NOCHES DEL ESPAÑOL 2007. MIGUEL
POVEDA, ‘SIN FRONTERA’. PREMIERE
“What a drinking binge!”
Silvia Calado. Madrid, May 16, 2007
Translation: Joseph Kopec
Photo gallery. Miguel
Poveda, ‘Sin frontera’
‘Sin frontera’.
Miguel Poveda, cante. Luis el Zambo, cante. Chicuelo,
guitar. Moraíto, guitar. Joaquín Grilo,
baile. Carlos Grilo and Luis Cantarote, clapping. Pepa
Gamboa, stage director. Noches del Español 2007.
Teatro Español. Madrid, May 16th, 2007. 8:30 p.m.
Miguel Poveda on 'Sin frontera'
(Photo Daniel Muñoz)
He’s nearly at the end of ‘Zaguán’.
‘¡Qué borrachera!’ (‘What
a Drinking Binge!’), the fiesta por bulerías
which was recorded on the third album by Miguel
Poveda, is the seed of the show which the cantaor
premiered at Madrid’s Teatro Español, in
the setting of the series Noches del Español 2007.
‘Sin frontera’ symbolizes the ability which
art has to do without passports, blood types and ID cards.
And it does so in a way which is not at all original in
flamenco, but effective with a view to the audience...
and to the jondo ‘beast’: simulating a party.
With its tables, its bottles of wine and even its cigarette
smoke... like in ‘Rito y geografía del cante’.
One difference compared to the previous shows of this
kind is the firm bet on doing without over-performing
and on structuring and molding the show to the space in
the theater, simply but coherently. The other is undoubtedly
the select group of artists. On the Barcelona side, Miguel
Poveda and his lifelong guitarist, Chicuelo.
On the Jerez side, Luis el Zambo, Moraíto, Joaquín
Grilo and the compás by Carlos Grilo and Luis Cantarote.
Then the borders washed away, and as if they were at El
Colmao de Carlos, they met the dawn with a ‘drinking
binge’ of cante. The clock had the twelve hours,
but it didn’t have any hands.
There on Nueva Street, the ‘juncales’
had started with the harshest part. Beating the rhythm
out on the table with his knuckles, Luis
el Zambo sang. Heat radiated from the people at those
tables, something timeless and necessary. A little bit
higher on the map, nearly bashfully, Miguel Poveda started
off por mineras. But what mastery the kid has, what temperance.
The camera once again focuses on the work. And one plays,
sings and dances por soleá. How one dances. Joaquín
Grilo is intoxicated by the situation, with an astounding
truth. And Miguel Poveda again takes the floor, this time
clenching his fists even more, twisting his cante further,
a cante por malagueñas finished off por fandangos
whose echo reaches the ‘juncales’. “Mr.
Miguel!”, El Zambo approves. And the borders vanish.
Miguel Poveda and Luis el
Zambo on 'Sin frontera'
(Photo Daniel Muñoz)
The two cantaores melt together into
a forge dialogue sealing their brotherhood. Time for bulerías,
a cante binge. Miguel Poveda smoothes the celebration
por tientos, peeking out at the “pocito inmediato”
(“little nearby well”). He utters it nicely,
breaking, brushing his voice, opening it up. And always
personalizing what is folk. As far as the ovations, which
were non-stop all night long, they grew at the same pace
as the ambience on stage. And then the unmistakable toque
by Moraíto
leaves the theater breathless. El Zambo utters “ay’s”
por seguiriyas. And history becomes present. The silence
is taken advantage of by Joaquín Grilo, who brims
over in creativity as a musician. And certainly, what
he does in this show goes beyond everything seen, lived
and imposed. Not even his colleagues concealed their show
of surprise. Unbelievable. The party goes on por alegrías.
And the bailaor keeps on playing, parodying, dominating
the untamed, making madness sane. Supernatural. The party
is now high tension. The crowd is as drunk on flamenco
as on the artists. A time for guitars, a time for Moraíto’s
classics. And back to cante on the cuplé side,
quoting La Paquera, Lola Flores, Seville and Jerez. In
the middle of the ovation, the ‘juncales’
start to roll up their sleeves. The party has a grand
finale. Grilo mocks the rhythm. El Zambo is rolling in
essence. Poveda sits down on the edge of the table and
reels off lyrics galore. The clappers do their little
dance. The guitarists do their little bit. Chicuelo’s,
picture perfect. Moraíto’s, know-it-all,
memorable.
It dawns at Plaza de Santa Ana, the stage
for former bars, for singing cafés of the past.
Just the two cantaores remain, the two of them alone,
singing to one another...
-I’m going to do a little cante
for you the way I used to do it, do you remember?
-Of course.
-That’s good. The bad thing is not to remember.
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| Miguel
Poveda and Joaquín Grilo (Photo Daniel Muñoz)
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Miguel
Poveda with Luis el Zambo and Joaquín Grilo
(Photo Daniel Muñoz) |
Moraíto's
patá
(Photo Daniel Muñoz) |
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| Miguel
Poveda and Luis el Zambo (Photo Daniel Muñoz)
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Miguel
Poveda and Joaquín Grilo (Photo Daniel Muñoz) |
Miguel
Poveda (Photo Daniel Muñoz) |
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