, enough with the chit-chat. How about some pictures? (Quick--before I use the "a-word" again!):

. . . And then the photographer left. But this was still only 2:00 or 3:00 (I think I finally staggered home around 5:00--and I was not the last to leave). I can definitely see why the word "binge" would come into play here--not only for the "excess," but also for the sheer "carried-awayness" of it.

Lucky for me, the hangover was limited to a little bit of cotton-mouth and a slight ringing in the ears--neither of which kept me from a healthy (if sleepy) dose of playing the next day.

And speaking of playing, isn't that what you should be doing right now?

~A

The Northside Grill, A Juried Panel, 50 First Graders, A Bouncy Castle, and Spilled Juice (or) How Do We Get Ourselves Into These Situations, Anyway?

As I've mentioned elsewhere in these posts, the purpose of this blog is to give you, loyal reader, a firsthand account (my firsthand account, as it were) of what it's like to "pursue flamenco" in the Pacific Northwest. I now find myself faced with the daunting task of trying to explain this post's title. Honestly, I'm not sure how it will turn out. I'm pretty sure it won't be short. It might also not be pretty.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

The Northside: Round 2
This is by far the easiest place to start. It's also, in the sequence of events tackled in this post, the first, so what better place to begin? Those of you who are paying attention already know that Zamani Flamenco played an evening show at the The Northside Grill last month. (Now the rest of you know, too!) This last Thursday was our second night at the Northside (hence “round 2”).

And it went pretty well. There was some minor drama--for instance we forgot the footing for our portable dance floor so the sections kept drifting apart mid-song, and the bottom edge of Zánbaka's skirt started quixotically un-sewing itself mid-alegria--but, unlikely as it sounds, no major catastrophe followed.

Lucky we are; there’s no denying it.

In between braving these near-grisly episodes, at one of the quieter points in the evening, I was asked an interesting question by an audience member: how does it feel to play the same place (i.e. The Northside) again? I think the question was posed, actually, before we had begun, so I was a bit at a loss at the time. Now that it's all over, however, I would dare say that the three of us all felt that our first show at The Northside was the stronger of the two. Why this would be the case is beyond me--it's not like we've been on rehearsal vacation since--but it does make me wonder if we had begun to feel more relaxed (and if this had made us less vigilant) the second night, or if we were holding ourselves to a higher standard the second time around--maybe we felt, in a way, that if the second show weren't better than the first it wasn't as successful.

Or maybe it was a combination of all of that. It’s a curious impression anyway. We played and danced well, I think, but I also think that perhaps the decreased stress made us more aware of what we can improve upon. It will be interesting to see how next month feels. If nothing else, this should all be a good rehearsal motivator.

Personal impressions aside, one definite positive about this second time around was that we had a new batch of collaborators (who were coerced into dancing a sevillanas). We’ve made it a point with these gigs to get our colleagues in classes and in the Peña involved whenever possible. We’re the three of us convinced that flamenco wants to be collaborative and community inclusive; this seems to us like a good way of making that happen.

(No, we’re not heading down the “open mic” road, by the way (this is still a “show,” after all); we’d just like to create a social space where flamencos that are willing to put in a little extra work can come out of the woodwork. )

A Juried Panel
I know a subtitle like this sounds bad, but rest assured, none of us have spent any recent time in the pokey (well, maybe Zánbaka has--she’s been unaccounted for the last night or two . . . ). In fact, this panel was actually an audition for the King County Performing Arts Roster--basically a directory of Northwest musicians and performers who are determined, by said panel, not to be complete hacks. I think this is how it works, anyway.

Our audition was Saturday morning, a fifteen minute slot. We went on right after a woman who was giving a monologue in the character of Rosa Parks (she was in costume, too--it was very good) and right before a flapper-era jazz quartet (complete with ukulele). (No, these kinds of juxtapositions don’t even faze me any more.)

In what turned out to be a nice reversal of the lukewarm feelings we had at The Northside, I don’t think our audition could have gone any better. Which is not to say I think we’re a shoe-in. Honestly, I have no idea how we'll fare. But I am confident that we performed as well as we are able at this point in our careers. Nobody forgot any parts or freaked out in a fit of nerves. We haven’t heard back from the folks at the roster yet, but, having put on as good a show as we are able, I don’t think any of us will be disappointed either way. It’s hard to say exactly what they’re looking for. But it’s a good feeling knowing that, all else being equal, we gave an accurate representation of who we are and what we can do.

