Joe’s Life Goals #034: Take in Flamenco

For some reason I get stuck on a song or two while adding them to the soundtrack of my life (TM) for 2024. This year, for some reason or another, I had Counting Crows’ “Mr. Jones” as an earworm. I’ve listened to this song since it came out in the 1990s but never really considered the lyrics. One airplay over the line brought me to typing in lyrics – correcting the misheard lyrics I’ve sat with since the 90s – and came to a website stating the song’s meaning. The one lyric I did not misunderstand was the “dark-haired flamenco dancer.” That one was pretty clear: Raven haired beauty dancing while a dude plays guitar.

The second earworm to hit was Santana’s “Into the Night” (featuring Chad Kroeger). This video was all sorts of creepy but with a catchy beat. I mean what (emotional) good can come from a man attempting suicide – after dropping his beer bottle mind you – then thinking twice as he peeps inside a woman’s window who is dancing with passion? The next scene shows former suicider inside the woman’s place of work – a restaurant – as he leers while she shucks plates of food and being encouraged by strangers(?) to dance her passion. All this drama backstopped by a Canadian crooner and a bad-ass with a guitar, cool shades and a mustache?

What does this song have to do with flamenco? Probably nothing. But it stuck in my head for the next few weeks, as well as the images of the dancing waitress.

Fast forward to a moment of serendipity. A fortuitous business meeting inside the Kingdom of Spain had me visiting its capital Madrid for a few days. On one of the sojourns up the Gran Vía, I saw an advertisement for a flamenco show. When I’m in a new city, I consider two things: 1) I likely will never pass this way again, and 2) I might as well try something “new” or unique to the area. The flamenco show on the second to last night in town hit both marks. In fact, I liked the first show so much, I attempted to get tickets for another venue the following night, to no avail.

[I will go into detail on the Spanish flamenco shows in a future post. Mind you, the descriptions will be filtered through a lens tinted the shade of red Sangria, as it was offered with the show tickets.]

When I returned home to Albuquerque, the local community college was advertising for the upcoming summer session. One public affairs puff piece for the college newsletter highlighted a “Flamenco in New Mexico” class. I think I was hooked after the “older” Spanish bailaora (female flamenco dancer) stomped her way into my consciousness. I signed up immediately.

The class is still on-going, but has been promising so far. I’ve had to rectify the actual names for flamenco characteristics that I did not previously know with the descriptions I attempted to fuse together while watching the shows. Case in point: it’s not three dudes playing guitar and singing in a Greek Chorus. It is Flamenco tocaores (from an Andalusian pronunciation of tocadores, “players”) playing with cantaors expressing their emotions during the cante.

My (dance) timing sucks, snapping seems to be completely out of reach, guitar skills are non-existent and to quote Tracy Byrd, I couldn’t carry a “tune in a bucket.” So becoming a flamenco performer is outside the realm of reality. On the other hand, I can easily drink sangria, clap my hands somewhat in sync at performers dancing in front of me, with a yelping of “¡Ole!” every few seconds.

“Cut up, Maria / Show me some of those Spanish Dances…”

(My teacher would be facepalming right now with the description of “Spanish dances” after this week’s lesson on the origins of flamenco influences.)