The space at Gig is simple, unadorned save for a dozen guitars that hang just inside the door, filling a small wall. The guitars tell of a variety of sounds and styles that one might hear on any given night: Flamenco, traditional Spanish, classical, modern fusion, folk, bossa nova, and the spontaneous un-nameable.
The walls of the room are painted in a subdued orange which glows like the sunset when the lights come up.
The stage stretches across the narrow end of the small room, and stands only one foot off the floor. On it stands a grand piano, PA speakers, microphones with their stands, and a few chairs.
The audience seating comes right up to the stage, inviting the audience to come directly in to an intimate experience.
The room was packed when we arrived—however, Bruce had reserved seats for us in the 1st and 3rd rows. Quiet anticipation traveled through the buzz in the room. Soon, a tall middle-aged man with a pony-tail and the physique of a matador silently walked down the center aisle. His guitar in hand, he unceremoniously sat down and positioned the microphone.
Then he began playing. The orange walls became fire.
Every childhood experience—the exuberance of foot races, the thrill of trees climbed—the traditions of his family in their Flamenco cave—each broken heart of his adolescence and his early adult romances—mature passion and disillusionment and loves won and lost—artistic victory and critical rejection and ultimate accolade—all of these filled his heart and informed his hands as he strummed, plucked, pounded, caressed, trilled, and shook his guitar. The notes appeared on his face as they filled the room. Rise and fall, attack and surrender, all given voice through the skills of one of the world’s more gifted Flamenco guitarists. We were carried in his story, I myself in awe at the finesse and strength and beauty and courage, his ability to hold up his heart for display in a room full of strangers.
He played two extended pieces, then as quietly as he had taken the stage, he stood, accepted our applause, smiled gently, and departed.
It was a stunning first kiss.
A flowingly seductive and mysteriously beautiful woman, of mature body and elegance, dark eyes, gypsy hair, and universal charm approached the stage and took the center chair. A mischief-borne smile crossed her face as she looked out at us. Bruce sat down next to her, his guitar in his lap. She directed her sultry eyes at him and spoke two words:
“Seduce me.”
With his school-boy-innocent face, he feigned surprise at her forwardness—then began an intricate but playful pattern. She uttered a soft “mmm” into the microphone, then joined in to play with, and around, his melody, in meaningless words pregnant with intention. She broke into her native Portuguese, singing of love and ecstasy, then peppered her singing with percussive raps of her teeth and tongue, guttural vocalizations that kept time and deconstructed the rhythm. She teased him, pursued him, fled and returned, never completely surrendering, never fully resisting. They flipped each other, alternating in the dominant role, always driven by an affectionate passion, led by mutual understanding of give-and-take, lead-and-follow; realizing in every move and tone and grunt and hum and scream and angelic note that love and music and art and heart are beasts of the soul, and that boundaries serve only to show us what must be trespassed and tested. Pressure and release, restraint and lack thereof, teasing and pleading—all generate gratification of the body and soul.
A piano player joined them…ménage a trois, unashamed, unembarrassed…and we watched accordingly. The spirits of Gilberto and Jobim entered the room, and bossa nova was joined unto acid jazz, as guitar, voice, piano, and melodica first carved a theme in stone, then set about to dismantle its tone and rhythm. They created a new space from the deconstruction, a void that begged us to leave the melody behind and seek another tune in the chasm.
A poet emerged from the emptiness, taking the space once occupied by the guitarist and his muse.
Non-sequitur spoken word followed, free form poetic vision coupled with discordant piano, played upon the keys and stroked upon the strings directly, as the piano’s entire body became an instrument for satisfaction. Caresses and thumps and plucks, trading with psychedelic utterances…
The poet and the pianist left in the wake of their message. The stage was empty and anticipating.
A percussionist positioned himself on the stage, sitting upon his cajon—a wooden box that thumped and rattled at the command of his palms and fingertips. The Flamenco guitarist returned, sitting next to the drummer. With a subtle, open-eyed cue, they began.
Gently at first, they established the pattern from which they would deviate and to which they could return. Testing each other’s skill, they would speed and slow, twist and turn, taking deviations to challenge and evoke the special talents each possessed. From largo to allegro, spare to ornate, never losing sight of nor touch with one another. From a slow gentle movement they would intuitively rush towards a sudden convulsive stop, and in these repeated exercises, they pursued and achieved the power of simultaneous climax.
They broke eye contact only momentarily, shifting and positioning themselves for the next surge, leaning towards each other, then pulling back, producing rhythm from their core out through their fingers.
As they played, it was apparent to all of us that their souls loved each other, that a universal spirit moved through them, transcending their physical bodies and gender and Latin machismo.
The percussionist began singing—fluid notes suspended above the foundation of his drumming. With the respect of one artist to another, the guitarist ceased his playing, setting his guitar aside so he could position a microphone in front of his friend. He sat and rejoined the performance, supporting the songs of heart and love and loss and moon and longing. With nods to each other, they would pass through emotions, each of them deeply connected to the timelessness and immediacy of the tales.
They reached a resolution in rhythm, melody, and lyric, and with only gentle looks to each other, produced the final note.
These musicians, like the best lovers, had not planned nor rehearsed a single note. Isn’t life far too beautiful for words?
Bruce Dunlap: www.brucedunlap.com
Claudia Villela: www.claudiavillela.com
Chuscales: www.chuscales.com
Art Lande: www.artlande.com
Aubrey Lande: www.aubreylande.com
YiYi – Francisco J. Orozco
www.gigsantafe.com