50 First Graders, A Bouncy Castle, etc.
And here comes the strange part. Earlier in the month, we had been contacted about playing a “Sangria and Tapas” party. Of course, we said, we’d love to! What could be more appropriate? We were advised that there would be children there (which I suppose meant “no nudity”), but that was fine—they’re people too, I guess. “Children” in this case, however, meant roughly 50 children, all somewhere near first-grade age (whatever age that is).

This was fine, too--we’ve learned nothing by now if not to roll with the punches (even the tiny hyperactive ones). We were scheduled to start at 7:30 so we arrived a bit before 7:00. The idea was for us to play on the back deck, right next to--yes, you guessed it--a giant inflatable bouncy castle. The party’s hosts were very cool and considerate and arranged for the castle to be evacuated and its air compressor turned off before we started. I think initially the children were excited about the prospect of having “flamenco dancers” (whatever those were) at the party, but with the deflation of those bright, primary colored castle walls, so too fell the faces of fifty would-rather-be-bouncing first-graders.

They were troopers through the sevillanas (the first song). I think the frilly dresses and the distraction of the castanets helped buoy those notorious (and epically short) juvenile attention spans. By the time they realized there was to be a second number (our guajira)--during which time the bouncy abode would remain pancake-flat--I could see that we were going to lose them.

The tangos (song three) passed before ever increasingly impatient eyes. For the fourth song, the alegrias, I had the brilliant idea to tell them about jaleo. The net result was that about every fourth compás, one of them would shout “one . . . two . . . three . . .” then about ten of them would shout “olé!” Sure, this sounds kind of cute now, but remember that none of them were listening to the music (i.e. the randomness of olé intervals was the jaleo equivalent of Brownian motion in particle physics).

Luckily, the olé contingent forgot about this game by about the silencio and started running around in frantic screaming circles with too-full and sloshing cups of juice (or was it sangria? I’m no longer sure . . . . ). The girls and I made it through our buleria (and thus our 30 minutes, fulfilling our contract) and brought the bouncy-house moratorium to a none-too-soon end.

And so we wrapped up what was for us our busiest week yet. As we packed up, our hosts were again a paragon of graciousness: perhaps they should have had us start earlier; maybe we can do it again next year. I wouldn't go so far as to say I wouldn’t do an event like this again. I think if nothing else we learned some important programming lessons here (i.e. short songs, lots of props, juice resistant everything). And after all, next year the little bouncers will be in second grade--and that’s a whole different ball game, right?

Now you: go play! (And then go have some "juice"!)

~A

Smoke Farm! (or) Flamenco on a Wobbly Stage in the Dark!

First let me say this: if my previous post suggests that sometimes Zamani Flamenco is "too odd" for a given venue, there can be no question that this was not one of those times. This was an odd gig par excellence. It was also a cool gig, but there's no escaping the oddness. Just can't be done.

I guess the first question to be answered isn't so much "how was it?" but rather "what was it?" Basically, Smoke Farm is a former dairy farm now held in trust and managed by the Rubicon Foundation, which describes itself as "an experiment in community for Seattle artists, educators, performers, philosophers, activists, instigators and agitators."

This particular event, titled (though I'm still not entirely sure why) "Interstitial Heroes," is the Smoke Farm's summer arts festival. (Yes, I know what "interstitial" means--I just don't get what it has to do with acrobats, installation art, a milking parlor, or mock-19th-century snake-oil salesmen.) Anyway, this was, according to two separate (though perhaps not entirely sober) accounts, either the second or the fourth year for the festival. It was, however, the first for the Zamani Flamenco crew. (Some "significant others" were in attendance, though mine feigned death as we were heading out the door and thus was not along.)

(She made a full recovery, in case you were wondering.)

As its website promises, Smoke Farm is about an hour from Seattle, though it feels much farther than that (particularly when your trek involves impromptu tent & pet supply shopping, even thinking for a moment that a biker bar might be a good place to have lunch, and ill fated run-ins with road-raging townies and recalcitrant ATMs). Anyway, once you actually get there, it's clear that whoever masterminded the Smoke Farm layout did a good job of it--cars are parked away from the main area in a field of 1980's slasher film tall grass and are effectively hidden from view unless you go looking for them. It really does feel like the middle of nowhere.

