Flamenco Show in Barcelona

As I sat in a tiny nightclub called Tarantos in the Placa Reial in Barcelona, I had no idea what to expect. I was there to see a flamenco show as had been recommended to me by a friend who had been to Barcelona before; I had certainly heard of flamenco dancing before, but all that I could think of as far as specifics go was that I was pretty sure the dancers had flowing skirts and used castanets.

There were few other teenagers in the audience and even fewer Americans. My friend and I sat down in folding chairs looking at what was more of a raised platform than a stage. The lights were dim with a red glow emanating from the back wall of the stage and from the bar area. I was at the “late show” at 10:30 pm, but there were still people just beginning to eat dinner in restaurants nearby.

There was no explanation before the show, no introductory welcome, no programs to read. Without warning, five musicians appeared onstage and began to play. Three played guitars (two acoustic, one electric), one played the tambourine and sometimes a string instrument, and one was a singer. The music itself was something I had heard before, in movies such as Vicky Cristina Barcelona. The singing, however, was unlike anything I’d ever heard before. The singer was male, but he had a voice that was not quite a falsetto; rather, it was otherworldly – high and low at once, tremulous and strong at the same time. It was as though it was emanating from somewhere other than his vocal cords – both guttural and airy, something indefinable. It gave me shivers.  

After about thirty minutes of the music, two dancers came out onto the stage. They were wearing similar – but not matching – dresses, with tight and ruffled, rather than flowing, skirts. There was not a castanet in sight. Both women had their hair pulled back tightly away from their faces. They began to dance – stomping at the floor, both together and in solos, for the next half hour. Both dancers were amazing; they moved their feet across the floor at a speed I could never dream of. Flamenco seemed to me to be a cross between tap and salsa – vibrant, passionate, incredibly quick, with intricate patterns to be traced across the floor.

The dancers moved in perfect harmony with each other and with the music, but it was clear that not everything was choreographed; as one would dance a solo, the other would lead the audience in clapping along to the beat (though we could never hope to clap at the pace their feet could stomp), and would often express appreciation and even surprise at the patterns the other dancer chose to perform in her solo.

This was not a tourist attraction: there were no light cues, no tightly choreographed dance numbers, no strictly chosen set list, no multiple, staged bows (as is the case with the standard three curtain calls of West End performances), and no scheduled encore. The audience’s reaction was so positive and the applause went on for so long that they did come out for an encore. The singer’s voice was almost gone, but he battled through another whole song to honor the (mostly local, seemingly) audience’s request. The completely unconstructed authenticity and the talent of the musicians and dancers made this one of my favorite cultural experiences in Barcelona; if I was a local, I would certainly be a frequent audience member at Tarantos.