Not songs in any traditional sense of having melody or anything vaguely musical other than the rhythm that inserted itself in between the bellowed, shouted, whispered, twisted, zigzagging, hoarse, tearful, exultant, defiant – sounds he made, not with his voice but with his body, his whole being. It was a sound he’d dragged up from deep inside the past of every Andalucian in that room. Then he threw back his head with his eyes closed and he bellowed, bellowed like a bull pierced by the lance of a picador. It was as if he was searching for something.
They did this for a couple of minutes while Merce stared into space. He sat awkwardly, too big for the flimsy little chair, staring at the ground, his shoulders stooped, next to his guitarist who looked expectantly at him.
#Cante jondo youtube full#
Jose Merce is a big man, big like a footballer or a farm boy, with a mouth full of strong white teeth, his light brown hair brushing his shoulders. But we were not prepared for what we now heard. We’d heard the muffled sound of his singing back stage, limbering up his voice.
The crowd applauded politely.Īfter half a hour, at around 1am, Merce walked onto the little stage. There was a support act, a young woman with dyed blonde hair in an outsize black and white polka dot dress. “We’re not members” I said stupidly and unnecessarily. “No” he replied, “it’s for members of the Peña.” “Do we have to pay?” I asked the waiter as he delivered two finos and a lemonade for Laura. The audience began to build around midnight, a mixture of farm workers, Gypsies of all ages, from babes in arms to ancient grandmothers and beautiful black haired girls, pale skinned earnest intellectuals from Granada, and a sprinkling of polo shirted “yoopies” from Granada, the latter two groups, like us, revelling in the authenticity of the atmosphere. On every table was a vase containing 2 long stemmed carnations, one pink and one orange. The tables were plastic, new and almond leaf green, the chairs, also new, uncomfortable and faux rustic rush-bottomed. A large basement, walls plastered with white stucco like clichéd Spanish restaurants the world over, hung with strands of plastic ivy. But we could find nowhere to eat, so went back to Illora and ate at the Meson de Refugio next to the Peña.Īt around 10.30 we went into the club. Then, because we were early, we went for a drive through the country around Montefrio, rolling hills of wheat and olives, huge flocks of goats tended by old goat herds.
We left early, found Illora with some difficulty – a dusty no account town of farm workers – and found the peña. He was billed as ‘one of the most interesting of the young flamenco singers.’ We jumped in our little yellow car and set off. It was announced in the local paper that Jose Merce, a singer of cante jondo, deep song, the most profound form of Flamenco singing, was to perform that night in a Flamenco club, or peña, in Illora, a small town just outside Granada, near Montefrio. It was just outside of Granada that we found the source of this strange yearning for Spain.