The "farm" itself is a (very) short hike from the parking area. There you find a big field surrounding "the milking parlor" (an unexpectedly large open sided structure filled with mystery outcroppings and enigma areas). By the time we got there, tents already haloed the field and weekend revelers were scattered willy-nilly among them. In the middle of the field was a huge tunnel made of shiny ribbon. Really. A bit further on you had the aerial apparati for the circus performers (something like a 30 foot swing-set, but instead of swings there were several menacing lengths of 2" thick rope), and then, of course, the milking parlor. There were dining tables set to one side, and two performance stages--later to become three with the inclusion of our wobbly one.

My little tour of the grounds (and sundry vinicultural provisionings) completed, I settled in (i.e. found a spot on the grass) for the "Circus Contraption" show. It began with "Dr. Calamari and Acrophilia" (evidently--though I swore at the time it was "Necrophilia" . . . and "Dr. Calamari" did carry Necro/Acrophilia out to "the apparatus" over his shoulder, corpse-like, but whatever) and continued with some high-wire girls that, at least for a few minutes, made the idea of being a menacing length of 2" thick rope look pretty good.

But I digress--Circus Contraption was a treat. And it was followed by dinner--which was MC'd (for lack of a better term) by the faux-19thC-snake-oil salesman alluded to above. In concept I concede that this is a clever idea: here's how we wash our hands in the middle of nowhere (pine needles, water, cedar bark, water, salt, water); here's a really long story the point of which is that you now get soup; here's another long story the point of which you now get salad . . . you get the idea.

The food was excellent. But the getting of it took for ever.

The upshot of this stretch of "ever" is that Zamani Flamenco, instead of going on at "8:30 right after dinner," went on more like "9:45 right after dinner." Which would normally be no big deal. Except for the fact that by now it was dark. Which would also normally not be a big deal. Except that the only lights anywhere within shouting distance were two high power stage lights pointing up at us--from ground level (which is to say, right in our eyes).

Evidently this lighting arrangement made for a really cool effect from the audience's perspective. But it also meant that we couldn't see a thing on stage. For the shorter numbers (like the sevillanas) this wasn't much of a problem, but for longer numbers--or those that have any amount of "push and pull" in the tempo, like soleá--our blindness meant that we had to catch any glitches, irregularities, or just plain mistakes in the dances by ear.

Which also might not even have been a big deal if the stage weren't wobbly (and thus conducive to all sorts of . . . er . . . "irregularities"). In principle, the stage was well built, but somehow in the process of situating it on uneven ground it lost all traces of stability; no amount of "well building" in the world was going to help it where it landed.

Think small craft on choppy water.

Okay, fine: I know it sounds like now I'm just complaining for the fun of it, so I must digress and assure you all that the whole night was very well put together and run by a lot of very friendly and conscientious volunteers. Truth be told, who in their right mind could possibly anticipate the kind of abuse a flamenco dancer inflicts on a floor? We don't call Zánbaka "Ms. Loudfoot" because she treads lightly. (Though she does have a hard time navigating sandwich boards--ask her about it!)

And now that I've painted this moonlight (it was a full moon, of course) scene for you, how, you might ask, did it go? Well, we lived. And no one tumbled off the platform into grassy oblivion. And no flaming missiles of pine needle & cedar bark remnants were hurled in our direction. In fact, I don't even think our moving-platform-induced terror was even noticed; the audience (whom I could only pick out in space by the pulsing glow of what I'm sure were tobacco cigarettes) was enthusiastic and, by all audible accounts, happy to have us there. We did a bit of impromptu re-arranging of our set--the guajira, for instance, no longer seemed a propos--but the work of putting (and keeping) together a solid repertoire of music made it so that we could, in the face of what turned out to be a very unexpected situation, tailor our show to the evening.

I think, however, it was the volunteer that ushered our blind selves off the stage after the set that most aptly summed up how we fit into the whole scheme: "You guys were great! That was the perfect after-dinner show!" Granted, this isn't how I usually think of flamenco (although, now that I really do think about it, it's as often as not the case), but given the context of the evening--and what was to follow--I think it sits about right.

There's no out-odding oddness itself.

