Tra la la la

I was, and still remain, very grateful to Manolo for the diligence with which he oversaw my musical education.

Flamenco was his first love although I found it the most difficult to really understand and appreciate.

Whilst the guitar forms an intriguing and intricate rhythm, most flamenco performers can create complicated sounds just by ‘dando palmas’ (rhythmic clapping) alone – each person adopting a slightly different beat until; hey presto, no need for musical instruments of any sort.

These displays are incredible in their technical mastery, and I always itched to join in. But rhythmic co-ordination sadly not running through these English veins, I kept my self-respect in tact by just listening in open-mouthed admiration.

Flamenco is created using Spanish guitars, Flamenco guitars, palillos (wooden sticks which are tapped against each other or used like drumsticks against something else), the cajón (a box that the musician would sit on top of and tap with his hands) and the heeled shoes of the dancers.

But of course, the most integral component is the human voice.

And perhaps the hardest to get used to. A singing style that can be particularly harsh on the ear and often not terribly melodious; its origins arose from the different cultures – Andalucian, Islamic, Sephardic and Gypsy – that existed together in harmony prior to the re-conquest of Andalucia by the Catholic Kings.

There are several explanations as to why there is not much historically recorded about the development and integration of Flamenco into the Spanish (but most especially Andalucian) way of life.

Firstly, further to the retaking of Andalucia from the Moors, both the Sephardic Jews, and the Moriscos (Muslim Moors) were expelled from the country by the Spanish Inquisition in 1492, Gitanos (gypsies) also being heavily persecuted, if not expelled. Few written records survived these turbulent times.

Secondly, Flamenco had historically sprung from the underclasses of Andalucia, and were therefore not held in the estimation associated with other more ‘prestigious’ art forms from the same period.

If Flamenco has lived on regardless, it is largely thanks to the gypsy community who have kept it alive, not with the written word, but with an oral culture that has been passed from generation to generation.

One of the leading lights of modern Flamenco was the singer José Monje Cruz, more commonly referred to as Camarón de la Isla. Born in 1950 in San Fernando (Cádiz) and died in 1992 in Badalona (Barcelona); Camarón ‘Shrimp’ (so named by an uncle due to his slim build, fair hair and pale skin) started singing professionally at the tender age of seven to earn money for his family following his father’s death from an asthma attack.

As his career progressed – he began by accompanying other famous cantaores (Flamenco singers) before participating in Flamenco competitions and then finally beginning to record his own material – he felt compelled to leave traditional Flamenco behind in favour of some that was more personalised and therefore quite unique. Many purists objected, and indeed still object, but Camarón’s stellar career did not suffer for it, as he went on to record with the most popular names in the business.

For some years his preferred stage companion was the famous guitarist Paco de Lucía, a renowned and highly talented musician who (at the time of writing) still performs Flamenco and classical guitar the world over today.

Another of Manolo’s preferred genres was that perfected by the group ‘Los Chichos’.

I was utterly seduced by these three gypsy brothers because they gave me a rhythm that I could really wiggle my hips to. The genre in question was ‘rumba flamenca’ (Flamencan Rumba), similar to that made famous in the rest of the world by the Gipsy Kings (born and brought up in France by Spanish parents, they achieved a more worldwide success than either Los Chichos or Los Chunguitos, but were never considered quite as authentic by the Spanish market).

Anyone dropping in on cleaning day would have been unlucky enough to be faced with the sight of me, shimmying unseductively round a mop and bucket in my marigolds, whilst belting out stories of poor gypsy boys betrayed by cold-hearted gypsy girls, and other such mournful ditties.

Last in my musical education were the Sevillanas, although here Manolo was not much help; considering them as he did to be Música Paya (non-gypsy music) and therefore not worth his precious gypsy time.

The Sevillana form of music and dance is that usually performed at the ferias held in most Andalucian towns and cities at least once a year.

The women and girls dress in Vestidos de Gitana (Gypsy dresses) or Vestidos Rocieros (similar, but more specifically worn for the pilgrimage to the shrine of El Rocío in Huelva) – long, ankle length dresses, typically with coloured polka dots, or simply brightly coloured fabric with flounces; most women will also wear a delicate shawl around their shoulders.

Their men, on the other hand, dress in sombre outfits: high-waisted, tight-fitting dark trousers, with a white shirt, dark bolero jacket and usually topped off by a flat-topped felt sombrero.

The music is easier to follow and more repetitive than Flamenco with both the song and the dance divided into four coplas. During the chorus, the couple will stand apart and ‘dar palmas’ before raising their arms and curling their hands in that typically Spanish gesture (which in order to be taught is often broken down as: reaching up, picking the apple, taking a bite and throwing it away) and starting the steps of the next copla.

Today’s Sevillanas originated in Seville during the famous Feria de Abril in the eighteenth century. However, the origins of this particular form of musical expression were first recorded under the name of ‘Seguidillas Castellanas’ in the times before the Catholic Kings.

They were finally granted their modern name by the Real Academia España in 1884, and have thus been known ever since.

Now all that is left to do is thrown on some frilly togs, and get dancing!