We are told to count our blessings. My friends may not want to do anything with me…but…at least I know they’re honest. Brutal honesty may be (by definition) brutal, but it is (also by definition) honest.
How do I know my friends speak so truthfully? A month ago (I planned well ahead, knowing to expect little interest) I invited a bunch of friends to join me for a dance show entitled FlamenTango, that finally took place in Montreal this past Wednesday. Perhaps ten people were on the invitation email (I call this the “sow many, reap few” approach). I was not ignored (ah! a veritable feast of blessings!). Instead, I received replies from everyone, indicating — in varying degrees of directness — that they were completely uninterested in seeing such a show. It was the flamenco they were rejecting, not me. Really.
I specifically invited the female partners of my male friends, knowing that, statistically, women seem to be more keen on this kind of thing. (I know, “seem” does not sound very statistical…) “Why don’t you come alone, just with me,” I tempted those ladies, “you don’t need to invite [that uncultured bore] along.” Let’s be clear — I wasn’t hitting on them. I just wanted some company. I refrained from offering to buy tickets, since that might be construed as a cultured form of prostitution (isn’t that what escort services are? No, not that kind of “culture”…). To be fair, I did receive one upbeat response. One stressed-out new mother was very touched by the thoughtfulness of my offer (to “get out of the house, leave the kid and husband behind, see some tight Spanish butt…”), but had to kindly refuse. This lovely lady was the only person who actually expressed interest in the idea of seeing a dance performance.
Well, the show was two days ago. Lonely and abandoned by my friends, I hadn’t bought a ticket. Instead, I planned to wallow in self-pity at home, listening to a scratchy old recording of Niña de los Peines. But when I realized I owned no such recording, I rushed out in the rain at the last minute to buy a ticket for the show. Duende was with me, because there were still tickets available — especially if you were looking for…a single.
Well, the show was great — especially the tango portions, which, in spite of the show’s title, I hadn’t really thought about. I’ve seen some tango in Buenos Aires (only a tiny amount, you must understand), some in Spain, some in Montreal — but I think this was the best I’ve seen. It certainly got the blood going. In fact, perhaps I’m jaded from having seen so much great flamenco, but I thought that, in this show, the tango trumped the flamenco. If it were my show, I would have called the show “TangEnco”, or “TaMenco”. Which obviously would make the marketing more difficult. And flamenco superstar María Serrano (it’s her dance company, after all) would probably have her feelings hurt.
Don’t get me wrong — Ms. Serrano was excellent, as were her male dancers. But the flamenco dancing (or choreography) lacked a little something; it was just a bit too much “the same”. I would have appreciated more variety in the costumes, in the hand gestures, in the energy level. Some slower pieces, less technical prowess and more soul. Sure, hyper-speed foot tapping is impressive, but you won’t see me buying Riverdance tickets… As Varekai director Dominic Champagne would say, I wanted more: “Ee-moshun, ee-moshun, eee-mo-SHUN!” In spite of a few awkward moments, the musicians were great — I really enjoyed having piano, accordion and electric bass added to the traditional flamenco mix of guitar, voice, cajón. And I was spellbound when singer Inmaculada Rivero stood at the front of the stage, surrounded by darkness, and sang a piece which I suspect is called “Dime” (tell me), since she kept repeating that heartbreaking plea. (My lame paraphrase of one part that particularly struck me: “Tell me…If the heavens are a lie and only the earth is truth…tell me!”) I though it might be a Lorca poem, and tried and failed to find the lyrics on the web. Incredibly moving and full of…ee-mo-SHUN!
The last laugh was on my friends. They missed the chance to see a great show, to see some amazing bodies (er, both on-stage and off, since Montreal’s many flamenquitas (dance students and aficionadas) show up to all such performances…), and — of course — to spend a delightful night with me.