And what was it, you might ask, that "followed"? Oh . . . hey, look at that--this post is getting a bit long. Guess I'd better wrap it up! (i.e. you'll have to search out your lurid tales of interstitial infamy elsewhere! Try asking Z--she might prefer it to the sandwich board story.)

Now you: go play!

~A

The Walrus, The Thumb, and The Dancers.

No, this isn't a post about some long lost CS Lewis book in the "Narnia" series (besides, wasn't the Walrus Lewis Carroll's schtick?). Anyway, what this post is about is the latest Zamani Flamenco show--or series of shows, actually: there were six of them (which goes a long way, I think, toward explaining why I've been neglecting Ravenna Flamenco so heinously this last week or two).

Walrus Performance Productions (of the clever logo pictured above) is an arts promotion organization based out of the Capitol Hill Arts Center (CHAC) in Seattle. The Evening Produced In Collaboration ("EPIC"--we like acronyms!) is a month long series featuring emerging performance artists in music, dance, and theater. Zamani Flamenco was involved in the first two weekends only, but there's still lots of stuff going on--check out the Walrus website for details.

But wait, you ask, I get the Walrus thing (now) and the dancers are a gimme, but what's up with the thumb? Was there some strange performance art related amputation incident? Have your hitchhiking days met an untimely end? No, nothing so dire, I assure you. Actually, the story with the thumb is this: it has finally sunk in to my compás addled cerebellum how important--particularly in acoustically interesting situations such as this--the thumb is.

Like most other guitar players, I'm chronically obsessed with all the things I can (or can't, depending on the day) get my fingers to do. Playing successive and different bulerías (in particular) over these last two weekends, however, has done wonders for my thumb-esteem. Basically, at issue is this: when trying to play forcefully enough to be heard over a dancer in full swing, nifty little picado runs or filigreed arpeggios aren't going to do it. Such was the case with me, anyway. With the thumb, however, I could insert some melody lines into what would otherwise have been a very rasgueado-heavy performance and still be heard over the lady with nails in her shoes.

But enough blather, you say. We want examples! Well fine then. Here's a bulerías for you. This was actually the last number on our last night; it took me about this long to get over the finger business and just roll with the thumb:

Granted, in other, future performance situations, I will definitely bring the fingers back for some equal opportunity string time. Given the room and sound situation here, however, learning (eventually) how to adapt my playing to fit the space was an important lesson. But enough moralizing. How about another clip? Here's an alegrías:

The different camera angles are a function of whether or not I had conscripted my very patient wife/occasional ZF videographer Anna to film on the night in question. The peculiarity of the next (and last) clip, however, has nothing to do with visuals. Let me explain: the CHAC, like most of Capitol Hill, is part of a "block building" where all the structures are connected. It's just sort of a building cube. And there are lots of spaces (connected, as it were, by Kafka-esque corridors and staircases), built out for every purpose under the sun (and some, I suspect, that have never seen the light of day). In any case, the night of our last performance, there was something called INDUSTRIAL MUSIC WARFARE going on in the space below the Walrus Theater (you might know, by the way, that, verbose as I am, I'm not generally given to typographical hyperbole, but believe me: all caps and bold is the only way to represent this).

The upshot is that just as I was getting my mic situated for our last set, a miasma of industrial-grade electronic music came welling up through the floor. It eventually stopped (an exploratory skirmish, perhaps?), but then came back for a second attack just as we were starting our tangos. There's little else to do but laugh and press on (I believe the audience was asked if they were ready to get funky--I won't say by whom)--which is exactly what we did. In the end I think we managed to pull it off:

And there you have it! Our next couple of engagements (for the moment) are private (i.e. unless you're already going, you can't come), but keep your eyes on the ZF calendar for more dates over the summer.

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

Zamani Flamenco at World Rhythm Fest: We Came. We Saw. We Played a Rumba.

Okay, fine, our performance wasn't quite as Caesarean as an anchovy salad (or an incisive childbirth), but it did, all in all, go pretty well. This show makes twice now that I've performed in the Center House and, while I can't exactly claim to feel "at home" in its great pop-corn scented interior, I am happy to report that I've finally learned how to find the bathrooms with a minimum of oh-no-I'm-going-on-in-two-minutes-and-have-to-pee panic.

In fact, panic was relatively low on the list of afflictions this time around. I think of all the shows I've done with Zamani Flamenco so far, this one was the most fun. The corresponding causative variable here, methinks, is that this is also the show for which we held the most (and most intense) rehearsals.

