Carried away in Cordoba

Happy Thanksgiving! They don't thanksgiving here so no turkey, no cranberry sauce, no pumpkin pie. We had roasted noodles served with shrimp and garlic aioli coloured black with octopus ink at a table (you pay a premium not to stand while you eat) in an alley. Still warm here so the coolness of the alley felt good - we needed to let the sweat we worked up during our private flamenco lesson dry out as we cooled down.

In 1986, one September afternoon, I was in the Unicorn pub on the Expo site in Vancouver. I had a season's pass so had tried most of the pubs there but this was one of my favourites. I forget who I was with but there I was enjoying my brew as the joint slowly filled up. A lot of the entering patrons looked similar; heavy set with thick necks with reddish white complexions. It looked like the Indian summer was taking its toll on their cheeks and they were all wearing sports jackets. Some were leaning against the bar, some were at tables engaged in conversation then one began to sing. I turned my head to see which voice had been unleashed by the beer but before I found it another voice elsewhere joined in. I swivelled my head in the opposite direction to see who had the talent to create a harmony when another voice, this one right beside me, also got in on the action. In a burst of sound the way the sky can open up and drench you in seconds all the men in jackets struck the same soaring note. I was in the middle of the Welsh Men's Choir and they lifted me on the cloud of their crystal clear chorus.

A few nights ago in Cordoba we were in a bar. Deb had heard about this place as being somewhere that spontaneous music and flamenco could erupt. The sort of place where pro's hung out with each other and if the mood or alcohol took them they just might do what they do just because. The bartender told me 'Jesusito' was in the next room. The locals believe him to be the best Flamenco guitarist in the world and if we were lucky he just may play. As we waited and drank our sherry, another new love, I googled him and found a gaggle of utube vids. He was impressive but in the bar so far, silent. So we're talking and drinking and we hear some music in the background. Deb asks, "Is someone singing?" "No", I said "that's a recording". It was a men's group singing in perfect unison with only guitar. So we chatted some more and I looked over to a newspaper whose headline proclaimed 55% of 'tourists' were actually illegal immigrants when the dark-skinned woman beside me asked in perfect English "What do you make of that?" I didn't know what to make of her. I'd assumed she was a local with limited (local) English skills. Turns out she was local, knew everyone, had lived in Florida and missed it. So we got to talking and Deb asks her "Is there someone singing upstairs?"

She lets on that yes, there was a group upstairs called La Clandestina, a well-known local group that performs a style of music that's part barbershop quartet, part men's chorus, part musical play and all Spanish folk. She says they're quite secretive in practice as they hone their art primarily for competitions and in all the time she'd been there she'd never actually been in to see them. But then she asks a woman behind the bar if there was any chance we could be taken upstairs to listen outside the room. She said she'd ask and away she went. A few minutes later she came back with a look of surprise and a shared-secret smile on her face and signalled us to follow her. She took us up a few flights of stairs and as we approached a door slightly ajar she held a finger to her lips to ensure we were silent. The few inches of light coming from the door crack showed a room stuffed with men all sweating, waving and singing. They finished the number and the guy that had been our bartender downstairs and is now their guitarist upstairs sees us through the crack, checks with his bandmates and pulls open the door.

He sees the phone in my hand and waves a "NO!" finger. No video, no recording. No problem I say. Deb and I step into the room and drag two chairs into the corner where we're largely ignored for the next hour. There were 18 men in the room, the youngest around 20 the oldest around 60 and they sang as if they were having conversations in small groups. Heads nodded in acknowledgment and fists were raised in anger all to emphasize the lyrics which were beyond me but the emotion was unmistakeable. They would stop mid song, discuss how it should be and start again. I felt like a fly on the wall at a Beatles practice session.

When done, we all retired to the bar and I got a chance to say "Wow!". They appreciated our appreciation and shared there stories. They all have day jobs, get together twice a week and it was clear the camaraderie was as big a part of the gathering as the music. We didn't get to hear Jesusito play but I got what I came for; some authentic local music and a reward for going off the beaten path.

I'm almost done sharing my experiences in Cordoba and want to start telling you about Granada (the Alhambra!) but it's late and my pillow is calling. We're off to Malaga in two days for some beach time and just saw the weather report; the first rain since leaving Vancouver. Hmm, should make for some interesting writing.