There were still of course some "fluffs" (this is the technical term, by the way, for all you neophytes out there), but none from which we didn't recover. I actually at one point completely misplaced a musical phrase (in my woefully disorganized cerebellum, as it were), yet somehow managed to stay both in key and in compás and picked up the thread on the other side of the tangle. I suspect this is one case where compás --which is sometimes the bane of my non-Iberian existence--actually saved the day: since both the dancer I was accompanying and I knew the song's structure and how the compás fits in it, she knew exactly where I was (and could thus follow me) when I finally got all my musical ducks in a row.

Much to your probable specular dismay, however, these catch and release moments of digito-neuro befuddlement are, alas, not to be shared: while I was battling with recalcitrant synapses on stage, my long-suffering wife and sometimes videographer, Anna, was engaged in a fierce struggle with videocamera kamikazes in the audience.

It's a good thing Anna polished her nunchuck skills before the show.

But that's a story for a different day. How about some videos? Here is our opening number, a Sevillanas:

I had done Sevillanas with large groups, with cante, and with just Zanbaka, but this was the first time I had played for a trio. It was fun. If you've been browsing the Ravenna Flamenco tab collection, you might also recognize some of those falsetas.

Our second number was a tangos. For this one we built the song structure around the three dancers in sequence, with a group finale at the end. Since we weren't working with a singer for this show, we had to decide how to fill the songs out musically. I could have played falsetas all the way through, but this would have been both really labor intensive for yours truly and seriously distracting at moments in the song that are supposed to be more focused on the dancer. What we finally opted for was to play the accompaniment as if there had been cante and then drop in falsetas for punctuation:

We next did a jaleo, an alegrías, and a bulería. Two of these fall into the "videographically ill-fated" category; the third I may post eventually (i.e. when I get around to it). Our final number was an impromptu-esqu rumba. Rhythm Fest is an event which encourages audience participation, so we thought it fitting to follow suit. The results were encouraging:

And I do love some of those moves. At least a couple of our rumba dancers had been in a dance workshop with Zanbaka earlier in the day. She does work magic, that crazy Z.

And there you have all I have to say (for the moment) about Rhythm Fest!

Now go play!

~A

Frankenstein's Alegrías and the Wall-to-Wall Misery

Have you ever had one of those evenings where, when all was said and done and you finally connected beleaguered head to fluffy pillow, you said to yourself: Today existed for no other reason than to create an "unclassifiable" blog entry? If so, you already know something about my Friday. Listen:

Zanbaka and I (otherwise known as Zamani Flamenco) had, some weeks ago, agreed to perform a short set at an elementary school benefit in South Seattle. The performance was part of a Hispanic Cultural night: an evening replete with crafts, food, and performance genres from all corners of the world (all Spanish speaking corners, that is). We knew the glamor factor here would be pretty low, but it sounded like a decent thing to do all the same.

We met at our friend Evie's dance studio in West Seattle to put the finishing touches on our alegrías arrangement before heading to the venue. Being the sensible folks we are, we decided to ride over together. We eventually made our way to the school (I'll spare you the details on Z's navigation skills, but let me say that if a sandwich and Z were both lost in a paper bag, I'd put my money on the sandwich finding its way out first) and wandered into the already hopping fiesta.

So far so good, right? We arrive on time, Z heads off to monopolize a stubby gradeschool bathroom stall for dancerly preparation purposes, and I meander around trying to look "flamenco" enough so that our contact will eventually pick me out and give me the rundown. Soon enough I am located by the evening's cheerful organizer. The show is running a bit late, but this is neither a surprise nor a problem. I relax and enjoy the act currently on stage--a phalanx of girls in white dresses that seem to be dancing with candles on their heads. Who knew?

And then I see it. The carpet. All over the stage: wall to wall, footlight to backdrop. For those of you unfamiliar with Flamenco Dance, this might seem to be a minor inconvenience, a slight bother. The initiated, however, will immediately recognize the gravity of this situation. The flamenco dancer, you see, is fond of noise--particularly when he or she is the source. Those pretty shoes they wear? They have metal taps and nails in the soles and heels: they are made to be loud--and that's the way the dancer likes it.

Suffice it to say that Zanbaka is nonplussed at this carpeted catastrophe. Once the murderous twitching stops, we switch into pragmatic mode. What the hell are we going to do? We had already planned on a short set--four Sevillanas and the alegrías. The Sevillanas we'll leave be; they won't be great on carpet, but as there's a lot of full body movement, the dance can be salvaged all the same. The alegrías, however, is a different story: whole stretches of it are made up entirely of footwork. Footwork that wants to be expressive, dynamic--and, above all, loud.

So, pen and paper in hand, we retire to a classroom to do some on-the-fly emergency choreography. I pull up a pint sized chair and Z--miserable--tries in vain to get any expression at all out of industrial-grade berber. (Here, guitarists, is where some knowledge of how a song fits together is vital: Having constructed the arrangement ourselves, we knew how to stitch back together those of our amputated sections that could be saved--a sort of Frankenstein's Alegrías. I can't imagine the sort of musical misery I would have been in if this had been a piece of someone else's that I had simply memorized.)

Luckily--and despite the frequent homicidal tendencies I like to attribute to Zanbaka--we both manage to find a lot to laugh about in the whole situation. We stitch up the last of our ill-fated monster and venture out. It takes us a minute to realize that we are already being announced (all of the announcing is done in Spanish, and, while I won't vouch for Z, I can assure you that my Spanish is a limited collection of flamenco terms and drink orders), but we eventually find our way on stage. I get miked and settled and start the first Sevillana. Z comes out from the wings a few bars in and starts to dance--and it's all I can do to maintain my composure: everything looks right, but it sounds like she's dancing in fuzzy slippers. Instead of the "crack, crack--wham!" I'm used to, all I can hear is "fmph, fmph--whhhm; fmph, fmph."

How sad.

As we finish the fourth Sevillana, I catch Z's eye: "Do you want to do the--" but I don't even get to finish the question: her "no" is of Obamian clarity and unimpeachable finality. And it isn't a bad call: not only is a silent alegrías morally reprehensible (and, I believe, illegal in the State of Utah), but our audience is out, most of them, well past their bedtimes. We take our bow, collect a lovely bouquet of sunflowers (pictured above), and exit like we've done just what we had planned to do all along.

Still chucking, we begin the trip back to Evie's studio. It doesn't take long, however, before we realize that the route we took in won't work the other way: after a series of one-ways, on-ramps and drawbridges, we finally end up in some sort of Grisham-esque industrial area. The road we were on--which I still don't know the name of and couldn't find again if I tried--seemed to be going in roughly the right direction until it stopped at a train: as in, we're driving along and then, out of the dank, as it were, there, in front of us, immobile and perpendicular to our path, is a freight train. So now we're under a bridge, surrounded by dark and warehouses, and we've pulled up at a train. There is a mid-80's sedan next to us--unoccupied, but engine running. Another car materializes and then just as fast disappears down a one-way--going the wrong way.

This situation appears, for all intents and purposes, iffy. Z and I assess our options. The way we came, theoretically, should lead us at least back to the highway, but there were enough turns and one-ways that neither of us particularly relish that option. The one-way seems a poor choice for all the obvious dark-night-in-an-unfamiliar-area reasons. So we choose choice "C": a road that runs parallel to our parked train, in roughly the direction we need to go.

Except that this isn't the "parallel" my high-school geometry teacher ("Dino"--yes, really) taught me: these lines eventually meet. And--of course--just as we realize that we are being surreptitiously wedged between a chain link fence to our left and our immobile train to our right, said train starts moving. Although I'm certain we aren't physically on any tracks ourselves, this is a disconcerting feeling nonetheless. Actual danger notwithstanding, I can attest that in certain situations a shift into reverse and a healthy dose of accelerator occurs on the level of the peripheral nervous system (i.e with no help from any synapses above the shoulders).

A little rattled--but otherwise unpulverized--we eventually make our way back the Evie's. And--as if just to show us that whatever malevolent mastermind engineered this evening also has a sense of humor--wine. Perhaps my favorite part of the whole evening, however, is Z's response to Evie's query about "how it went." Says Z: "It was like a premature ejaculation."

Not exactly one to mince words, that Z.

Speaking of word mincing, Zanbaka's accounts of our carpet and traffic shenanigans can be found here--though no matter what she says, I've still got my money on that sandwich!

~A.